Chapter Sixty Six.The Chase and the Syncope.I made direct for the cañon whence issued the stream. Its gap grew wider as I approached it—though still appearing only a dark cleft between the rocks, like the entrance to some subterranean passage. I looked forward to it with satisfaction. Its shadowy chasm promised shelter and concealment. When near the entrance of the gorge, I passed the ground where the waggon had been captured. Part of its load—barrels and heavy boxes—were lying upon the sward. They were all broken, and rifled of their contents. The plunder had been carried to the butte. The dead bodies were still there—only those of the white men. I even halted to examine them. They were all stripped of their clothing—all scalped, and otherwise mutilated. The faces of all were blood-bedaubed. Under the red mask I could not have recognised them—even had they been the faces of old friends! There were six of them. Divested of their garments, I could form no conjecture as to who or what they had been—whether teamsters or emigrants, gold-seekers or soldiers. The Mormon could not have been among them: the bodies were all too stout for his; while, on the other hand, there was none of them that could have been mistaken for that of the squatter, Holt. I turned away from the sickening sight, and continued my gallop.My pursuers were a good mile behind me. The sun had already sunk over the crest of the cliffs, and I could just see the mounted savages through the darkling gloom—still fallowing as fast as their horses could gallop. In five minutes after, I had entered the gorge. The twilight continued no longer: in the cañon it was night. I followed the stream upwards, keeping along near the bank. Thick darkness was over and around me; but the gleam of the water and its rippling sound served to guide me on the path. I could not see any track—either of horses or waggons—but I knew they had passed over the ground. There was a narrow strip of bottom land thickly timbered; and an opening through the trees indicated the road that the waggons must have taken. I trusted the trail to my horse. In addition to his keen instinct, he had been trained to tracking; and with his muzzle projected forward and downward—so that his lips almost touched the earth—he lifted the scent like a hound. We could only make progress at a quick walk; but I consoled myself with the thought that my pursuers could go no faster. Seeing how easily I had ridden away from them, they might determine to abandon the pursuit—returning to revenge themselves upon my fellow-captives.About these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange enough, my strongest sympathies were with. Sure-shot! I could not help thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. There could be no doubt of his having done so. He had been offered life, on some traitorous condition, and could have lived. The Indian whom I had hurled over the rocks, if still alive, would explain my escape. The cunning savages would easily understand it. My brave comrade would take my place upon the crucifix?For Wingrove I had less fear. Surely love—even slighted love—would save him from the sacrifice? Yet, after what had occurred, I had but little reason to hope even for him. I could think of but one chance of rescuing them: to overtake the train, and prevail upon the escort to return. I wondered at the dragoons having abandoned the waggon, and left the poor fellows who were with it to their fate! I could only explain such conduct, by supposing that these had been far behind, and that their disaster was still unknown to the people of the caravan. The six men who had fallen might have been the only ones along with the waggon; and their firing, as they defended themselves, might not have been heard? The roar of the water in the cañon might have drowned the reports of their guns; and, as I now listened to its deafening sound, I could believe in this hypothesis.Indulging in such conjectures, I had groped my way some two or three miles up the gorge, when I became sensible of a singular faintness stealing over me. A chill crept through my frame—not like that produced by cold from without; but as if the blood was freezing in my veins! The feeling was accompanied by a sense of torpor and lassitude—like that experienced by one dropping to sleep in a snow-storm. I made an effort to rouse myself—thinking it was sleep that was oppressing me. It might well have been—since it was more than thirty hours since I had slept, and then only for a short while. It occurred to me that, by dismounting and walking for a distance, I might recover warmth and wakefulness. With this design, I alighted from my horse. Once upon the ground, I discovered that I could not walk—that I could not even keep my feet! My limbs tottered under me, as if I had been for months bed-rid. Only by holding on to my horse could I stand erect! What could it mean? My Arab turned his face towards me, as if making the same inquiry! I endeavoured to remount him, but could not. I was unable even to clamber upon his back; and after an unsuccessful effort, desisted—still supporting myself against his body. Had he moved away, at the moment, I should have fallen. And I must have fallen—after my senses left me. In the last gleam of consciousness, I remembered standing by the side of my horse. But I must have fallen: for when thought returned, I found myself upon my back, stretched at full length along the grass!
I made direct for the cañon whence issued the stream. Its gap grew wider as I approached it—though still appearing only a dark cleft between the rocks, like the entrance to some subterranean passage. I looked forward to it with satisfaction. Its shadowy chasm promised shelter and concealment. When near the entrance of the gorge, I passed the ground where the waggon had been captured. Part of its load—barrels and heavy boxes—were lying upon the sward. They were all broken, and rifled of their contents. The plunder had been carried to the butte. The dead bodies were still there—only those of the white men. I even halted to examine them. They were all stripped of their clothing—all scalped, and otherwise mutilated. The faces of all were blood-bedaubed. Under the red mask I could not have recognised them—even had they been the faces of old friends! There were six of them. Divested of their garments, I could form no conjecture as to who or what they had been—whether teamsters or emigrants, gold-seekers or soldiers. The Mormon could not have been among them: the bodies were all too stout for his; while, on the other hand, there was none of them that could have been mistaken for that of the squatter, Holt. I turned away from the sickening sight, and continued my gallop.
My pursuers were a good mile behind me. The sun had already sunk over the crest of the cliffs, and I could just see the mounted savages through the darkling gloom—still fallowing as fast as their horses could gallop. In five minutes after, I had entered the gorge. The twilight continued no longer: in the cañon it was night. I followed the stream upwards, keeping along near the bank. Thick darkness was over and around me; but the gleam of the water and its rippling sound served to guide me on the path. I could not see any track—either of horses or waggons—but I knew they had passed over the ground. There was a narrow strip of bottom land thickly timbered; and an opening through the trees indicated the road that the waggons must have taken. I trusted the trail to my horse. In addition to his keen instinct, he had been trained to tracking; and with his muzzle projected forward and downward—so that his lips almost touched the earth—he lifted the scent like a hound. We could only make progress at a quick walk; but I consoled myself with the thought that my pursuers could go no faster. Seeing how easily I had ridden away from them, they might determine to abandon the pursuit—returning to revenge themselves upon my fellow-captives.
About these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange enough, my strongest sympathies were with. Sure-shot! I could not help thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. There could be no doubt of his having done so. He had been offered life, on some traitorous condition, and could have lived. The Indian whom I had hurled over the rocks, if still alive, would explain my escape. The cunning savages would easily understand it. My brave comrade would take my place upon the crucifix?
For Wingrove I had less fear. Surely love—even slighted love—would save him from the sacrifice? Yet, after what had occurred, I had but little reason to hope even for him. I could think of but one chance of rescuing them: to overtake the train, and prevail upon the escort to return. I wondered at the dragoons having abandoned the waggon, and left the poor fellows who were with it to their fate! I could only explain such conduct, by supposing that these had been far behind, and that their disaster was still unknown to the people of the caravan. The six men who had fallen might have been the only ones along with the waggon; and their firing, as they defended themselves, might not have been heard? The roar of the water in the cañon might have drowned the reports of their guns; and, as I now listened to its deafening sound, I could believe in this hypothesis.
Indulging in such conjectures, I had groped my way some two or three miles up the gorge, when I became sensible of a singular faintness stealing over me. A chill crept through my frame—not like that produced by cold from without; but as if the blood was freezing in my veins! The feeling was accompanied by a sense of torpor and lassitude—like that experienced by one dropping to sleep in a snow-storm. I made an effort to rouse myself—thinking it was sleep that was oppressing me. It might well have been—since it was more than thirty hours since I had slept, and then only for a short while. It occurred to me that, by dismounting and walking for a distance, I might recover warmth and wakefulness. With this design, I alighted from my horse. Once upon the ground, I discovered that I could not walk—that I could not even keep my feet! My limbs tottered under me, as if I had been for months bed-rid. Only by holding on to my horse could I stand erect! What could it mean? My Arab turned his face towards me, as if making the same inquiry! I endeavoured to remount him, but could not. I was unable even to clamber upon his back; and after an unsuccessful effort, desisted—still supporting myself against his body. Had he moved away, at the moment, I should have fallen. And I must have fallen—after my senses left me. In the last gleam of consciousness, I remembered standing by the side of my horse. But I must have fallen: for when thought returned, I found myself upon my back, stretched at full length along the grass!
Chapter Sixty Seven.Passed by the Pursuit.I must have fallen upon my back, or else turned upon it after falling. On opening my eyes, the sky was the first object that my glance encountered. I saw only a strip of it, of dark-blue colour, bordered on each side by black. I knew it was the sky by its twinkling stars; and that the black borderings were the cliffs of the cañon. By this I remembered where I was, and the stars and darkness admonished me it was still night. There was hot air upon my face—as if some one was behind breathing down upon me. I turned my head, and looked upward. A pair of brilliant eyes were glancing into mine. So confused were my senses, that it was some time before I made them out to be the eyes of my Arab. He was standing over me, with his muzzle close to my forehead. It was his breath I had felt upon my face. I could not tell how long I had been entranced. I had no clue to the time of night, and I was not in a position to consult the stars. I must have lain several hours, partly in syncope, and partly asleep. It was fortunate I had a buffalo-robe around my body. I had found it lying upon the plain among the dead men; and had snatched it up, and tied it around my shoulders as I rode on. But for it, I might have perished in my slumber: since the night was chill, and I had neither covering on my back, nor blood in my veins, to resist the cold. It was the absence of the latter that had brought me to the ground. I had left most of my blood upon the butte.Sleep or time had revived me. I was able to get to my feet; and I arose. I was still weak, and staggered like a lamb; but my senses were sufficiently clear; and I now recollected everything that had transpired. I was also conscious of the danger of remaining in that place; and it was this thought that induced me to get up—with the intention of going forward.I was strong enough to mount, and just strong enough to keep the seat upon my horse; but I was aware of the necessity of putting a wider distance between myself and the Red-Hand before daylight should arrive; and I continued onward up the ravine. The trace was easily followed—more easily than when I first entered the cañon. There was more light; and this must have been caused by a moon. I could see none—the cliffs hindered me—but the strip of sky visible above the rocks showed the sheen of moonlight.I rode but slowly. Feeble though I was, I could have ridden faster, but I was proceeding with caution. Strange as it may seem, I was now paying more regard to the front than the rear. I had a suspicion that my pursuers might beaheadof me. I could hardly believe in their having abandoned the pursuit, after so slight an effort. Too many of them had fallen by my hand. They would scarce let me escape so easily, and with my scalp untaken: I had ascertained that the trophy was still upon my head. It was quite possible they had passed me. While endeavouring to mount my horse, I had drawn him from the path; and the place where I had found myself lying was behind some bushes, where I should have been screened from the eyes of any one riding along the track. In daylight I might have been seen; but not then. At that hour the darkness would have concealed me. And ithadconcealed me, as I soon after discovered. My suspicion that the pursuers had passed me proved the means of saving me. But for the caution it had prompted me to observe, I should have ridden head to head against their horses! I had proceeded about a mile further, and was still advancing when my steed raised his head horizontally, and gave utterance to a low snort. At the same instant, he stopped without any tightening of the rein! Above the sough of the stream, I heard noises. The intonation of the red man’s voice was easily recognised. There were Indians in front of me! Were they coming or going? The voices grew louder as I listened—the speakers were nearing me.My first thought was to glide behind the trees; but a glance showed me that these were not tall enough. They were mere bushes. They might have concealed the body of a man; but a horse standing up could not have been hidden behind them. For a moment I was undecided as to how I should act—till I bethought me of turning, and riding back to where I had lain. I was in the act of facing about, when through the sombre light I observed a break in the cliff. It appeared to be a gap—the entrance of a lateral ravine. It offered a chance of concealment: since it was even darker than within the cañon itself. I hesitated not about accepting the shelter it promised; and, heading my horse into it, I rode rapidly but silently forward.When fairly concealed under its shadowy gloom, I again halted and listened. I heard the hoof-strokes of horses and the voices of men. I recognised the deep guttural of the Arapahoes. A troop was riding past, going back towards the valley. They were those who had pursued me. Were theseallof my pursuers. There appeared to be only a small party—ten or a dozen horsemen. Others might have gone up the river, who had not yet returned. It was this doubt that caused me to hesitate; otherwise I should have ridden back into the cañon, and kept on up the stream. But by doing so I might place myself between two parties of my pursuers, with no chance of retreating in either direction. Moreover, pickets might have been stationed along the path. To fall upon one of these would be fatal. Why not follow the lateral ravine? I might ride up that for a distance, and then leaving it, cross over to the caravan trace—above any point to which the pursuit might have been carried?This plan appeared feasible; and, without delay, I adopted it. I rode on up the gorge, which very much resembled that I had left—only that there was no water in it. It had not been always so: for my path here and there ran over a channel of rocks, which indicated the bed of a stream, now dry. I followed the ravine for a mile or more; and then looked for a path that would take me across to the caravan trail. I looked in vain. Stupendous cliffs rose on each side. I could not scale them. I had no choice but to keep on up the ravine; but that would be going at right angles to my proper course!There was no alternative but to halt and wait for daylight. Indeed, I was too faint to ride further. Slight exertion fatigued me; and, no longer in dread of immediate danger I deemed it more prudent to stop, and, if possible, gain strength by rest. I dismounted, gave my horse to the grass; and, having wrapped myself in the warm robe, soon entered upon the enjoyment of sleep—sweeter and more natural than the involuntary slumber in which I had been lately indulging.
I must have fallen upon my back, or else turned upon it after falling. On opening my eyes, the sky was the first object that my glance encountered. I saw only a strip of it, of dark-blue colour, bordered on each side by black. I knew it was the sky by its twinkling stars; and that the black borderings were the cliffs of the cañon. By this I remembered where I was, and the stars and darkness admonished me it was still night. There was hot air upon my face—as if some one was behind breathing down upon me. I turned my head, and looked upward. A pair of brilliant eyes were glancing into mine. So confused were my senses, that it was some time before I made them out to be the eyes of my Arab. He was standing over me, with his muzzle close to my forehead. It was his breath I had felt upon my face. I could not tell how long I had been entranced. I had no clue to the time of night, and I was not in a position to consult the stars. I must have lain several hours, partly in syncope, and partly asleep. It was fortunate I had a buffalo-robe around my body. I had found it lying upon the plain among the dead men; and had snatched it up, and tied it around my shoulders as I rode on. But for it, I might have perished in my slumber: since the night was chill, and I had neither covering on my back, nor blood in my veins, to resist the cold. It was the absence of the latter that had brought me to the ground. I had left most of my blood upon the butte.
Sleep or time had revived me. I was able to get to my feet; and I arose. I was still weak, and staggered like a lamb; but my senses were sufficiently clear; and I now recollected everything that had transpired. I was also conscious of the danger of remaining in that place; and it was this thought that induced me to get up—with the intention of going forward.
I was strong enough to mount, and just strong enough to keep the seat upon my horse; but I was aware of the necessity of putting a wider distance between myself and the Red-Hand before daylight should arrive; and I continued onward up the ravine. The trace was easily followed—more easily than when I first entered the cañon. There was more light; and this must have been caused by a moon. I could see none—the cliffs hindered me—but the strip of sky visible above the rocks showed the sheen of moonlight.
I rode but slowly. Feeble though I was, I could have ridden faster, but I was proceeding with caution. Strange as it may seem, I was now paying more regard to the front than the rear. I had a suspicion that my pursuers might beaheadof me. I could hardly believe in their having abandoned the pursuit, after so slight an effort. Too many of them had fallen by my hand. They would scarce let me escape so easily, and with my scalp untaken: I had ascertained that the trophy was still upon my head. It was quite possible they had passed me. While endeavouring to mount my horse, I had drawn him from the path; and the place where I had found myself lying was behind some bushes, where I should have been screened from the eyes of any one riding along the track. In daylight I might have been seen; but not then. At that hour the darkness would have concealed me. And ithadconcealed me, as I soon after discovered. My suspicion that the pursuers had passed me proved the means of saving me. But for the caution it had prompted me to observe, I should have ridden head to head against their horses! I had proceeded about a mile further, and was still advancing when my steed raised his head horizontally, and gave utterance to a low snort. At the same instant, he stopped without any tightening of the rein! Above the sough of the stream, I heard noises. The intonation of the red man’s voice was easily recognised. There were Indians in front of me! Were they coming or going? The voices grew louder as I listened—the speakers were nearing me.
My first thought was to glide behind the trees; but a glance showed me that these were not tall enough. They were mere bushes. They might have concealed the body of a man; but a horse standing up could not have been hidden behind them. For a moment I was undecided as to how I should act—till I bethought me of turning, and riding back to where I had lain. I was in the act of facing about, when through the sombre light I observed a break in the cliff. It appeared to be a gap—the entrance of a lateral ravine. It offered a chance of concealment: since it was even darker than within the cañon itself. I hesitated not about accepting the shelter it promised; and, heading my horse into it, I rode rapidly but silently forward.
When fairly concealed under its shadowy gloom, I again halted and listened. I heard the hoof-strokes of horses and the voices of men. I recognised the deep guttural of the Arapahoes. A troop was riding past, going back towards the valley. They were those who had pursued me. Were theseallof my pursuers. There appeared to be only a small party—ten or a dozen horsemen. Others might have gone up the river, who had not yet returned. It was this doubt that caused me to hesitate; otherwise I should have ridden back into the cañon, and kept on up the stream. But by doing so I might place myself between two parties of my pursuers, with no chance of retreating in either direction. Moreover, pickets might have been stationed along the path. To fall upon one of these would be fatal. Why not follow the lateral ravine? I might ride up that for a distance, and then leaving it, cross over to the caravan trace—above any point to which the pursuit might have been carried?
This plan appeared feasible; and, without delay, I adopted it. I rode on up the gorge, which very much resembled that I had left—only that there was no water in it. It had not been always so: for my path here and there ran over a channel of rocks, which indicated the bed of a stream, now dry. I followed the ravine for a mile or more; and then looked for a path that would take me across to the caravan trail. I looked in vain. Stupendous cliffs rose on each side. I could not scale them. I had no choice but to keep on up the ravine; but that would be going at right angles to my proper course!
There was no alternative but to halt and wait for daylight. Indeed, I was too faint to ride further. Slight exertion fatigued me; and, no longer in dread of immediate danger I deemed it more prudent to stop, and, if possible, gain strength by rest. I dismounted, gave my horse to the grass; and, having wrapped myself in the warm robe, soon entered upon the enjoyment of sleep—sweeter and more natural than the involuntary slumber in which I had been lately indulging.
Chapter Sixty Eight.The Track of the Mocassin.The blue dawn of morning was glinting among the rocks when I awoke. On the crest of the cliff was a streak of amber-coloured light, that betokened the rising of the sun and warned me that it was time to be stirring. I had no toilet to make—no breakfast to eat: nothing to do but mount my horse and move onward. I continued up the lateral ravine—since there was no path leading out from it; and to return to the Huerfano, would have been to ride back into the teeth of danger. I still felt faint. Though less than twenty-four hours since I had eaten, I hungered acutely. Was there nothing I could eat? I looked inquiringly around. It was a scene of sterility and starvation. Not a symptom of life—scarcely a sign of vegetation! Rocks, bare and forbidding, formed two parallel façades grinning at each other across the gorge—their rugged features but little relieved by the mottling of dark junipers that clung from their clefts. There appeared neither root nor fruit that might be eaten. Only a chameleon could maintain existence in such a spot!I had scarcely made this reflection, when, as if to contradict it, the form of a noble animal became outlined before my eyes. Its colour, size, and proportions, were those of a stag of the red deer species; but its spiral horns proclaimed it of a different genus. These enabled me to identify it as the rare mountain-ram—the magnificentammon, of the Northern Andes. It was standing upon a salient point of the cliff—its form boldly projected against the purple sky, in an attitude fixed and statuesque. One might have fancied it placed there for embellishment—a characteristic feature of that wild landscape. The scene would have been incomplete without it. From my point of observation it was five hundred yards distant. It would have been equally safe at five: since I had no means of destroying it. I might easily have crept within shot-range—since a grove of cotton-woods, just commencing where I had halted, extended up the bottom of the ravine. Under these I could have stalked, to the base of the cliff on which the animal stood—a sort of angular promontory projecting into the gorge. This advantage only rendered the sight more tantalising: my gun was empty, and I had no means of reloading it. Was it certain the piece was empty? Why should the Indian have believed it to be loaded? Up to this moment, I had not thought of examining it. I drew the ramrod, and inverted it into the barrel. The head struck upon a soft substance. The screw stood four fingers above the muzzle: the gun was charged! There was no cap upon the nipple. There had been none! This accounted for the piece having missed fire. In all likelihood, I owed my life to the circumstance of the savage being ignorant of the percussion principle!I was now indebted to another circumstance for a supply of caps. The locker near the heel of the stock had escaped the attention of the Indians. Its brass cover had passed for a thing of ornament. On springing it open the little caps of corrugated copper gleamed before my eyes—an abundance of them. I tapped the powder into the nipple; adjusted a cap; and, dismounting, set forth upon the stalk. The spreading tops of the cotton-woods concealed me; and, crouching under them, I made my approaches as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit. It grew damper as I advanced; and, presently, I passed pools of water and patches of smooth mud—where water had recently lain. It was the bed of an intermittent stream—a hydrographic phenomenon of frequent occurrence in the central regions of North America. The presence of water accounted for that of the cotton-wood trees—a sure indication of moisture in the soil.The water was a welcome sight. I was suffering from thirst even more than from hunger; and, notwithstanding the risk of losing my chance of a shot, I determined to stop and drink. I was creeping forward to the edge of one of the ponds, when a sight came under my eyes that astonished me; and to such a degree, as to drive both thirst and hunger out of my thoughts—at least for the moment. In the margin of sandy mud extending along the edge of the water, appeared a line of tracks—the tracks of human feet! On crawling nearer, I perceived that they were mocassin-tracks, but of such tiny dimensions, as to leave no doubt as to the sex of the individual who had made them. Clearly, they were the imprints of a woman’s feet! A woman must have passed that way! An Indian woman of course!This was my first reflection; and almost simultaneous with it arose another half-interrogative conjecture: was it Su-wa-nee? No. The foot was too small for that of the forest maiden. I had a remembrance of the dimensions of hers. The tracks before my eyes were not over eight inches in length: and could only have been made by a foot slender, and of elegant shape. The imprint was perfect; and its clear outline denoted the light elastic tread of youth. It was ayoungwoman who had made those footmarks.At first, I saw no reason to doubt that the tracks were those of some Indian girl. Their size would not have contradicted the supposition. Among the aboriginal belles of America, a little foot is the rule—a large one the exception. I had tracked many a pair much smaller than those; but never had I seen the footprints of an Indian with thetoes turned out; and such was the peculiarity of those now before me. This observation—which I did not make till after some time had elapsed—filled me with astonishment, and something more. It was suggestive of many and varied emotions. The girl or woman who had made these tracks could never have been strapped to an Indian cradle. She must be white!
The blue dawn of morning was glinting among the rocks when I awoke. On the crest of the cliff was a streak of amber-coloured light, that betokened the rising of the sun and warned me that it was time to be stirring. I had no toilet to make—no breakfast to eat: nothing to do but mount my horse and move onward. I continued up the lateral ravine—since there was no path leading out from it; and to return to the Huerfano, would have been to ride back into the teeth of danger. I still felt faint. Though less than twenty-four hours since I had eaten, I hungered acutely. Was there nothing I could eat? I looked inquiringly around. It was a scene of sterility and starvation. Not a symptom of life—scarcely a sign of vegetation! Rocks, bare and forbidding, formed two parallel façades grinning at each other across the gorge—their rugged features but little relieved by the mottling of dark junipers that clung from their clefts. There appeared neither root nor fruit that might be eaten. Only a chameleon could maintain existence in such a spot!
I had scarcely made this reflection, when, as if to contradict it, the form of a noble animal became outlined before my eyes. Its colour, size, and proportions, were those of a stag of the red deer species; but its spiral horns proclaimed it of a different genus. These enabled me to identify it as the rare mountain-ram—the magnificentammon, of the Northern Andes. It was standing upon a salient point of the cliff—its form boldly projected against the purple sky, in an attitude fixed and statuesque. One might have fancied it placed there for embellishment—a characteristic feature of that wild landscape. The scene would have been incomplete without it. From my point of observation it was five hundred yards distant. It would have been equally safe at five: since I had no means of destroying it. I might easily have crept within shot-range—since a grove of cotton-woods, just commencing where I had halted, extended up the bottom of the ravine. Under these I could have stalked, to the base of the cliff on which the animal stood—a sort of angular promontory projecting into the gorge. This advantage only rendered the sight more tantalising: my gun was empty, and I had no means of reloading it. Was it certain the piece was empty? Why should the Indian have believed it to be loaded? Up to this moment, I had not thought of examining it. I drew the ramrod, and inverted it into the barrel. The head struck upon a soft substance. The screw stood four fingers above the muzzle: the gun was charged! There was no cap upon the nipple. There had been none! This accounted for the piece having missed fire. In all likelihood, I owed my life to the circumstance of the savage being ignorant of the percussion principle!
I was now indebted to another circumstance for a supply of caps. The locker near the heel of the stock had escaped the attention of the Indians. Its brass cover had passed for a thing of ornament. On springing it open the little caps of corrugated copper gleamed before my eyes—an abundance of them. I tapped the powder into the nipple; adjusted a cap; and, dismounting, set forth upon the stalk. The spreading tops of the cotton-woods concealed me; and, crouching under them, I made my approaches as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit. It grew damper as I advanced; and, presently, I passed pools of water and patches of smooth mud—where water had recently lain. It was the bed of an intermittent stream—a hydrographic phenomenon of frequent occurrence in the central regions of North America. The presence of water accounted for that of the cotton-wood trees—a sure indication of moisture in the soil.
The water was a welcome sight. I was suffering from thirst even more than from hunger; and, notwithstanding the risk of losing my chance of a shot, I determined to stop and drink. I was creeping forward to the edge of one of the ponds, when a sight came under my eyes that astonished me; and to such a degree, as to drive both thirst and hunger out of my thoughts—at least for the moment. In the margin of sandy mud extending along the edge of the water, appeared a line of tracks—the tracks of human feet! On crawling nearer, I perceived that they were mocassin-tracks, but of such tiny dimensions, as to leave no doubt as to the sex of the individual who had made them. Clearly, they were the imprints of a woman’s feet! A woman must have passed that way! An Indian woman of course!
This was my first reflection; and almost simultaneous with it arose another half-interrogative conjecture: was it Su-wa-nee? No. The foot was too small for that of the forest maiden. I had a remembrance of the dimensions of hers. The tracks before my eyes were not over eight inches in length: and could only have been made by a foot slender, and of elegant shape. The imprint was perfect; and its clear outline denoted the light elastic tread of youth. It was ayoungwoman who had made those footmarks.
At first, I saw no reason to doubt that the tracks were those of some Indian girl. Their size would not have contradicted the supposition. Among the aboriginal belles of America, a little foot is the rule—a large one the exception. I had tracked many a pair much smaller than those; but never had I seen the footprints of an Indian with thetoes turned out; and such was the peculiarity of those now before me. This observation—which I did not make till after some time had elapsed—filled me with astonishment, and something more. It was suggestive of many and varied emotions. The girl or woman who had made these tracks could never have been strapped to an Indian cradle. She must be white!
Chapter Sixty Nine.A Rival Stalker.It was not by any conjuncture that I arrived at this conclusion. I was quite confident that the footsteps were not those of asquaw—all inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. I observed that they were very recent—of less than an hour’s age. As I rose from regarding them, a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand—the footmarks of a wolf! No—I was deceived by resemblance. On nearer examination, they were not wolf-tracks I saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. These were also fresh like the woman’s tracks—made doubtless at the same time. The dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his track was uppermost.There were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: awhitewoman in such a place, andwearing moccasins! But for the style of thechaussure, I might have fancied that the tracks were those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. I might have connected them withher—ever uppermost in my thoughts. But—no. Small though they were, they were yet too large for thosemignonfeet, well-remembered. After all, Imightbe mistaken? Some dusky maiden might have passed that way, followed by her dog? This hypothesis would have removed all mystery, had I yielded to it. I could not: it was contrary to my tracking experience. Even the dog was not Indian: the prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race.My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was paramount; and after assuaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The noble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even changed his attitude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge!When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by theovis ammonin descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body?I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun—that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs—told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot? If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game. Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, afreetrapper. I knew that upon several head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these singular men.From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears—“Off there, Wolf! off, villain dog! Don’t you see that the creature is killed—no thanks to you, sirrah?” Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman!While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes—a girl majestically beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown—cheeks of purplish red—a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve—eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope—a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes—such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view—equally striking and picturesque. I need not say that it was of perfect shape—bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself—hence the perfect correspondence of its parts. And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation.The costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. About both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself—for those sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw the snowy cone of Pike’s Peak rising over the crest of the cliff, I might have fancied myself in the Sierra Asturias, with a beautifulgitanastanding before me. The soft fawn-skintilma, with its gaudy broidering of beads and stained quills—the fringed skirt and buskined ankles—the striped Navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders—all presented a true gipsy appearance. The plumed circlet upon the head was more typical of Transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a female hand was still another idiosyncracy of America. It was from that rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low the bighorn! It was not ahunterthen who had killed the game; but she who stood before me—a huntress—the Wild Huntress.
It was not by any conjuncture that I arrived at this conclusion. I was quite confident that the footsteps were not those of asquaw—all inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. I observed that they were very recent—of less than an hour’s age. As I rose from regarding them, a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand—the footmarks of a wolf! No—I was deceived by resemblance. On nearer examination, they were not wolf-tracks I saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. These were also fresh like the woman’s tracks—made doubtless at the same time. The dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his track was uppermost.
There were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: awhitewoman in such a place, andwearing moccasins! But for the style of thechaussure, I might have fancied that the tracks were those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. I might have connected them withher—ever uppermost in my thoughts. But—no. Small though they were, they were yet too large for thosemignonfeet, well-remembered. After all, Imightbe mistaken? Some dusky maiden might have passed that way, followed by her dog? This hypothesis would have removed all mystery, had I yielded to it. I could not: it was contrary to my tracking experience. Even the dog was not Indian: the prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race.
My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was paramount; and after assuaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The noble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even changed his attitude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge!
When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by theovis ammonin descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body?
I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun—that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs—told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot? If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game. Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, afreetrapper. I knew that upon several head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these singular men.
From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears—“Off there, Wolf! off, villain dog! Don’t you see that the creature is killed—no thanks to you, sirrah?” Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman!
While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes—a girl majestically beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown—cheeks of purplish red—a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve—eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope—a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes—such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view—equally striking and picturesque. I need not say that it was of perfect shape—bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself—hence the perfect correspondence of its parts. And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation.
The costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. About both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself—for those sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw the snowy cone of Pike’s Peak rising over the crest of the cliff, I might have fancied myself in the Sierra Asturias, with a beautifulgitanastanding before me. The soft fawn-skintilma, with its gaudy broidering of beads and stained quills—the fringed skirt and buskined ankles—the striped Navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders—all presented a true gipsy appearance. The plumed circlet upon the head was more typical of Transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a female hand was still another idiosyncracy of America. It was from that rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low the bighorn! It was not ahunterthen who had killed the game; but she who stood before me—a huntress—the Wild Huntress.
Chapter Seventy.The Wild Huntress.No longer was it from fear that I held back; but a hesitancy springing from surprise mingled with admiration. The sight of so much beauty—grand as unexpected—was enough to unnerve one, especially in such a place—and one to whose eye the female form had so long been a stranger. Su-wa-nee’s I had seen only at a distance; and hers, to my sight, was no longer beautiful. I hesitated to show myself—lest the sight of me should alarm this lovely apparition, and cause her to take flight. The thought was not unnatural—since the tricoloured pigments of black, red, and white were still upon my skin; and I must have presented the picture of a chimney-sweep with a dining-plate glued upon his breast. In such a guise I knew that I must cut a ludicrous figure, and would have slipped back to the pool, and washed myself; but I dreaded to take my eyes from that beautiful vision, lest I might never look upon it again! In my absence, she would be gone? I feared even then, that on seeing me she might take flight: and I was too faint to follow her. For this reason, I stood silently gazing through my leafy covert, like one who watches the movements of some shy and beautiful bird. I almost dreaded to breathe lest the sound might alarm her. I was planning, at the same time, how I should initiate an interview.Her voice again reached me, as she recommenced scolding the dog: even its chiding tones were sweet. She had approached, and stooped for a moment over the bighorn, as if to satisfy herself that the animal was dead. Her canine companion did not appear to be quite sure of the fact: for he continued to spring repeatedly upon the carcass with open mouth, as if eager to devour it.“Off, off!” cried she, threatening the dog with the butt of her rifle. “You wicked Wolf! what has got into you? Have I not told you that the thing is dead—what more do you want? Mind, sirrah!” continued she, shaking her finger significantly at the dog—“mind, my good fellow!youhad no part in the killing of it; and if you spoil the skin, you shall have no share in the flesh. You hear me? Not a morsel!”Wolf appeared to understand the hint and retired. Impelled by hunger, I accepted the cue:“You will not refuse a morsel to one who is starving?”“Aha! who speaks?” cried the huntress, turning round with a glance rather of inquiry than alarm. “Down, Wolf!” commanded she, as the dog bounded forward with a growl. “Down, you savage brute! Don’t you hear that some one is starving? Ha! a negro! Poor devil! where can he have come from, I wonder?”Only my head was visible—a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. The coat of char upon my face was deceiving her.“No, not a negro,” said I, stepping out and discovering my person—“not a negro, though I have been submitted to the treatment of one.”“Ho! white, red, and black! Mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin! Ha, ha, ha!”“My toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? I might apologise for it—since I can assure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than—”“You are a white man, then?” said she, interrupting me—at the same time stepping nearer to examine me.“I was, yesterday,” I replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the Indian artist had left untouched. “To-day, I am as you see.”“O heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, “this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? Where is your wound?”“In several places I am wounded; but not dangerously. They are only scratches: I have no fear of them.”“Who gave you these wounds?”“Indians. I have just escaped from them.”“Indians! What Indians?”“Arapahoes.”“Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?”The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement.“On the Huerfano,” I replied—“by the Orphan butte. It was the band of a chief known as the Red-Hand.”“Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger! are you sure of this?”The earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. I answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment—without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. Indeed, I was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener—who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner:“Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!” After a pause she hastily inquired: “How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?”“Nearly two hundred.”“Not more than two hundred?”“No—rather less, I should say.”“It is well—You say you have a horse?”“My horse is at hand.”“Bring him up, then, and come along with me!”“But my comrades? I must follow the train, that I may be able to return and rescue them?”“You need not, for such a purpose. There is one not far off who can aid you in that—better than the escort you speak of. If too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. You say the caravan passed yesterday?”“Yesterday about noon.”“You could not overtake it, and return in time. The Red-Hand would be gone. Besides, you cannot get from this place to the trail taken by the caravan, without going back by the cañon; and there you might meet those from whom you have escaped. You cannot cross that way: the ridge is impassable.”As she said this, she pointed to the left—the direction which I had intended to take. I could see through a break in the bluff a precipitous mountain spur running north and south—parallel with the ravine I had been threading. It certainly appeared impassable—trending along the sky like the escarpment of some gigantic fortress. If this was true, there would be but little chance of my overtaking the escort in time. I had no longer a hope of being able to effect the rescue of my comrades. The delay, no doubt, would be fatal. In all likelihood, both Wingrove and Sure-shot had ere this been sacrificed to the vengeance of the Arapahoes, freshly excited by my escape. Only from a sense of duty did I purpose returning: rather with the idea of being able to avenge their deaths.What meant this mysterious maiden? Who possessed the power to rescue my comrades from two hundred savages—the most warlike upon the plains? Who was he that could aid me in avenging them?“Follow me, and you shall see!” replied the huntress, in answer to my interrogatory. “Your horse! your horse! Hasten, or we shall be too late. The Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! Wa-ka-ra will rejoice at the news. Your horse! your horse!” I hastened back for my Arab, and hurriedly led him up to the spot.“A beautiful creature!” exclaimed she, on seeing the horse; “no wonder you were able to ride off from your captors. Mount!”“And you?”“I shall go afoot. But stay! time is precious. Can your steed carry us both?”“Undoubtedly he can.”“Then it is better we should both ride. Half an hour is everything; and if the Red-Hand should escape—You mount first—be quick!”It was not the time to be squeamish—even under the glance of the loveliest eyes. Taking the robe from my shoulders, I spread it over the back of my horse; and employing a piece of the laryette as a surcingle, I bound it fast. Into the improvised saddle I mounted—the girl, from a rock, leaping upon the croup behind me. “You, Wolf!” cried she, apostrophising the dog; “you stay here by the game, and guard it from thecoyotes. Remember! rascal! not a mouthful till I return. Now, stranger!” she continued, shifting closer to me, and clasping me round the waist, “I am ready. Give your steed to the road; and spare him not, as you value the lives of your comrades. Up the ravine lies our way. Ho! onward!”The brave horse needed no spur. He seemed to understand that speed was required of him; and, stretching at once into a gallop, carried us gaily up the gorge.
No longer was it from fear that I held back; but a hesitancy springing from surprise mingled with admiration. The sight of so much beauty—grand as unexpected—was enough to unnerve one, especially in such a place—and one to whose eye the female form had so long been a stranger. Su-wa-nee’s I had seen only at a distance; and hers, to my sight, was no longer beautiful. I hesitated to show myself—lest the sight of me should alarm this lovely apparition, and cause her to take flight. The thought was not unnatural—since the tricoloured pigments of black, red, and white were still upon my skin; and I must have presented the picture of a chimney-sweep with a dining-plate glued upon his breast. In such a guise I knew that I must cut a ludicrous figure, and would have slipped back to the pool, and washed myself; but I dreaded to take my eyes from that beautiful vision, lest I might never look upon it again! In my absence, she would be gone? I feared even then, that on seeing me she might take flight: and I was too faint to follow her. For this reason, I stood silently gazing through my leafy covert, like one who watches the movements of some shy and beautiful bird. I almost dreaded to breathe lest the sound might alarm her. I was planning, at the same time, how I should initiate an interview.
Her voice again reached me, as she recommenced scolding the dog: even its chiding tones were sweet. She had approached, and stooped for a moment over the bighorn, as if to satisfy herself that the animal was dead. Her canine companion did not appear to be quite sure of the fact: for he continued to spring repeatedly upon the carcass with open mouth, as if eager to devour it.
“Off, off!” cried she, threatening the dog with the butt of her rifle. “You wicked Wolf! what has got into you? Have I not told you that the thing is dead—what more do you want? Mind, sirrah!” continued she, shaking her finger significantly at the dog—“mind, my good fellow!youhad no part in the killing of it; and if you spoil the skin, you shall have no share in the flesh. You hear me? Not a morsel!”
Wolf appeared to understand the hint and retired. Impelled by hunger, I accepted the cue:
“You will not refuse a morsel to one who is starving?”
“Aha! who speaks?” cried the huntress, turning round with a glance rather of inquiry than alarm. “Down, Wolf!” commanded she, as the dog bounded forward with a growl. “Down, you savage brute! Don’t you hear that some one is starving? Ha! a negro! Poor devil! where can he have come from, I wonder?”
Only my head was visible—a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. The coat of char upon my face was deceiving her.
“No, not a negro,” said I, stepping out and discovering my person—“not a negro, though I have been submitted to the treatment of one.”
“Ho! white, red, and black! Mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin! Ha, ha, ha!”
“My toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? I might apologise for it—since I can assure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than—”
“You are a white man, then?” said she, interrupting me—at the same time stepping nearer to examine me.
“I was, yesterday,” I replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the Indian artist had left untouched. “To-day, I am as you see.”
“O heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, “this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? Where is your wound?”
“In several places I am wounded; but not dangerously. They are only scratches: I have no fear of them.”
“Who gave you these wounds?”
“Indians. I have just escaped from them.”
“Indians! What Indians?”
“Arapahoes.”
“Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?”
The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement.
“On the Huerfano,” I replied—“by the Orphan butte. It was the band of a chief known as the Red-Hand.”
“Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger! are you sure of this?”
The earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. I answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment—without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. Indeed, I was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener—who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner:
“Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!” After a pause she hastily inquired: “How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?”
“Nearly two hundred.”
“Not more than two hundred?”
“No—rather less, I should say.”
“It is well—You say you have a horse?”
“My horse is at hand.”
“Bring him up, then, and come along with me!”
“But my comrades? I must follow the train, that I may be able to return and rescue them?”
“You need not, for such a purpose. There is one not far off who can aid you in that—better than the escort you speak of. If too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. You say the caravan passed yesterday?”
“Yesterday about noon.”
“You could not overtake it, and return in time. The Red-Hand would be gone. Besides, you cannot get from this place to the trail taken by the caravan, without going back by the cañon; and there you might meet those from whom you have escaped. You cannot cross that way: the ridge is impassable.”
As she said this, she pointed to the left—the direction which I had intended to take. I could see through a break in the bluff a precipitous mountain spur running north and south—parallel with the ravine I had been threading. It certainly appeared impassable—trending along the sky like the escarpment of some gigantic fortress. If this was true, there would be but little chance of my overtaking the escort in time. I had no longer a hope of being able to effect the rescue of my comrades. The delay, no doubt, would be fatal. In all likelihood, both Wingrove and Sure-shot had ere this been sacrificed to the vengeance of the Arapahoes, freshly excited by my escape. Only from a sense of duty did I purpose returning: rather with the idea of being able to avenge their deaths.
What meant this mysterious maiden? Who possessed the power to rescue my comrades from two hundred savages—the most warlike upon the plains? Who was he that could aid me in avenging them?
“Follow me, and you shall see!” replied the huntress, in answer to my interrogatory. “Your horse! your horse! Hasten, or we shall be too late. The Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! Wa-ka-ra will rejoice at the news. Your horse! your horse!” I hastened back for my Arab, and hurriedly led him up to the spot.
“A beautiful creature!” exclaimed she, on seeing the horse; “no wonder you were able to ride off from your captors. Mount!”
“And you?”
“I shall go afoot. But stay! time is precious. Can your steed carry us both?”
“Undoubtedly he can.”
“Then it is better we should both ride. Half an hour is everything; and if the Red-Hand should escape—You mount first—be quick!”
It was not the time to be squeamish—even under the glance of the loveliest eyes. Taking the robe from my shoulders, I spread it over the back of my horse; and employing a piece of the laryette as a surcingle, I bound it fast. Into the improvised saddle I mounted—the girl, from a rock, leaping upon the croup behind me. “You, Wolf!” cried she, apostrophising the dog; “you stay here by the game, and guard it from thecoyotes. Remember! rascal! not a mouthful till I return. Now, stranger!” she continued, shifting closer to me, and clasping me round the waist, “I am ready. Give your steed to the road; and spare him not, as you value the lives of your comrades. Up the ravine lies our way. Ho! onward!”
The brave horse needed no spur. He seemed to understand that speed was required of him; and, stretching at once into a gallop, carried us gaily up the gorge.
Chapter Seventy One.A queer Conversation.Is other days, and under other circumstances, the touch of that round arm, softly encircling my waist, might have caused the current of my veins to flow fast and fevered. Not so then. My blood was thin and chill. My soul recoiled from amatory emotions, or indulged in them only as a remembrance. Even in that hour of trial and temptation, my heart was true to thee, Lilian! Had it beenthyarm thus wound around my waist—had those eyes that glanced over my shoulder been blue, and the tresses that swept it gold—I might for the moment have forgotten the peril of my companions, and indulged only in the ecstasy of a selfish love. But not with her—that strange being with whom chance had brought me into such close companionship. For her I had no love-yearnings. Even under the entwining of that beautiful arm, my sense was as cold, as if I had been in the embrace of a statue. My thoughts were not there.My captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. Her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. How? and by whom? Whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from which help was to come? I would have asked; but our rapid movement precluded all chance of conversation. I could only form conjectures. These pointed to white men—to some rendezvous of trappers that might be near. I knew there were such. How else in such a place couldherpresence be accounted for? Even that would scarce explain an apparition so peculiar as that of this huntress-maiden! Other circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. There could be no band of trappers strong enough to attack the dark host of Red-Hand—at least with the chance of destroying it? She knew the strength of the Arapahoes. I had told her their number, as I had myself estimated it—nearly two hundred warriors. It was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. Moreover, she had mentioned a name—twice mentioned it—“Wa-ka-ra.” No white was likely to bear such an appellation. The word was undoubtedly Indian—especially as the huntress had pronounced it.I waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. It offered at length—where the path ran circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace I was about initiating a dialogue, when I was forestalled in my intention.“You are an officer in the army!” said my companion, half interrogatively. “How should you have known that?” answered I in some surprise—perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. “Oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me.”“My uniform?”“Yes. Have you not still a portion of it left?” inquired she, with a striking simplicity. “I see a mark here where lace stripes have been. That denotes an officer—does it not? The Arapahoes have stripped them off, I suppose?”“There was lace—true—you have guessed correctly. I have been in the army.”“And what was bringing you out here? On your way to the gold countries, I dare say?”“No, indeed, not that.”“What, then, may I ask?”“Only a foolish freak. It was a mere tour without much purpose. I intended soon to return to the States.”“Ah! you intend returning? But you say youwere followingthe caravan—you and your three fellow-travellers! Why were you notwithit? Would it not have been safer?” I hesitated to make reply. My interrogator continued:“It is not usual for so small a party to pass over the prairies alone. There is always danger from the Indians. Sometimes from whites too! Ah me! there are white savages—worse savages than red—far worse—far worse!”These strange speeches, with the sigh that accompanied them, caused me to turn my head, and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion. It was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. She, too, suffering from the past? In this glance I again remarked what had already attracted my notice—a resemblance to Lilian Holt! It was of the slightest, and so vague, that I could not tell in what it lay. Certainly not in the features—which were signally unlike those of Lilian; and equally dissimilar was the complexion. Were I to place the resemblance, I should say that I saw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. The similitude of tone was striking. Like Lilian’s, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beautiful women are gifted—those having the full round throat so proudly possessed by the damsels of Andalusia. Of course, reflected I, the likeness must be accidental. There was no possibility of its being otherwise; and I had not a thought that it was so. I was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recall them. The souvenirs so excited hindered me from making an immediate reply.“Your observations are somewhat singular?” I remarked at length. “Surely you have not verified them by your own experience?”“I have. Yes—and too sadly, ever to think them otherwise than just. I have had little reason to love those of my own colour—that is, if I am to consider myself a white.”“But you are so, are you not?”“Not altogether. I have Indian blood in my veins.”“Not much, I should fancy?”“Enough to give me Indian inclinings—and, I fear, also a dislike to those of my own complexion.”“Indeed?”“Perhaps less from instinct than experience. Ah! stranger! I have reason. Is it not enough that all have proved false—father, lover, husband?”“Husband! You are married, then?”“No.”“You have been?”“No.”“Why did you sayhusband!”“A husband only in name. I have been married, but never a wife; wedded, but never—”The speaker paused. I could feel her arm quivering around my waist. She was under the influence of some terrible emotion!“Yours must be a strange story?” I remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. “You have greatly excited my curiosity; but I know that I have no claim to your confidence.”“You may yet win it.”“Tell me how.”“You say you intend returning to the States. I may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. It is not much. Only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless—her father untrue to his paternal trust—her husband a cheat, a perjured villain.”“Your relationships have been singularly unfortunate; but your words only mystify me the more. I should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither?”“Not now—time presses. Your comrades, if still alive, are in peril. That is your affair; but mine is that the Red-Hand may not escape. If he do, there’s one will grieve at it—one to whom I owe life and protection.”“Of whom do you speak?”“Of the mortal enemy of Red-Hand and his Arapahoes—of Wa-ka-ra.”“Wa-ka-ra?”“Head chief of the Utahs—you shall see him presently. Put your horse to his speed! We are close to the camp. Yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! On stranger! on!”As directed, I once more urged my Arab into a gallop. It was not for long. After the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the cañon suddenly opened into a small but beautifulvallon—treeless and turfed with grass. The white cones, appearing in serried rows near its upper end, were easily identified as an encampment of Indians. “Behold!” exclaimed my companion, “the tents of the Utahs!”
Is other days, and under other circumstances, the touch of that round arm, softly encircling my waist, might have caused the current of my veins to flow fast and fevered. Not so then. My blood was thin and chill. My soul recoiled from amatory emotions, or indulged in them only as a remembrance. Even in that hour of trial and temptation, my heart was true to thee, Lilian! Had it beenthyarm thus wound around my waist—had those eyes that glanced over my shoulder been blue, and the tresses that swept it gold—I might for the moment have forgotten the peril of my companions, and indulged only in the ecstasy of a selfish love. But not with her—that strange being with whom chance had brought me into such close companionship. For her I had no love-yearnings. Even under the entwining of that beautiful arm, my sense was as cold, as if I had been in the embrace of a statue. My thoughts were not there.
My captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. Her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. How? and by whom? Whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from which help was to come? I would have asked; but our rapid movement precluded all chance of conversation. I could only form conjectures. These pointed to white men—to some rendezvous of trappers that might be near. I knew there were such. How else in such a place couldherpresence be accounted for? Even that would scarce explain an apparition so peculiar as that of this huntress-maiden! Other circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. There could be no band of trappers strong enough to attack the dark host of Red-Hand—at least with the chance of destroying it? She knew the strength of the Arapahoes. I had told her their number, as I had myself estimated it—nearly two hundred warriors. It was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. Moreover, she had mentioned a name—twice mentioned it—“Wa-ka-ra.” No white was likely to bear such an appellation. The word was undoubtedly Indian—especially as the huntress had pronounced it.
I waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. It offered at length—where the path ran circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace I was about initiating a dialogue, when I was forestalled in my intention.
“You are an officer in the army!” said my companion, half interrogatively. “How should you have known that?” answered I in some surprise—perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. “Oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me.”
“My uniform?”
“Yes. Have you not still a portion of it left?” inquired she, with a striking simplicity. “I see a mark here where lace stripes have been. That denotes an officer—does it not? The Arapahoes have stripped them off, I suppose?”
“There was lace—true—you have guessed correctly. I have been in the army.”
“And what was bringing you out here? On your way to the gold countries, I dare say?”
“No, indeed, not that.”
“What, then, may I ask?”
“Only a foolish freak. It was a mere tour without much purpose. I intended soon to return to the States.”
“Ah! you intend returning? But you say youwere followingthe caravan—you and your three fellow-travellers! Why were you notwithit? Would it not have been safer?” I hesitated to make reply. My interrogator continued:
“It is not usual for so small a party to pass over the prairies alone. There is always danger from the Indians. Sometimes from whites too! Ah me! there are white savages—worse savages than red—far worse—far worse!”
These strange speeches, with the sigh that accompanied them, caused me to turn my head, and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion. It was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. She, too, suffering from the past? In this glance I again remarked what had already attracted my notice—a resemblance to Lilian Holt! It was of the slightest, and so vague, that I could not tell in what it lay. Certainly not in the features—which were signally unlike those of Lilian; and equally dissimilar was the complexion. Were I to place the resemblance, I should say that I saw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. The similitude of tone was striking. Like Lilian’s, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beautiful women are gifted—those having the full round throat so proudly possessed by the damsels of Andalusia. Of course, reflected I, the likeness must be accidental. There was no possibility of its being otherwise; and I had not a thought that it was so. I was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recall them. The souvenirs so excited hindered me from making an immediate reply.
“Your observations are somewhat singular?” I remarked at length. “Surely you have not verified them by your own experience?”
“I have. Yes—and too sadly, ever to think them otherwise than just. I have had little reason to love those of my own colour—that is, if I am to consider myself a white.”
“But you are so, are you not?”
“Not altogether. I have Indian blood in my veins.”
“Not much, I should fancy?”
“Enough to give me Indian inclinings—and, I fear, also a dislike to those of my own complexion.”
“Indeed?”
“Perhaps less from instinct than experience. Ah! stranger! I have reason. Is it not enough that all have proved false—father, lover, husband?”
“Husband! You are married, then?”
“No.”
“You have been?”
“No.”
“Why did you sayhusband!”
“A husband only in name. I have been married, but never a wife; wedded, but never—”
The speaker paused. I could feel her arm quivering around my waist. She was under the influence of some terrible emotion!
“Yours must be a strange story?” I remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. “You have greatly excited my curiosity; but I know that I have no claim to your confidence.”
“You may yet win it.”
“Tell me how.”
“You say you intend returning to the States. I may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. It is not much. Only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless—her father untrue to his paternal trust—her husband a cheat, a perjured villain.”
“Your relationships have been singularly unfortunate; but your words only mystify me the more. I should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither?”
“Not now—time presses. Your comrades, if still alive, are in peril. That is your affair; but mine is that the Red-Hand may not escape. If he do, there’s one will grieve at it—one to whom I owe life and protection.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Of the mortal enemy of Red-Hand and his Arapahoes—of Wa-ka-ra.”
“Wa-ka-ra?”
“Head chief of the Utahs—you shall see him presently. Put your horse to his speed! We are close to the camp. Yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! On stranger! on!”
As directed, I once more urged my Arab into a gallop. It was not for long. After the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the cañon suddenly opened into a small but beautifulvallon—treeless and turfed with grass. The white cones, appearing in serried rows near its upper end, were easily identified as an encampment of Indians. “Behold!” exclaimed my companion, “the tents of the Utahs!”
Chapter Seventy Two.Wa-Ka-Ra.The lodges were aligned in double row, with a wide avenue between them. At its head stood one of superior dimensions—the wigwam of the chief. They were all of conical shape; a circle of poles converging at their tops, and covered with skins of the buffalo, grained and bleached to the whiteness of wash-leather. A slit in the front of each tent formed the entrance, closed by a list of the hide that hung loosely over it. Near the top of each appeared a triangular piece of skin, projecting outward from the slope of the side, and braced, so as to resemble an inverted sail of the kind known aslateen. It was a wind-guard to aid the smoke in its ascent. On the outer surface of each tent was exhibited the biography of its owner—expressed in picture-writing. More especially were his deeds of prowess thus recorded—encounters with the couguar and grizzly bear—with Crows, Cheyennes, Pawnees, and Arapahoes—each under its suitable symbol. The great marquee of the chief was particularly distinguished with this kind of emblematical emblazonment—being literally covered with signs and figures, like the patterns upon a carpet. No doubt, one skilled in the interpretation of these Transatlantic hieroglyphs, might have read from that copious cipher many a tale of terrible interest. In front of the tents stood tall spears, with shields ofparflècheleaning against them; also long bows ofbois d’arc (Maclura aurantica), and shorter ones of horn—the horns of the mountain-ram. Skin-quivers filled with arrows, hung suspended from the shafts; and I observed that, in almost every grouping of these weapons, there was a gun—a rifle. This did not much astonish me. I knew that, to the Utah, the medicine weapon is no longer a mystery. Here and there, hides freshly flayed were pegged out upon the grass, with squaws kneeling around them, engaged in the operation of graining. Girls, with water-tight baskets, poised upon the crown of the head, were coming from or going towards the stream. Men stood in groups, idly chatting, or squatted upon the turf, playing at games of chance. Boys were busy at their bow-practice; and still younger children rolled their naked bodies over the grass, hugging half-grown puppies—the companions of their infant play. Troops of dogs trotted among the tents; while a mixed herd of horses, mules, sheep, goats, and asses browsed the plain at a little distance from the camp. Such was thecoup d’oeilthat presented itself to my gaze, as we rode up to the Utah encampment.As might be expected, our arrival caused a change in the occupation of everybody. The dicers leaped to their feet—the squaws discontinued their work, and flung their scrapers upon the skins. “Ti-ya!” was the exclamation of astonishment that burst from hundreds of lips. Children screamed, and ran hiding behind their dusky mothers; dogs growled and barked; horses neighed; mules hinnied; asses brayed; while the sheep and goats joined their bleating to the universal chorus. “On to the chief’s tent!” counselled my companion, gliding to the ground, and preceding me on foot, “Yonder! the chief himself—Wa-ka-ra!”An Indian of medium size and perfect form, habited in a tunic of embroidered buckskin, leggings of scarlet cloth, head-dress of coloured plumes, with crest that swept backward and drooped down to his heels. A gaily stripedserapé, suspended scarf-like over the left shoulder, with a sash of red China crape wound loosely around the waist, completed a costume more picturesque than savage. A face of noble type, with an eye strongly glancing, like that of an eagle; an expression of features in no way fierce, but, like the dress, more gentle than savage; a countenance, in repose mild—almost to meekness. Such saw I.Had I known the man who stood before me, I might have remarked how little this latter expression corresponded with his real character. Not that he was cruel, but only famed for warlike prowess. I was face to face with the most noted war-chief of America: whose name, though new to me, was at that moment dreaded from Oregon to Arispe, from the banks of the Rio Bravo to the sierras of Alta California. It wasWalker—the war-chief of the Utahs—the friend of the celebrated trapper, whose name he had adopted; and which, by the modification of Utah orthoëpy, had becomeWa-ka-ra.An odd individual—a very odd one—was standing beside the chief as I rode up. He appeared to be a Mexican, to judge by his costume and the colour of his skin. The former consisted ofjaquetaandcalzonerosof dark-coloured velveteen, surmounted by a broad-brimmedsombreroof black glaze; while the complexion, although swarthy, was several shades lighter than that of the Indian. He was a man of diminutive stature, and with a countenance of a serio-comical cast. An expression of this kind pervaded his whole person—features and figure included—and was heightened by the presence of a singular accoutrement that hung suspended from his leathern waist-belt. It was a piece of timber some eighteen inches in length, and looking like the section of a boot-tree, or the half of a wooden milk-yoke. At the thick end was a concavity or socket, with straps, by which it was attached to the belt; and this singular apparatus, hanging down over his thigh, added to the grotesque appearance of its owner. The little Mexican had all the cut of a “character;” and he was one, as I afterwards ascertained. He was no other than the famous Pedro Archilete—or “Peg-leg,” as his comrades called him—a trapper of Taos, and one of the most expert and fearless of that fearless fraternity.The odd accoutrement which had puzzled me was nothing more than an artificial leg! It was an implement, however, he only used upon occasions—whenever the natural one—the ankle of which had been damaged by some accident—gave out through the fatigue of a march. At other times he carried the wooden leg, as I first saw it, suspended from his belt!His presence in the Indian encampment was easily accounted for. He was in alliance with their chief: for the Utahs were at that timeen pazwith the settlements of the Taos Valley; and the Spanish trappers and traders went freely among them. Peg-leg had been on a trapping expedition to the Parks; and having fallen in with the Utahs, had become the guest of Wa-ka-ra.
The lodges were aligned in double row, with a wide avenue between them. At its head stood one of superior dimensions—the wigwam of the chief. They were all of conical shape; a circle of poles converging at their tops, and covered with skins of the buffalo, grained and bleached to the whiteness of wash-leather. A slit in the front of each tent formed the entrance, closed by a list of the hide that hung loosely over it. Near the top of each appeared a triangular piece of skin, projecting outward from the slope of the side, and braced, so as to resemble an inverted sail of the kind known aslateen. It was a wind-guard to aid the smoke in its ascent. On the outer surface of each tent was exhibited the biography of its owner—expressed in picture-writing. More especially were his deeds of prowess thus recorded—encounters with the couguar and grizzly bear—with Crows, Cheyennes, Pawnees, and Arapahoes—each under its suitable symbol. The great marquee of the chief was particularly distinguished with this kind of emblematical emblazonment—being literally covered with signs and figures, like the patterns upon a carpet. No doubt, one skilled in the interpretation of these Transatlantic hieroglyphs, might have read from that copious cipher many a tale of terrible interest. In front of the tents stood tall spears, with shields ofparflècheleaning against them; also long bows ofbois d’arc (Maclura aurantica), and shorter ones of horn—the horns of the mountain-ram. Skin-quivers filled with arrows, hung suspended from the shafts; and I observed that, in almost every grouping of these weapons, there was a gun—a rifle. This did not much astonish me. I knew that, to the Utah, the medicine weapon is no longer a mystery. Here and there, hides freshly flayed were pegged out upon the grass, with squaws kneeling around them, engaged in the operation of graining. Girls, with water-tight baskets, poised upon the crown of the head, were coming from or going towards the stream. Men stood in groups, idly chatting, or squatted upon the turf, playing at games of chance. Boys were busy at their bow-practice; and still younger children rolled their naked bodies over the grass, hugging half-grown puppies—the companions of their infant play. Troops of dogs trotted among the tents; while a mixed herd of horses, mules, sheep, goats, and asses browsed the plain at a little distance from the camp. Such was thecoup d’oeilthat presented itself to my gaze, as we rode up to the Utah encampment.
As might be expected, our arrival caused a change in the occupation of everybody. The dicers leaped to their feet—the squaws discontinued their work, and flung their scrapers upon the skins. “Ti-ya!” was the exclamation of astonishment that burst from hundreds of lips. Children screamed, and ran hiding behind their dusky mothers; dogs growled and barked; horses neighed; mules hinnied; asses brayed; while the sheep and goats joined their bleating to the universal chorus. “On to the chief’s tent!” counselled my companion, gliding to the ground, and preceding me on foot, “Yonder! the chief himself—Wa-ka-ra!”
An Indian of medium size and perfect form, habited in a tunic of embroidered buckskin, leggings of scarlet cloth, head-dress of coloured plumes, with crest that swept backward and drooped down to his heels. A gaily stripedserapé, suspended scarf-like over the left shoulder, with a sash of red China crape wound loosely around the waist, completed a costume more picturesque than savage. A face of noble type, with an eye strongly glancing, like that of an eagle; an expression of features in no way fierce, but, like the dress, more gentle than savage; a countenance, in repose mild—almost to meekness. Such saw I.
Had I known the man who stood before me, I might have remarked how little this latter expression corresponded with his real character. Not that he was cruel, but only famed for warlike prowess. I was face to face with the most noted war-chief of America: whose name, though new to me, was at that moment dreaded from Oregon to Arispe, from the banks of the Rio Bravo to the sierras of Alta California. It wasWalker—the war-chief of the Utahs—the friend of the celebrated trapper, whose name he had adopted; and which, by the modification of Utah orthoëpy, had becomeWa-ka-ra.
An odd individual—a very odd one—was standing beside the chief as I rode up. He appeared to be a Mexican, to judge by his costume and the colour of his skin. The former consisted ofjaquetaandcalzonerosof dark-coloured velveteen, surmounted by a broad-brimmedsombreroof black glaze; while the complexion, although swarthy, was several shades lighter than that of the Indian. He was a man of diminutive stature, and with a countenance of a serio-comical cast. An expression of this kind pervaded his whole person—features and figure included—and was heightened by the presence of a singular accoutrement that hung suspended from his leathern waist-belt. It was a piece of timber some eighteen inches in length, and looking like the section of a boot-tree, or the half of a wooden milk-yoke. At the thick end was a concavity or socket, with straps, by which it was attached to the belt; and this singular apparatus, hanging down over his thigh, added to the grotesque appearance of its owner. The little Mexican had all the cut of a “character;” and he was one, as I afterwards ascertained. He was no other than the famous Pedro Archilete—or “Peg-leg,” as his comrades called him—a trapper of Taos, and one of the most expert and fearless of that fearless fraternity.
The odd accoutrement which had puzzled me was nothing more than an artificial leg! It was an implement, however, he only used upon occasions—whenever the natural one—the ankle of which had been damaged by some accident—gave out through the fatigue of a march. At other times he carried the wooden leg, as I first saw it, suspended from his belt!
His presence in the Indian encampment was easily accounted for. He was in alliance with their chief: for the Utahs were at that timeen pazwith the settlements of the Taos Valley; and the Spanish trappers and traders went freely among them. Peg-leg had been on a trapping expedition to the Parks; and having fallen in with the Utahs, had become the guest of Wa-ka-ra.
Chapter Seventy Three.Peg-Leg.“The huntress has returned soon?” said the chief, interrogatively, as the girl glided up to him. “She brings strange game!” added he, with a smile. “Who is the young warrior with the white circle upon his breast? He is a pale-face. It is not the custom of our white brothers to adorn themselves in such fashion?”“The painting is not his,” replied the girl. “It has been done by the hands of his enemies—by red men. The white circle was designed for a mark, at which many bullets have been fired. The red streaks you see are blood, that has streamed from wounds inflicted on the stranger’s body! When Wa-ka-ra shall know who caused that blood to flow, he will hasten to avenge it.”“If it be the wish of the white huntress, Wa-ka-ra will avenge the blood—even though his own people may have spilled it. Speak, Ma-ra-nee! You say that red men have done this—were they Utahs?”“No; but the enemies of the Utahs.”“The Utahs have many enemies—on the north, south, east, and west they have foes. Whence comes the stranger? and who has been spilling his blood?”“From the east—from theArapahoes.”“Ugh!” exclaimed the chief, with a start, his countenance suddenly becoming clouded with an angry expression. “Arapahoes! Where has the pale-face encountered the Arapahoes?”“On the Huerfano.”“Good; the white huntress brings news that will gladden the hearts of the Utah warriors! Arapahoes on the Huerfano! who has seen them there?” The huntress replied by pointing to me. “He has been their captive,” she added, “and has just escaped from them. He can guide Wa-ka-ra to their camp, where the Utah chief will find his deadliest enemy—Red-Hand.”At the mention of this name, the cloud that was gathering upon the brow of the Utah chief became darker by several shades, and the mild expression was no longer observable. In its place was a look of fierce resolve, blended with glances that spoke a savage joy. Some old and terrible resentment was rekindled by the name—with a hope, no doubt, of its being gratified?The chief now entered upon a series of interrogatories directed to myself. He spoke English—thanks to his trapper associations: and it was in this language he had been conversing with the huntress. His inquiries were directed to such particulars as might put him in possession of the necessary knowledge for an attack upon the Arapahoes. As concisely as possible, I made known their position and numbers—with other circumstances calculated to aid in the design. The account I gave seemed to gratify him. As soon as our dialogue was ended, I had the satisfaction to hear him declare his intention of proceeding at once to the valley of the Huerfano! To me it was joyful news: my comrades might yet be rescued from the hands of the Arapahoes?“Ma-ra-nee!” said he, again addressing himself to the huntress, “conduct the stranger to your tent! Give him food. And you,Cojo!” he continued, turning to the little Mexican, “you are skilled in medicine—look to his wounds! He can repose while we are preparing. Ho! sound the signal ofassembly! Summon our braves to the war-dance!”The last words were addressed to an Indian who was standing close behind him. Quickly succeeding the order, the notes of a bugle burst upon the air—strange sounds in an Indian camp! But the white man’s music was not the only sign of civilised life to be observed among the tents of the Utahs. The guns and pistols—the spurs, lances, and saddles—the shakos and helmets—all spoke of the spoiledpresidioson the Mexican frontier; while fair-skinneddoncellasof Spanish race were seen mingling with the copper-coloured squaws—aiding them in their domestic duties—captives to all appearance contented with their captivity! None of this was new to me. I had witnessed similar scenes in the land of the Comanche. They are of daily occurrence along the whole frontier of Spanish America: where the red man constantly encroaches—reclaiming the country of his ancestors, wrested from him three centuries ago by the cupidity of theConquistadores.Upon the side of the Indian now lies the strength—if not in numbers—at least in courage and war-prowess. The horse he once dreaded has become his dearest friend; and he can manage him with a skill scarcely equalled by his pale-faced adversary. The lance and fire-weapon are in his hands; the spirit-thunder no longer appals him: he knows its origin and nature, and uses it in the accomplishment of a terrible retaliation! On the northern continent, Utah and Yaqui, Kiowa and Comanche, Apaché and Navajo, have all proved their superiority over the degenerated descendants of Cortez: as in the south have Cuncho and Cashibo, Goajira and Auracanian, over those of the ruthless Pizarro. The red man no longer goes to war as a mere savage. He has disciplined his strength into a perfect strategy; and possesses a military system as complete as that of most civilised nations. The Comanche cavalry charges in line, and can perform evolutions to the call of the bugle! So can the Utah, as I had evidence at that moment. Before the trumpet-notes had ceased to reverberate from the rocks, five hundred warriors had secured their horses, and stood beside them armed and ready to mount. A regiment of regular dragoons could not have responded to “Boots and saddles” with greater expedition!Peg-leg took possession of me. “Señor Pintado!” said he, speaking in Spanish, and after having examined my wounds, “the best medicine for you will be your breakfast; and while yourconpaisanais preparing it, you can come with me, and have a little water thrown over you. This painting does not improve your looks; besides, if it get into your wounds, they will be all the more difficult to make a cure of.Nos vamos!”The huntress had retired to a tent that stood near that of the chief, and a little to the rear of it. I followed the Mexican, who, in a hobbling gait, proceeded towards the stream. The cold bath, assisted by some Taos brandy from the gourdxuagéof the trapper, soon restored my strength; and the hideous pigment, lathered with the bruised roots of thepalmilla—the soap-plant of the New Mexicans, soon disappeared from my skin. A few slices of theoreganocactus applied to my wounds, placed them in a condition to heal with a rapidity almost miraculous; for such is the curative power of this singular plant. My Mexicanmedicowas yet more generous, and furnished me with a handsome Navajo blanket, which served as a complete covering for my shoulders.“Carrambo!” exclaimed he, as he tendered the garment, “take it,Americano! You maybe able to repay me when you have recovered your possible-sack from the Arapahoes.Mira!” he added, pointing towards the tents—“your breakfast is ready: yonder theseñoritais calling you. Take heed,hombre! or her eyes may cause you a more dangerous wound than any of those you have received from the bullets of the Arapahoes.Vaya!”I resisted an inclination to make inquiries: though the hint of the Taos trapper half furnished me with an excuse. My “countrywoman,” he had called her. No doubt he knew more of her history; but I questioned him not. Remembering her promise, I had hopes that I might soon learn it from her own lips.
“The huntress has returned soon?” said the chief, interrogatively, as the girl glided up to him. “She brings strange game!” added he, with a smile. “Who is the young warrior with the white circle upon his breast? He is a pale-face. It is not the custom of our white brothers to adorn themselves in such fashion?”
“The painting is not his,” replied the girl. “It has been done by the hands of his enemies—by red men. The white circle was designed for a mark, at which many bullets have been fired. The red streaks you see are blood, that has streamed from wounds inflicted on the stranger’s body! When Wa-ka-ra shall know who caused that blood to flow, he will hasten to avenge it.”
“If it be the wish of the white huntress, Wa-ka-ra will avenge the blood—even though his own people may have spilled it. Speak, Ma-ra-nee! You say that red men have done this—were they Utahs?”
“No; but the enemies of the Utahs.”
“The Utahs have many enemies—on the north, south, east, and west they have foes. Whence comes the stranger? and who has been spilling his blood?”
“From the east—from theArapahoes.”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the chief, with a start, his countenance suddenly becoming clouded with an angry expression. “Arapahoes! Where has the pale-face encountered the Arapahoes?”
“On the Huerfano.”
“Good; the white huntress brings news that will gladden the hearts of the Utah warriors! Arapahoes on the Huerfano! who has seen them there?” The huntress replied by pointing to me. “He has been their captive,” she added, “and has just escaped from them. He can guide Wa-ka-ra to their camp, where the Utah chief will find his deadliest enemy—Red-Hand.”
At the mention of this name, the cloud that was gathering upon the brow of the Utah chief became darker by several shades, and the mild expression was no longer observable. In its place was a look of fierce resolve, blended with glances that spoke a savage joy. Some old and terrible resentment was rekindled by the name—with a hope, no doubt, of its being gratified?
The chief now entered upon a series of interrogatories directed to myself. He spoke English—thanks to his trapper associations: and it was in this language he had been conversing with the huntress. His inquiries were directed to such particulars as might put him in possession of the necessary knowledge for an attack upon the Arapahoes. As concisely as possible, I made known their position and numbers—with other circumstances calculated to aid in the design. The account I gave seemed to gratify him. As soon as our dialogue was ended, I had the satisfaction to hear him declare his intention of proceeding at once to the valley of the Huerfano! To me it was joyful news: my comrades might yet be rescued from the hands of the Arapahoes?
“Ma-ra-nee!” said he, again addressing himself to the huntress, “conduct the stranger to your tent! Give him food. And you,Cojo!” he continued, turning to the little Mexican, “you are skilled in medicine—look to his wounds! He can repose while we are preparing. Ho! sound the signal ofassembly! Summon our braves to the war-dance!”
The last words were addressed to an Indian who was standing close behind him. Quickly succeeding the order, the notes of a bugle burst upon the air—strange sounds in an Indian camp! But the white man’s music was not the only sign of civilised life to be observed among the tents of the Utahs. The guns and pistols—the spurs, lances, and saddles—the shakos and helmets—all spoke of the spoiledpresidioson the Mexican frontier; while fair-skinneddoncellasof Spanish race were seen mingling with the copper-coloured squaws—aiding them in their domestic duties—captives to all appearance contented with their captivity! None of this was new to me. I had witnessed similar scenes in the land of the Comanche. They are of daily occurrence along the whole frontier of Spanish America: where the red man constantly encroaches—reclaiming the country of his ancestors, wrested from him three centuries ago by the cupidity of theConquistadores.
Upon the side of the Indian now lies the strength—if not in numbers—at least in courage and war-prowess. The horse he once dreaded has become his dearest friend; and he can manage him with a skill scarcely equalled by his pale-faced adversary. The lance and fire-weapon are in his hands; the spirit-thunder no longer appals him: he knows its origin and nature, and uses it in the accomplishment of a terrible retaliation! On the northern continent, Utah and Yaqui, Kiowa and Comanche, Apaché and Navajo, have all proved their superiority over the degenerated descendants of Cortez: as in the south have Cuncho and Cashibo, Goajira and Auracanian, over those of the ruthless Pizarro. The red man no longer goes to war as a mere savage. He has disciplined his strength into a perfect strategy; and possesses a military system as complete as that of most civilised nations. The Comanche cavalry charges in line, and can perform evolutions to the call of the bugle! So can the Utah, as I had evidence at that moment. Before the trumpet-notes had ceased to reverberate from the rocks, five hundred warriors had secured their horses, and stood beside them armed and ready to mount. A regiment of regular dragoons could not have responded to “Boots and saddles” with greater expedition!
Peg-leg took possession of me. “Señor Pintado!” said he, speaking in Spanish, and after having examined my wounds, “the best medicine for you will be your breakfast; and while yourconpaisanais preparing it, you can come with me, and have a little water thrown over you. This painting does not improve your looks; besides, if it get into your wounds, they will be all the more difficult to make a cure of.Nos vamos!”
The huntress had retired to a tent that stood near that of the chief, and a little to the rear of it. I followed the Mexican, who, in a hobbling gait, proceeded towards the stream. The cold bath, assisted by some Taos brandy from the gourdxuagéof the trapper, soon restored my strength; and the hideous pigment, lathered with the bruised roots of thepalmilla—the soap-plant of the New Mexicans, soon disappeared from my skin. A few slices of theoreganocactus applied to my wounds, placed them in a condition to heal with a rapidity almost miraculous; for such is the curative power of this singular plant. My Mexicanmedicowas yet more generous, and furnished me with a handsome Navajo blanket, which served as a complete covering for my shoulders.
“Carrambo!” exclaimed he, as he tendered the garment, “take it,Americano! You maybe able to repay me when you have recovered your possible-sack from the Arapahoes.Mira!” he added, pointing towards the tents—“your breakfast is ready: yonder theseñoritais calling you. Take heed,hombre! or her eyes may cause you a more dangerous wound than any of those you have received from the bullets of the Arapahoes.Vaya!”
I resisted an inclination to make inquiries: though the hint of the Taos trapper half furnished me with an excuse. My “countrywoman,” he had called her. No doubt he knew more of her history; but I questioned him not. Remembering her promise, I had hopes that I might soon learn it from her own lips.