Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty One.A virgin Heart in Cipher.“Gone! and whither gone?” Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian—chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation—I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour’s house—perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the “friend of Lilian’s father”—in all likelihood, the saint I had seen—or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing—only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower.Suchwould have beenmy reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel—“You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late.”Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour’s roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief—a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value—especially to a householder of Holt’s condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration.Perhaps he intended to return for them? If so—but no: there was no probability of his doing so. I need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already negatived the hope. Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion.While so employed, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper carelessly folded. It lay upon the rough table—the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, and thedébrisof a tobacco-pipe. Irecognisedthe piece of paper. It was an old acquaintance—the leaf from my memorandum-book—upon which was written that laconic “last will and testament,” jointly signed by the squatter and myself. On observing this paper upon the table, it did not occur to me, that it had been left there with any design. My reflection was, that the squatter had taken it from the stump, and carried it into the house—perhaps to shew it to his clerical visitor. No doubt, they had enjoyed a good laugh over it—as the souvenir of a ludicrous incident; and for this very reason I resolved upon preserving it.I had taken the document in my hand, and was about depositing it in my pocket-book, when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than I had before felt in it: I saw that it was the chirography of a female hand. What other than the hand of Lilian? I thought of no other. Beyond doubt, her fingers had guided the pencil—for it was pencil-writing—and guided it so deftly, as to impress me with surprise and admiration. Astonished was I, that she—the child of a rude squatter—should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand—thoughts thrilling, though simply expressed.Ah! sweet simple words! Trembled my own hand as I read them—trembled as from a spell of delirium—a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! Yes! both were present. In that simple inscript I had found cue for both: for there I learnt the ecstatic truth that I was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my love was lost to me for ever! Words of welcome, and words of woe! how could they be thus commingled? Read them, and learn:“To Edward Warfield,—“Stranger!—It is to say farewell, but I am very sad as I write these words. When you asked me to promise to meet you again, I was happy, I said, Yes. O sir! it can never be! We are going to some far place, and shall be gone before you come here, and I shall never see you again. It is very distant, and I do not know the name of the country, for it is not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, but somewhere in the west, a long way beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is a country where they dig gold out of the sand—perhaps you have heard of it, and might know it. I tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me; and our friend, that you saw, who is taking us with him, will not tell me either. But I shall find out soon, and if I thought you might like to know where we are gone, I would write to you. I am glad that mother taught me to write, though I do not compose very well; but if you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you the name of the country where we are going. I know your name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope you will not think I have done wrong, for I have written my own name beside it. O sir! I am very sad that I am not to see you any more, for I am afraid father will never come back. I could cry all night and all day, and I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. I do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason I try not to let them know how very sorry I am that I am never to meet you any more. Brave stranger! you saved my life; but it is not that, I think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. You are so different from the others I have seen; and what you said to me was not like anything I ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and I could have listened to them for ever. I remember every one of them. And then I was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your lips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. I have been very lonely since my sister Marian went away—she went with the man you saw. I hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will not make me happy, if I can never see you again.“O sir! forgive me for writing all that I have written; but I thought from what you said to me you would not be displeased with me for it, and that is why I have written it. But I must write no more, for my eyes are full of tears, and I cannot see the paper. I hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember—“Lilian Holt.”Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life! Close to my bosom shall it lie—that simple souvenir of your maiden love. Sacred page! Transcript of sweet truth—hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! Over, and over, and over again, I read the cipher—to me more touching than the wildest tale of romance. Alas! it was not all joy. There was more than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing its measure. In another moment, the sadness overcame the joy. I tottered towards the chair, and dropped into it—my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions.

“Gone! and whither gone?” Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian—chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation—I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour’s house—perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the “friend of Lilian’s father”—in all likelihood, the saint I had seen—or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing—only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower.

Suchwould have beenmy reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel—“You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late.”

Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour’s roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief—a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value—especially to a householder of Holt’s condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration.

Perhaps he intended to return for them? If so—but no: there was no probability of his doing so. I need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already negatived the hope. Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion.

While so employed, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper carelessly folded. It lay upon the rough table—the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, and thedébrisof a tobacco-pipe. Irecognisedthe piece of paper. It was an old acquaintance—the leaf from my memorandum-book—upon which was written that laconic “last will and testament,” jointly signed by the squatter and myself. On observing this paper upon the table, it did not occur to me, that it had been left there with any design. My reflection was, that the squatter had taken it from the stump, and carried it into the house—perhaps to shew it to his clerical visitor. No doubt, they had enjoyed a good laugh over it—as the souvenir of a ludicrous incident; and for this very reason I resolved upon preserving it.

I had taken the document in my hand, and was about depositing it in my pocket-book, when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than I had before felt in it: I saw that it was the chirography of a female hand. What other than the hand of Lilian? I thought of no other. Beyond doubt, her fingers had guided the pencil—for it was pencil-writing—and guided it so deftly, as to impress me with surprise and admiration. Astonished was I, that she—the child of a rude squatter—should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand—thoughts thrilling, though simply expressed.

Ah! sweet simple words! Trembled my own hand as I read them—trembled as from a spell of delirium—a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! Yes! both were present. In that simple inscript I had found cue for both: for there I learnt the ecstatic truth that I was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my love was lost to me for ever! Words of welcome, and words of woe! how could they be thus commingled? Read them, and learn:

“To Edward Warfield,—

“Stranger!—It is to say farewell, but I am very sad as I write these words. When you asked me to promise to meet you again, I was happy, I said, Yes. O sir! it can never be! We are going to some far place, and shall be gone before you come here, and I shall never see you again. It is very distant, and I do not know the name of the country, for it is not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, but somewhere in the west, a long way beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is a country where they dig gold out of the sand—perhaps you have heard of it, and might know it. I tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me; and our friend, that you saw, who is taking us with him, will not tell me either. But I shall find out soon, and if I thought you might like to know where we are gone, I would write to you. I am glad that mother taught me to write, though I do not compose very well; but if you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you the name of the country where we are going. I know your name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope you will not think I have done wrong, for I have written my own name beside it. O sir! I am very sad that I am not to see you any more, for I am afraid father will never come back. I could cry all night and all day, and I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. I do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason I try not to let them know how very sorry I am that I am never to meet you any more. Brave stranger! you saved my life; but it is not that, I think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. You are so different from the others I have seen; and what you said to me was not like anything I ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and I could have listened to them for ever. I remember every one of them. And then I was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your lips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. I have been very lonely since my sister Marian went away—she went with the man you saw. I hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will not make me happy, if I can never see you again.

“O sir! forgive me for writing all that I have written; but I thought from what you said to me you would not be displeased with me for it, and that is why I have written it. But I must write no more, for my eyes are full of tears, and I cannot see the paper. I hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember—

“Lilian Holt.”

Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life! Close to my bosom shall it lie—that simple souvenir of your maiden love. Sacred page! Transcript of sweet truth—hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! Over, and over, and over again, I read the cipher—to me more touching than the wildest tale of romance. Alas! it was not all joy. There was more than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing its measure. In another moment, the sadness overcame the joy. I tottered towards the chair, and dropped into it—my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions.

Chapter Thirty Two.A Word about Mormon Monsters.Not long did I remain under the mental paralysis. There was no time for idle repining. The intelligence, derived from the torn leaf, had given me a cue for action; and my spirit struggled to free itself from the lethargy of grief. Hope whispered the watchword, “Up and be doing!” and I arose to obey its mandate.My heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. The contents of that epistle, while it imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest of dangers—imparting to it an anguish beyond expression. It told me far more than the writer herself knew—both of her love and what she had need to fear: for, in her guileless innocence, was she alike unconscious of the passion and the peril. Not so I. She had opened her heart before me. As on a printed page, I could trace its tender inclinings. Had this been all, I should have been happy—supremely happy. But, alas! that writing told me more: that she who had pencilled it was in deadly peril. No—notdeadly: it was not of life; but of something fur dearer—to me a thousand times more dear—her virgin honour. Now comprehended I, in all their diabolical significance, those wild weird words: “The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer—the yellow fawn will be his victim!” Now knew I the wolf—a wolf disguised in the clothing of the lamb? It needed no remarkable acumen to tell to whom the figure referred. The writing itself revealed him—all but the name; and that was manifest by implication. The man with whom “Marian went away”—he whom I had seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf of the metaphor; and that man was Stebbins, theMormon! With him, too, Lilian had gone away!Not with words can I express the suggestive hideousness of this thought. To understand it in all its cruel significance, the reader should be acquainted with that peculiar sect—known as the “Church of Latter-Day Saints”—should have read its history and its chronicles. Without this knowledge, he will be ill able to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that in that hour, wrapped and wrung my soul. Accident had made me acquainted with the Mormon religion; not with its tenets—for it has none—but with the moral idiosyncrasy of its most eminent “apostles,” as well as that of its humbler devotees—two very different classes of “Saints.”In the animal world, we seek in vain for the type of either class. The analogies of wolf and lamb, hawk and pigeon, cat and mouse, cannot be employed with any degree of appropriateness—not one of them. In all these creatures there are traits either of nobility or beauty. Neither is to be found in the life and character of a Mormon—whether he be a sincere neophyte or a hypocritical apostle. Perhaps the nearest antagonistic forms of the animal world, by which we might typify the antithetic conditions of Mormon life, both social and religious, are those of fox and goose; though no doubt the subtle Reynard would scorn the comparison. Nor, indeed, is the fox a true type: for even about him there are redeeming qualities—something to relieve the soul from that loathing which it feels in contemplating the character of a “ruling elder” among the “Saints.”It would be difficult to imagine anything further removed, from what we may term the “divinity of human nature,” than one of these. Vulgar and brutal, cunning and cruel, are ordinary epithets; and altogether too weak to characterise such a creature. Some of the “twelves” and of the “seventies” may lack one or other of these characteristics. In most cases, however, you may safely bestow them all; and if it be the chief of the sect—the President himself—you may add such otheruglyappellatives as your fancy may suggest; and be sure that your portraiture will still fall short of the hideousness of the original. Perhaps the most striking characteristic of these fanatics is the absolute openness of their cheat. A more commonplace imposture has never been offered for acceptance, even to the most ignorant of mankind. It appeals neither to reason nor romance. The one is insulted by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while its rankplebbishnessdisgusts the other. Even the nomenclature, both of its offices and office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ignoble origin. The names “twelves,” “seventies,” “deacons,” “wifedoms,” “Smiths” (Hiram and Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, and the like—coupled as they are with an affectation and imitation of Scripture phraseology—form a vocabulary burlesquing even the Sacred Book itself, and suggesting by their sounds the true character of the Mormon Church—a very essence of plebeian hypocrisy.I have used the word “fanatics,” but that must be understood in a limited sense. It can only be applied to the “geese”—the ignorant and besottedcanaille—which the “apostolic” emissaries have collected from all parts of Europe, but chiefly from England, Scotland, and Wales. The Welsh, as might be expected, furnish a large proportion of these emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one Irish goose in the whole Mormon flock! There are but few of these “birds” of native American breed. The general intelligence, supplied by a proper school system, prevents much proselytism in that quarter; but it does not hinder the acute Yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in reality this is hisrôlein the social system of Mormondom. The President or “High Priest and Prophet” himself, the Twelves and Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true Yankee growth; and to call these “fanatics” would be a misapplication of the word. Term them conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and impostors, if you will, but not fanatics. The Mormon fox is no fanatic: he is aprofessorin the most emphatic sense of the word, but not abeliever. His profession is absolute chicanery—he has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine.There are writers who have defended theseforbansof religion; and some who have even spoken well of their system. Captain Stansbury, the explorer, has a good opinion of them. The captain is at best but a superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, received most courteous treatment at their hands. It is not human nature “to speak ill of the bridge that has carried one over”; and Captain Stansbury has obeyed the common impulse. In the earlier times of the Mormon Church, there were champions of the Stansbury school to defend its members against the charge ofpolygamy. In those days, the Saints themselves attempted a sort of denial of it. The subject was then too rank to come forth as a revelation. But a truth of this awkward kind could not long remain untold; and it became necessary to mask it under the more moderate title of aspiritual-wifedom. It required an acute metaphysician to comprehend this spiritual relationship; and the moralist was puzzled to understand its sanctity. During that period, while the Saints dwelt within the pale of the Gentiles’ country this cloak was kept on; but after their “exodus” to the Salt Lake settlements, the flimsy garment was thrown off—being found too inconvenient to be worn any longer. There the motive for concealment was removed, and the apology of aspiritual-wifedomceased to exist. It came out in its carnal and sensual shape. Polygamy was boldly preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most hideous shape; and the defenders of Mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet protégés, dropped their broken lances to the ground. The “institution” is even more odious under Mormon than Mohammed. There is no redeeming point—not even the “romance of the harem”—for thezenanaof a Latter-day Saint is a type of the most vulgar materialism, where even the favourite sultana is not exempted from the hard work-a-day duties of a slave.Polygamy? No! the word has too limited a signification. To characterise the condition of a Mormon wife, we must resort to the phraseology of thebagnio.In company of a Mormon had Lilian gone away! No wonder that my heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. I rose from my seat, and rushed forth for my horse. The storm still raged apace. Clouds and rolling thunder, lightning and rain—rain such as that which ushered in the Deluge! The storm! What cared I for its fury? Rain antediluvian would not have stayed me in doors—not if it had threatened the drowning of the world!

Not long did I remain under the mental paralysis. There was no time for idle repining. The intelligence, derived from the torn leaf, had given me a cue for action; and my spirit struggled to free itself from the lethargy of grief. Hope whispered the watchword, “Up and be doing!” and I arose to obey its mandate.

My heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. The contents of that epistle, while it imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest of dangers—imparting to it an anguish beyond expression. It told me far more than the writer herself knew—both of her love and what she had need to fear: for, in her guileless innocence, was she alike unconscious of the passion and the peril. Not so I. She had opened her heart before me. As on a printed page, I could trace its tender inclinings. Had this been all, I should have been happy—supremely happy. But, alas! that writing told me more: that she who had pencilled it was in deadly peril. No—notdeadly: it was not of life; but of something fur dearer—to me a thousand times more dear—her virgin honour. Now comprehended I, in all their diabolical significance, those wild weird words: “The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer—the yellow fawn will be his victim!” Now knew I the wolf—a wolf disguised in the clothing of the lamb? It needed no remarkable acumen to tell to whom the figure referred. The writing itself revealed him—all but the name; and that was manifest by implication. The man with whom “Marian went away”—he whom I had seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf of the metaphor; and that man was Stebbins, theMormon! With him, too, Lilian had gone away!

Not with words can I express the suggestive hideousness of this thought. To understand it in all its cruel significance, the reader should be acquainted with that peculiar sect—known as the “Church of Latter-Day Saints”—should have read its history and its chronicles. Without this knowledge, he will be ill able to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that in that hour, wrapped and wrung my soul. Accident had made me acquainted with the Mormon religion; not with its tenets—for it has none—but with the moral idiosyncrasy of its most eminent “apostles,” as well as that of its humbler devotees—two very different classes of “Saints.”

In the animal world, we seek in vain for the type of either class. The analogies of wolf and lamb, hawk and pigeon, cat and mouse, cannot be employed with any degree of appropriateness—not one of them. In all these creatures there are traits either of nobility or beauty. Neither is to be found in the life and character of a Mormon—whether he be a sincere neophyte or a hypocritical apostle. Perhaps the nearest antagonistic forms of the animal world, by which we might typify the antithetic conditions of Mormon life, both social and religious, are those of fox and goose; though no doubt the subtle Reynard would scorn the comparison. Nor, indeed, is the fox a true type: for even about him there are redeeming qualities—something to relieve the soul from that loathing which it feels in contemplating the character of a “ruling elder” among the “Saints.”

It would be difficult to imagine anything further removed, from what we may term the “divinity of human nature,” than one of these. Vulgar and brutal, cunning and cruel, are ordinary epithets; and altogether too weak to characterise such a creature. Some of the “twelves” and of the “seventies” may lack one or other of these characteristics. In most cases, however, you may safely bestow them all; and if it be the chief of the sect—the President himself—you may add such otheruglyappellatives as your fancy may suggest; and be sure that your portraiture will still fall short of the hideousness of the original. Perhaps the most striking characteristic of these fanatics is the absolute openness of their cheat. A more commonplace imposture has never been offered for acceptance, even to the most ignorant of mankind. It appeals neither to reason nor romance. The one is insulted by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while its rankplebbishnessdisgusts the other. Even the nomenclature, both of its offices and office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ignoble origin. The names “twelves,” “seventies,” “deacons,” “wifedoms,” “Smiths” (Hiram and Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, and the like—coupled as they are with an affectation and imitation of Scripture phraseology—form a vocabulary burlesquing even the Sacred Book itself, and suggesting by their sounds the true character of the Mormon Church—a very essence of plebeian hypocrisy.

I have used the word “fanatics,” but that must be understood in a limited sense. It can only be applied to the “geese”—the ignorant and besottedcanaille—which the “apostolic” emissaries have collected from all parts of Europe, but chiefly from England, Scotland, and Wales. The Welsh, as might be expected, furnish a large proportion of these emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one Irish goose in the whole Mormon flock! There are but few of these “birds” of native American breed. The general intelligence, supplied by a proper school system, prevents much proselytism in that quarter; but it does not hinder the acute Yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in reality this is hisrôlein the social system of Mormondom. The President or “High Priest and Prophet” himself, the Twelves and Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true Yankee growth; and to call these “fanatics” would be a misapplication of the word. Term them conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and impostors, if you will, but not fanatics. The Mormon fox is no fanatic: he is aprofessorin the most emphatic sense of the word, but not abeliever. His profession is absolute chicanery—he has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine.

There are writers who have defended theseforbansof religion; and some who have even spoken well of their system. Captain Stansbury, the explorer, has a good opinion of them. The captain is at best but a superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, received most courteous treatment at their hands. It is not human nature “to speak ill of the bridge that has carried one over”; and Captain Stansbury has obeyed the common impulse. In the earlier times of the Mormon Church, there were champions of the Stansbury school to defend its members against the charge ofpolygamy. In those days, the Saints themselves attempted a sort of denial of it. The subject was then too rank to come forth as a revelation. But a truth of this awkward kind could not long remain untold; and it became necessary to mask it under the more moderate title of aspiritual-wifedom. It required an acute metaphysician to comprehend this spiritual relationship; and the moralist was puzzled to understand its sanctity. During that period, while the Saints dwelt within the pale of the Gentiles’ country this cloak was kept on; but after their “exodus” to the Salt Lake settlements, the flimsy garment was thrown off—being found too inconvenient to be worn any longer. There the motive for concealment was removed, and the apology of aspiritual-wifedomceased to exist. It came out in its carnal and sensual shape. Polygamy was boldly preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most hideous shape; and the defenders of Mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet protégés, dropped their broken lances to the ground. The “institution” is even more odious under Mormon than Mohammed. There is no redeeming point—not even the “romance of the harem”—for thezenanaof a Latter-day Saint is a type of the most vulgar materialism, where even the favourite sultana is not exempted from the hard work-a-day duties of a slave.

Polygamy? No! the word has too limited a signification. To characterise the condition of a Mormon wife, we must resort to the phraseology of thebagnio.

In company of a Mormon had Lilian gone away! No wonder that my heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. I rose from my seat, and rushed forth for my horse. The storm still raged apace. Clouds and rolling thunder, lightning and rain—rain such as that which ushered in the Deluge! The storm! What cared I for its fury? Rain antediluvian would not have stayed me in doors—not if it had threatened the drowning of the world!

Chapter Thirty Three.Another Duel determined on.Into my saddle—off out of the clearing—away through the dripping forest—on through the sweltering swamp, I hurried. Up the creek was my route—my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Wingrove. Surely, in such weather, I should find him at home?It was natural I should seek the young backwoodsman. In such an emergency, I might count with certainty on having his advice and assistance. True, I anticipated no great benefit from either: for what could either avail me? The young man was helpless as myself; and had similarly suffered. This would secure me his sympathy; but what more could he give?After all, I did not reckon it as nothing. The condolence of a friend or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a solace the heart intuitively seeks. Confidence and sympathy are consolatory virtues—even penance has its purpose. I longed, therefore, for a friend—one to whom I could confide my secret, and unbosom my sorrow; and I sought that friend in the young backwoodsman. I had a claim upon him: he had made me the confidant ofhiscare—the recipient of his heart confessed. Little dreamed I at the time, I should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness.Fortune so far favoured me—I found him at home. My arrival scarcely roused him from a dejection that, I could perceive, was habitual to him. I knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it—lest it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host. It did not. There was something truly noble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden—charged and engrossed with selfish care. Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict. I hesitated not to confide my secret to such a man: I felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. I told him the whole story of my love—beginning with the hour in which I had left him.The tale aroused him from his apathy—more especially the episode, which related to my first meeting with Lilian, and the encounter that followed. As a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but it was not altogether that.The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some such incident had he first won the favour of Marian. As I approached thefinaleof the duel scene—that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage—I could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had pronounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so—“Josh Stebbins!”“Yes; it was he—I know it myself.”I continued the narrative; but I saw I was no longer listened to with attention. Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. Every now and then, I saw him glance towards his rifle—that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design. As soon as I had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed—including my departure from Swampville—I was again interrupted by the young hunter—this time not by his speech but by an action equally significant. Hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced loading it!It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act. Neither for squirrel nor coon—deer, bear, nor panther—was that rifle being loaded!“Where are you going?” I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. “Only a bit down the crik. You’ll excuse me, stranger, for leavin’ o’ ye; but I’ll be back in the twinklin’ o’ an eye. Thar’s a bit o’ dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an’ you’ll find somethin’ in the old bottle thar. I won’t be gone more’n a hour. I reckon I won’t.”The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which I observed without being able to interpret. I had my conjectures however.“Can I not go with you?” I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. “The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to staying here alone. If it is not some business of a private nature—”“Thar’s nothin’ particularly private about it, stranger; but it’s a bizness I don’t want you to be mixed up in. I guess ye’ve got yur own troubles now; ’ithout takin’ share o’ myen.”“If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you’re going?”“Welcome to know it, stranger. I’m a-goin’to kill Josh Stebbins!”“Kill Josh Stebbins?”“Eyther that, or he shall kill me.”“Oh! nonsense!” I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention—which I had already half divined—than at the cool determined tone in which it was declared.“I’ve said it, stranger! I’ve sworn it over an’ over, an’ it shell be done. ’Taint no new notion I’ve tuk. I’d detarmined on makin’ him fight long ago: for I’d an old score to settle wi’ him, afore that ’un you know o’; but I niver ked got the skunk to stan’ up. He allers tuk care to keep out o’ my way. Now I’ve made up my mind he don’t dodge me any longer; an’, by the Etarnal! if that black-hearted snake’s to be foun’ in the settlement—”“He is not to be found in the settlement.”“Not to be foun’ in the settlement!” echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation—“not to be foun’ in the settlement? Surely you ain’t in earnest, stranger? You seed him the day afore yesterday!”“True—but I have reason to think he is gone.”“God forbid! But you ain’t sure o’ it? What makes you think he air gone?”“Too sure of it—it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin.”I detailed the events of the morning, which Wingrove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the Indian maiden—her figurative prophecy that had proved but two truthful. I described the deserted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of Lilian—read it from beginning to end.He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. Once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression—“Poor little Lil!”“Poor little Lil!” repeated he when I had finished. “She too gone wi’ him!—just as Marian went six months ago!“No—no!” he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. “No! it war different—altogether different:Marian went willin’ly.”“How know you that?” I said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling him.“Know it? O stranger! I’m sure o’ it; Su-wa-nee sayed so.”“That signifies nothing. It is not the truer of her having said so. A jealous and spiteful rival. Perhaps the very contrary is the truth? Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this, man? Her father may have influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be himself under some singular influence—as if in dread of his saintly son-in-law. I noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this conclusion.”“Thank ye, stranger, for them words!” cried the young hunter, rushing forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand. “It’s the first bit o’ comfort I’ve had since Marian war tuk away! I’ve heerd myself that Holt war afeerd o’ Stebbins; an’ maybe that snake in the grass had a coil about him somehow. I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian’s takin’ it so to heart, an’ all about a bit o’ a kiss—which I wudn’t a tuk, if the Indian hadn’t poked her lips clost up to myen. Lord o’ mercy! I’d gie all I’ve got in the world, to think it war true as you’ve sayed.”“I have very little doubt of its being true. I have now seen your rival; and I think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free will, have preferred him to you.”“Thank ye, stranger! it’s kind in you to say so. She’s now married an’ gone: but if I thort thar had beenforceused, I’d ’a done long agowhat I mean to do now.”“What is that?” I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. “Follerhim, if it be to the furrest eend o’ the world! Yes, stranger! I mean it. I’ll go arter him, an’ track him out. I’ll find him in the bottom o’ a Californey gold mine, or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an’, by the etarnal! I’ll wipe out the score—both the old un and the new un—in the skunk’s blood, or I’ll never set fut agin in the state o’ Tennessee. I’ve made up my mind to it.”“You are determined to follow him?”“Firmly detarmined!”“Enough! Our roads lie together!”

Into my saddle—off out of the clearing—away through the dripping forest—on through the sweltering swamp, I hurried. Up the creek was my route—my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Wingrove. Surely, in such weather, I should find him at home?

It was natural I should seek the young backwoodsman. In such an emergency, I might count with certainty on having his advice and assistance. True, I anticipated no great benefit from either: for what could either avail me? The young man was helpless as myself; and had similarly suffered. This would secure me his sympathy; but what more could he give?

After all, I did not reckon it as nothing. The condolence of a friend or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a solace the heart intuitively seeks. Confidence and sympathy are consolatory virtues—even penance has its purpose. I longed, therefore, for a friend—one to whom I could confide my secret, and unbosom my sorrow; and I sought that friend in the young backwoodsman. I had a claim upon him: he had made me the confidant ofhiscare—the recipient of his heart confessed. Little dreamed I at the time, I should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness.

Fortune so far favoured me—I found him at home. My arrival scarcely roused him from a dejection that, I could perceive, was habitual to him. I knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it—lest it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host. It did not. There was something truly noble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden—charged and engrossed with selfish care. Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict. I hesitated not to confide my secret to such a man: I felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. I told him the whole story of my love—beginning with the hour in which I had left him.

The tale aroused him from his apathy—more especially the episode, which related to my first meeting with Lilian, and the encounter that followed. As a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but it was not altogether that.

The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some such incident had he first won the favour of Marian. As I approached thefinaleof the duel scene—that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage—I could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had pronounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so—“Josh Stebbins!”

“Yes; it was he—I know it myself.”

I continued the narrative; but I saw I was no longer listened to with attention. Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. Every now and then, I saw him glance towards his rifle—that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design. As soon as I had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed—including my departure from Swampville—I was again interrupted by the young hunter—this time not by his speech but by an action equally significant. Hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced loading it!

It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act. Neither for squirrel nor coon—deer, bear, nor panther—was that rifle being loaded!

“Where are you going?” I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. “Only a bit down the crik. You’ll excuse me, stranger, for leavin’ o’ ye; but I’ll be back in the twinklin’ o’ an eye. Thar’s a bit o’ dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an’ you’ll find somethin’ in the old bottle thar. I won’t be gone more’n a hour. I reckon I won’t.”

The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which I observed without being able to interpret. I had my conjectures however.

“Can I not go with you?” I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. “The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to staying here alone. If it is not some business of a private nature—”

“Thar’s nothin’ particularly private about it, stranger; but it’s a bizness I don’t want you to be mixed up in. I guess ye’ve got yur own troubles now; ’ithout takin’ share o’ myen.”

“If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you’re going?”

“Welcome to know it, stranger. I’m a-goin’to kill Josh Stebbins!”

“Kill Josh Stebbins?”

“Eyther that, or he shall kill me.”

“Oh! nonsense!” I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention—which I had already half divined—than at the cool determined tone in which it was declared.

“I’ve said it, stranger! I’ve sworn it over an’ over, an’ it shell be done. ’Taint no new notion I’ve tuk. I’d detarmined on makin’ him fight long ago: for I’d an old score to settle wi’ him, afore that ’un you know o’; but I niver ked got the skunk to stan’ up. He allers tuk care to keep out o’ my way. Now I’ve made up my mind he don’t dodge me any longer; an’, by the Etarnal! if that black-hearted snake’s to be foun’ in the settlement—”

“He is not to be found in the settlement.”

“Not to be foun’ in the settlement!” echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation—“not to be foun’ in the settlement? Surely you ain’t in earnest, stranger? You seed him the day afore yesterday!”

“True—but I have reason to think he is gone.”

“God forbid! But you ain’t sure o’ it? What makes you think he air gone?”

“Too sure of it—it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin.”

I detailed the events of the morning, which Wingrove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the Indian maiden—her figurative prophecy that had proved but two truthful. I described the deserted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of Lilian—read it from beginning to end.

He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. Once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression—“Poor little Lil!”

“Poor little Lil!” repeated he when I had finished. “She too gone wi’ him!—just as Marian went six months ago!

“No—no!” he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. “No! it war different—altogether different:Marian went willin’ly.”

“How know you that?” I said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling him.

“Know it? O stranger! I’m sure o’ it; Su-wa-nee sayed so.”

“That signifies nothing. It is not the truer of her having said so. A jealous and spiteful rival. Perhaps the very contrary is the truth? Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this, man? Her father may have influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be himself under some singular influence—as if in dread of his saintly son-in-law. I noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this conclusion.”

“Thank ye, stranger, for them words!” cried the young hunter, rushing forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand. “It’s the first bit o’ comfort I’ve had since Marian war tuk away! I’ve heerd myself that Holt war afeerd o’ Stebbins; an’ maybe that snake in the grass had a coil about him somehow. I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian’s takin’ it so to heart, an’ all about a bit o’ a kiss—which I wudn’t a tuk, if the Indian hadn’t poked her lips clost up to myen. Lord o’ mercy! I’d gie all I’ve got in the world, to think it war true as you’ve sayed.”

“I have very little doubt of its being true. I have now seen your rival; and I think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free will, have preferred him to you.”

“Thank ye, stranger! it’s kind in you to say so. She’s now married an’ gone: but if I thort thar had beenforceused, I’d ’a done long agowhat I mean to do now.”

“What is that?” I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. “Follerhim, if it be to the furrest eend o’ the world! Yes, stranger! I mean it. I’ll go arter him, an’ track him out. I’ll find him in the bottom o’ a Californey gold mine, or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an’, by the etarnal! I’ll wipe out the score—both the old un and the new un—in the skunk’s blood, or I’ll never set fut agin in the state o’ Tennessee. I’ve made up my mind to it.”

“You are determined to follow him?”

“Firmly detarmined!”

“Enough! Our roads lie together!”

Chapter Thirty Four.A Departure in a “Dug-Out.”We were in perfect accord as to our course of action, as in our thoughts. If our motives were not similar, our enemy was the same. Only was there a difference in our prospective designs. Love was the lure that beckoned me on; Wingrove was led by revenge. To followhim, and punish guilt, was themétierof my companion; to followher, and rescue innocence, was therôlecast for me. Though guided by two such different passions, both were of the strongest of our nature—either sufficient to stimulate to the most earnest action; and without loss of time, we entered upon it in full determination to succeed. I had already formed the design of pursuit; and perhaps it was with the hope of obtaining an associate and companion, that I had sought an interview with the hunter. At all events, this had been my leading idea. His expressed determination, therefore, was but the echo of my wish. It only remained for us to mould our design into a proper and practicable form.Though not much older than my new comrade, there were some things in which I had the advantage of him. I was his superior in experience. He acknowledged it with all deference, and permitted my counsels to take the lead. The exercise of partisan warfare—especially that practised on the Mexican and Indian frontiers—is a school scarcely equalled for training the mind to coolness and self-reliance. An experience thus obtained, had given mine such a cast; and taught me, by many a well-remembered lesson, the truthfulness of that wise saw; “The more haste the less speed.” Instead, therefore of rushing at oncein medias res, and starting forth, without knowing whither to go, my counsel was that we should act with caution; and adopt some definite plan of pursuit. It was not the suggestion of my heart, but rather of my head. Had I obeyed the promptings of the former, I should have been in the saddle, hours before, and galloping somewhere in a westerly direction—perhaps to find, at the end of a long journey only disappointment, and the infallibility of the adage.Taking counsel from my reason, I advised a different course of action; and my comrade—whose head for his age was a cool one—agreed to follow my advice. Indeed, he had far less motive for haste than I. Revenge would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a quiet heart was out of the question. She whom I loved was not only in danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the victim of a dastardcoquin—diabolic as dastard! Suffering under the sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the self-restraining power of which I was possessed. Had I but knownwhere to go, I should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant. Not knowing, I was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to restrain myself from the idle attempt.That Holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the Mormon, we knew: the letter told that. That they had left the cabin was equally known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be accomplished. If still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance ofovertakingthem. But what after that? Ah! beyond that I did not trust myself to speculate. I dared not discuss the future. I refrained from casting even a glance into its horoscope—so dark did it appear. I had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach. That phrase of fatal prophecy, “You will be too late—too late!” still rang in my ears. It had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty interpretation of it. Had not it also a figurative application? and did it not signify I should be too latein every sense?At what time had they taken their departure? By what route? and upon what road? These were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure itself—the deserted dwelling. Thither we hied in all haste—prepared, if need be, for a more distant expedition. On entering the enclosure, we dismounted, and at once set about examining the “sign.” My companion passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge. I had hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind. Even the hoof-prints of my own horse—made but an hour before—were washed full of mud, and scarcely traceable.Had they gone upon horseback? It was not probable: the house-utensils could hardly have been transported that way? Nor yet could they have removed them in a wagon? No road for wheels ran within miles of the clearing—that to Swampville, as already stated, being no more than a bridle-path; while the other “traces,” leading up and down the creek, were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle.There was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe. It was clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it. Wingrove well knew the craft. It was known as Holt’s “dug-out;” and was occasionally used as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as passed that way. It was sufficiently large to carry several at once—large enough for the purpose of a removal. The mode of their departure was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already suspecting it, we had still some doubts. Had they gone off in any other way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them. But acongéin a canoe was a very different affair: man’s presence leaves no token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element—an emblem of his own vain nothingness!

We were in perfect accord as to our course of action, as in our thoughts. If our motives were not similar, our enemy was the same. Only was there a difference in our prospective designs. Love was the lure that beckoned me on; Wingrove was led by revenge. To followhim, and punish guilt, was themétierof my companion; to followher, and rescue innocence, was therôlecast for me. Though guided by two such different passions, both were of the strongest of our nature—either sufficient to stimulate to the most earnest action; and without loss of time, we entered upon it in full determination to succeed. I had already formed the design of pursuit; and perhaps it was with the hope of obtaining an associate and companion, that I had sought an interview with the hunter. At all events, this had been my leading idea. His expressed determination, therefore, was but the echo of my wish. It only remained for us to mould our design into a proper and practicable form.

Though not much older than my new comrade, there were some things in which I had the advantage of him. I was his superior in experience. He acknowledged it with all deference, and permitted my counsels to take the lead. The exercise of partisan warfare—especially that practised on the Mexican and Indian frontiers—is a school scarcely equalled for training the mind to coolness and self-reliance. An experience thus obtained, had given mine such a cast; and taught me, by many a well-remembered lesson, the truthfulness of that wise saw; “The more haste the less speed.” Instead, therefore of rushing at oncein medias res, and starting forth, without knowing whither to go, my counsel was that we should act with caution; and adopt some definite plan of pursuit. It was not the suggestion of my heart, but rather of my head. Had I obeyed the promptings of the former, I should have been in the saddle, hours before, and galloping somewhere in a westerly direction—perhaps to find, at the end of a long journey only disappointment, and the infallibility of the adage.

Taking counsel from my reason, I advised a different course of action; and my comrade—whose head for his age was a cool one—agreed to follow my advice. Indeed, he had far less motive for haste than I. Revenge would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a quiet heart was out of the question. She whom I loved was not only in danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the victim of a dastardcoquin—diabolic as dastard! Suffering under the sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the self-restraining power of which I was possessed. Had I but knownwhere to go, I should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant. Not knowing, I was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to restrain myself from the idle attempt.

That Holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the Mormon, we knew: the letter told that. That they had left the cabin was equally known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be accomplished. If still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance ofovertakingthem. But what after that? Ah! beyond that I did not trust myself to speculate. I dared not discuss the future. I refrained from casting even a glance into its horoscope—so dark did it appear. I had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach. That phrase of fatal prophecy, “You will be too late—too late!” still rang in my ears. It had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty interpretation of it. Had not it also a figurative application? and did it not signify I should be too latein every sense?

At what time had they taken their departure? By what route? and upon what road? These were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure itself—the deserted dwelling. Thither we hied in all haste—prepared, if need be, for a more distant expedition. On entering the enclosure, we dismounted, and at once set about examining the “sign.” My companion passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge. I had hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind. Even the hoof-prints of my own horse—made but an hour before—were washed full of mud, and scarcely traceable.

Had they gone upon horseback? It was not probable: the house-utensils could hardly have been transported that way? Nor yet could they have removed them in a wagon? No road for wheels ran within miles of the clearing—that to Swampville, as already stated, being no more than a bridle-path; while the other “traces,” leading up and down the creek, were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle.

There was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe. It was clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it. Wingrove well knew the craft. It was known as Holt’s “dug-out;” and was occasionally used as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as passed that way. It was sufficiently large to carry several at once—large enough for the purpose of a removal. The mode of their departure was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already suspecting it, we had still some doubts. Had they gone off in any other way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them. But acongéin a canoe was a very different affair: man’s presence leaves no token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element—an emblem of his own vain nothingness!

Chapter Thirty Five.A dangerous Sweetheart.Our conjectures as to the mode of their departure were at an end. On this point, we had arrived at a definite knowledge. It was clear they had gone off in the canoe; and with the current, of course: since that would carry them in the direction they intended to travel. The settling of this question, produced a climax—a momentary pause in our action. We stood upon the bank of the stream, bending our eyes upon its course, and for a time giving way to the most gloomy reflections. Like our thoughts were the waters troubled. Swollen by the recent rain-storm, the stream no longer preserved its crystal purity; but in the hue of its waters justified the name it bore. Brown and turbid, they rolled past—no longer a stream, but a rushing torrent—that spumed against the banks, as it surged impetuously onward. Trees torn up by the roots were carried on by the current—their huge trunks and half-riven branches twisting and wriggling in the stream, like drowning giants in their death-struggle. In the “sough” of the torrent, we heard their sighs—in its roar, the groans of their departing spirits!The scene was in unison with our thoughts; and equally so with the laughter that at that moment sounded in our ears—for it was laughter wild and maniac. It was heard in the forest behind us; ringing among the trees, and mingling its shrill unearthly echo with the roaring of the torrent. Both of us were startled at the sound. Though the voice was a woman’s, I could see that it had produced on Wingrove a certain impression of fear. On hearing it, he trembled and turned pale. I needed no explanation. A glance towards the forest revealed the cause. A female form moving among the trees told me whence had come that unexpected and ill-timed cachinnation.“Lord o’ mercy!” exclaimed my companion, “that Injun again! She’s been arter me since that night, an’ threatens to have a fresh try at takin’ my life. Look out stranger! I know she’s got pistols.”“Oh! I fancy there’s not much danger. She appears to be in the laughing mood.”“It’s jest that ere larf I don’t like: she’s allers wust when she’s in that way.”By this time the Indian had reached the edge of the clearing very near the rear of the cabin. Without pausing she sprang up on the fence—as if to enter the enclosure. This, however, proved not to be her intention; for, on climbing to the topmost rail, she stood erect upon it, with one hand clutching the limb of a tree, to keep her in position. As soon as she had attained the upright attitude, another peal of laughter came ringing from her lips, as wild as that with which she had announced her approach; but there was also in its tones a certain modulation that betokened scorn! Neither of us uttered a syllable; but, observing a profound silence, stood waiting to hear what she had to say. Another scornful laugh, and her words broke forth:“White Eagle! and proud slayer of red panthers! your hearts are troubled as the stream on which your eyes are gazing! Su-wa-nee knows your sorrows. She comes to you with words of comfort.”“Ah! speak them then!” said I, suddenly conceiving a hope. “Hear you that sound in the forest?”We heard no sound, save that of the water grumbling and surging at our feet. We answered in the negative. “You hear it not? Ha, ha, ha! where are your ears? It is ringing in mine. All day I have heard it. Listen! there it is again!”“She’s a mockin’ us,” muttered my companion; “thar ain’t no soun’ in partickler.”“No? we cannot hear it; you are mocking us,” I rejoined, addressing myself to the brown-skinned, sibyl. “Ha! ha! ha! It isitthat is mocking you. It mocks you, and yet it is not the mocking-bird. It is not the dove cooing gently to his mate, nor the screaming of the owl. It is the cuckoo that mocks you! ha! ha! the cuckoo! Now, do you hear it, White Eagle? Doyouhear it, proud slayer of red panthers? Ha! it mocks you both!”“Oh! bother, girl!” exclaimed. Wingrove in a vexed tone; “ye’re a talkin’ nonsense.”“Truth, White Eagle—truth! the black snake has been in your nest; and yours too, slayer of panthers! He has wound himself around your pretty birds, and borne them away in his coils—away over the great desert plains—away to the Big Lake! Ha, ha, ha! In the desert, he will defile them. In the waters of the lake, he will drown them—ha, ha, ha!”“Them’s yur words o’ comfort, air they?” cried Wingrove, exasperated to a pitch of fury. “Durned if I’ll bar sech talk! I won’t stan’ it any longer. Clar out now! We want no croakin’ raven hyar. Clar out! or—”He was not permitted to finish the threat. I saw the girl suddenly drop down from her position on the fence, and glide behind the trunk of a tree. Almost at the same instant a light gleamed along the bank—which might have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, had it not been followed instantaneously by a quick crack—easily recognisable as the report of a pistol! I waited not to witness the effect; but rushed towards the tree—with the design of intercepting the Indian. The blue smoke lingering in the damp air, hindered me from seeing the movements of the girl; but, hurrying onward, I clambered over the fence. Once on the other side, I was beyond the cloud, and could command a view for a score of yards or so around me; but, in that circuit, no human form was to be seen! Beyond it, however, I heard the vengeful, scornful, laugh, pealing its unearthly echoes through the columned aisles of the forest!

Our conjectures as to the mode of their departure were at an end. On this point, we had arrived at a definite knowledge. It was clear they had gone off in the canoe; and with the current, of course: since that would carry them in the direction they intended to travel. The settling of this question, produced a climax—a momentary pause in our action. We stood upon the bank of the stream, bending our eyes upon its course, and for a time giving way to the most gloomy reflections. Like our thoughts were the waters troubled. Swollen by the recent rain-storm, the stream no longer preserved its crystal purity; but in the hue of its waters justified the name it bore. Brown and turbid, they rolled past—no longer a stream, but a rushing torrent—that spumed against the banks, as it surged impetuously onward. Trees torn up by the roots were carried on by the current—their huge trunks and half-riven branches twisting and wriggling in the stream, like drowning giants in their death-struggle. In the “sough” of the torrent, we heard their sighs—in its roar, the groans of their departing spirits!

The scene was in unison with our thoughts; and equally so with the laughter that at that moment sounded in our ears—for it was laughter wild and maniac. It was heard in the forest behind us; ringing among the trees, and mingling its shrill unearthly echo with the roaring of the torrent. Both of us were startled at the sound. Though the voice was a woman’s, I could see that it had produced on Wingrove a certain impression of fear. On hearing it, he trembled and turned pale. I needed no explanation. A glance towards the forest revealed the cause. A female form moving among the trees told me whence had come that unexpected and ill-timed cachinnation.

“Lord o’ mercy!” exclaimed my companion, “that Injun again! She’s been arter me since that night, an’ threatens to have a fresh try at takin’ my life. Look out stranger! I know she’s got pistols.”

“Oh! I fancy there’s not much danger. She appears to be in the laughing mood.”

“It’s jest that ere larf I don’t like: she’s allers wust when she’s in that way.”

By this time the Indian had reached the edge of the clearing very near the rear of the cabin. Without pausing she sprang up on the fence—as if to enter the enclosure. This, however, proved not to be her intention; for, on climbing to the topmost rail, she stood erect upon it, with one hand clutching the limb of a tree, to keep her in position. As soon as she had attained the upright attitude, another peal of laughter came ringing from her lips, as wild as that with which she had announced her approach; but there was also in its tones a certain modulation that betokened scorn! Neither of us uttered a syllable; but, observing a profound silence, stood waiting to hear what she had to say. Another scornful laugh, and her words broke forth:

“White Eagle! and proud slayer of red panthers! your hearts are troubled as the stream on which your eyes are gazing! Su-wa-nee knows your sorrows. She comes to you with words of comfort.”

“Ah! speak them then!” said I, suddenly conceiving a hope. “Hear you that sound in the forest?”

We heard no sound, save that of the water grumbling and surging at our feet. We answered in the negative. “You hear it not? Ha, ha, ha! where are your ears? It is ringing in mine. All day I have heard it. Listen! there it is again!”

“She’s a mockin’ us,” muttered my companion; “thar ain’t no soun’ in partickler.”

“No? we cannot hear it; you are mocking us,” I rejoined, addressing myself to the brown-skinned, sibyl. “Ha! ha! ha! It isitthat is mocking you. It mocks you, and yet it is not the mocking-bird. It is not the dove cooing gently to his mate, nor the screaming of the owl. It is the cuckoo that mocks you! ha! ha! the cuckoo! Now, do you hear it, White Eagle? Doyouhear it, proud slayer of red panthers? Ha! it mocks you both!”

“Oh! bother, girl!” exclaimed. Wingrove in a vexed tone; “ye’re a talkin’ nonsense.”

“Truth, White Eagle—truth! the black snake has been in your nest; and yours too, slayer of panthers! He has wound himself around your pretty birds, and borne them away in his coils—away over the great desert plains—away to the Big Lake! Ha, ha, ha! In the desert, he will defile them. In the waters of the lake, he will drown them—ha, ha, ha!”

“Them’s yur words o’ comfort, air they?” cried Wingrove, exasperated to a pitch of fury. “Durned if I’ll bar sech talk! I won’t stan’ it any longer. Clar out now! We want no croakin’ raven hyar. Clar out! or—”

He was not permitted to finish the threat. I saw the girl suddenly drop down from her position on the fence, and glide behind the trunk of a tree. Almost at the same instant a light gleamed along the bank—which might have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, had it not been followed instantaneously by a quick crack—easily recognisable as the report of a pistol! I waited not to witness the effect; but rushed towards the tree—with the design of intercepting the Indian. The blue smoke lingering in the damp air, hindered me from seeing the movements of the girl; but, hurrying onward, I clambered over the fence. Once on the other side, I was beyond the cloud, and could command a view for a score of yards or so around me; but, in that circuit, no human form was to be seen! Beyond it, however, I heard the vengeful, scornful, laugh, pealing its unearthly echoes through the columned aisles of the forest!

Chapter Thirty Six.The Horologe of the Dead Horse.With inquiring eye and anxious heart, I turned towards the spot where I had left my companion. To my joy, he was still upon his feet, and coming towards me. I could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at rest. He was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound? It proved so in effect. The bullet had passed through the muscular part of the left forearm—only tearing the flesh. The wound did not even require a surgeon. The haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few days it would be certain to heal.Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. The allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. It affected me equally with my comrade—perhaps more. The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand.—California, of course. There was no allusion to the Salt Lake—not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the Mormons. Su-wa-nee’s speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter’s journey! How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. The mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. For this reason gave I weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl—though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service.The incident altered our design—only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. The first point to be ascertained was thetimeof their departure.“If it wan’t for the rain,” said the hunter, “I ked a told it by thar tracks. They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin’ thar things to the dug-out. The durned rain’s washed ’em out—every footmark o’ ’em.”“But the horses? what of them? They could not have gone off in the canoe?”“I war just thinkin’ o’ them. The one you seed with Stebbins must a been hired, I reck’n; an’ from Kipp’s stables. Belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin ’ithout him; or Kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?”“But Holt’s own horse—the old ‘critter,’ as you call him?”“Thatdizneed explainin’. Hemusta left him ahind. He culdn’t a tukhimin thedug-out; besides, he wan’t worth takin’ along. The old thing war clean wore out, an’ wuldn’t a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. Now, what ked they a done wi’ him?”The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. “Heigh!” he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. “Yonder we’ll find him! See the buzzarts! The old hoss’s past prayin’ for, I’ll be boun’.”It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal’s throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!“He’s killed the crittur!” musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; “jest like what he’d do! He might a left the old thing to some o’ his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn’t a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan’t partickler friendly wi’ any o’ us, an’ least o’ all wi’ myself—tho’ I niver knew the adzact reezun o’t, ’ceptin’ that I beat him once shootin’, at abarbecue. He war mighty proud a’ his shootin’, an’ that riled him, I reck’n: he’s been ugly wi’ me iver since.”I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying—my attention being occupied with a process of analytical reasoning. In the dead horse, I had found a key to the time of Holt’s departure. The ground for some distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. Thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating “pool,” had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards—the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal. All these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. At the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning.“How long think you since he was killed?” I asked, pointing to the dead horse. “Ha! ye’re right, stranger!” said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. “I war slack not to think o’ that. We kin easy find out, I reck’n.”The hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. In this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. Only for a few seconds did he remain in this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect:“Good, by thunder! The old horse hain’t been dead ’bove a kupple o’ hours. Look thar, stranger! the blood ain’t froze? I kin a’most fancy thar’s heat in his old karkiss yet!”“You are sure he has been killed this morning?”“Quite sure o’t; an’ at most three, or may be four hour agone. See thar!” he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; “limber as a eel! Ef he’d a been dead last night, the leg’d been stiff long afore this.”“Quite true,” replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning.This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. It told theday. The hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. Holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. As far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing. Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. There was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt’s career in his clearing upon Mud Creek. Only one doubt remained. Was it he who had killed the animal? I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee—but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the act.“No, no!” replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: “’twar Holt hisself, sartin. He culdn’t take the old hoss along wi’ him, an’ he didn’t want anybody else to git him. Besides, the girl hedn’t no reezun to a did it. She’d a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp—seein’ he war left behind wi’ nobody to own him. Tho’ he wan’t worth more’n what the skin ’ud fetch, he’d adone for them ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin’ thar traps an’ things. No, ’twan’t her, nor anybody else ’ceptin’ Holt hisself—he did it?”“If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. They cannot have more than four hours the start. You say the creek has a winding course?”“Crooked as a coon’s hind leg.”“And the Obion?”“Most part the same. It curls through the bottom like the tail o’ a cur-dog; an’ nigher the Massissippy, it don’t move faster than a snail ’ud crawl. I reck’n the run o’ the river ’ll not help ’em much. The’ll hev a good spell o’ paddlin’ afore they git down to Massissippy; an’ I hope that durned Mormon ’ll blister his ugly claws at it!”“With all my heart!” I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the Obion.

With inquiring eye and anxious heart, I turned towards the spot where I had left my companion. To my joy, he was still upon his feet, and coming towards me. I could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at rest. He was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound? It proved so in effect. The bullet had passed through the muscular part of the left forearm—only tearing the flesh. The wound did not even require a surgeon. The haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few days it would be certain to heal.

Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. The allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. It affected me equally with my comrade—perhaps more. The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand.—California, of course. There was no allusion to the Salt Lake—not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the Mormons. Su-wa-nee’s speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter’s journey! How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. The mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. For this reason gave I weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl—though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service.

The incident altered our design—only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. The first point to be ascertained was thetimeof their departure.

“If it wan’t for the rain,” said the hunter, “I ked a told it by thar tracks. They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin’ thar things to the dug-out. The durned rain’s washed ’em out—every footmark o’ ’em.”

“But the horses? what of them? They could not have gone off in the canoe?”

“I war just thinkin’ o’ them. The one you seed with Stebbins must a been hired, I reck’n; an’ from Kipp’s stables. Belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin ’ithout him; or Kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?”

“But Holt’s own horse—the old ‘critter,’ as you call him?”

“Thatdizneed explainin’. Hemusta left him ahind. He culdn’t a tukhimin thedug-out; besides, he wan’t worth takin’ along. The old thing war clean wore out, an’ wuldn’t a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. Now, what ked they a done wi’ him?”

The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. “Heigh!” he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. “Yonder we’ll find him! See the buzzarts! The old hoss’s past prayin’ for, I’ll be boun’.”

It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal’s throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!

“He’s killed the crittur!” musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; “jest like what he’d do! He might a left the old thing to some o’ his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn’t a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan’t partickler friendly wi’ any o’ us, an’ least o’ all wi’ myself—tho’ I niver knew the adzact reezun o’t, ’ceptin’ that I beat him once shootin’, at abarbecue. He war mighty proud a’ his shootin’, an’ that riled him, I reck’n: he’s been ugly wi’ me iver since.”

I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying—my attention being occupied with a process of analytical reasoning. In the dead horse, I had found a key to the time of Holt’s departure. The ground for some distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. Thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating “pool,” had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards—the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal. All these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. At the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning.

“How long think you since he was killed?” I asked, pointing to the dead horse. “Ha! ye’re right, stranger!” said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. “I war slack not to think o’ that. We kin easy find out, I reck’n.”

The hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. In this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. Only for a few seconds did he remain in this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect:

“Good, by thunder! The old horse hain’t been dead ’bove a kupple o’ hours. Look thar, stranger! the blood ain’t froze? I kin a’most fancy thar’s heat in his old karkiss yet!”

“You are sure he has been killed this morning?”

“Quite sure o’t; an’ at most three, or may be four hour agone. See thar!” he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; “limber as a eel! Ef he’d a been dead last night, the leg’d been stiff long afore this.”

“Quite true,” replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning.

This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. It told theday. The hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. Holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. As far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing. Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. There was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt’s career in his clearing upon Mud Creek. Only one doubt remained. Was it he who had killed the animal? I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee—but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the act.

“No, no!” replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: “’twar Holt hisself, sartin. He culdn’t take the old hoss along wi’ him, an’ he didn’t want anybody else to git him. Besides, the girl hedn’t no reezun to a did it. She’d a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp—seein’ he war left behind wi’ nobody to own him. Tho’ he wan’t worth more’n what the skin ’ud fetch, he’d adone for them ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin’ thar traps an’ things. No, ’twan’t her, nor anybody else ’ceptin’ Holt hisself—he did it?”

“If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. They cannot have more than four hours the start. You say the creek has a winding course?”

“Crooked as a coon’s hind leg.”

“And the Obion?”

“Most part the same. It curls through the bottom like the tail o’ a cur-dog; an’ nigher the Massissippy, it don’t move faster than a snail ’ud crawl. I reck’n the run o’ the river ’ll not help ’em much. The’ll hev a good spell o’ paddlin’ afore they git down to Massissippy; an’ I hope that durned Mormon ’ll blister his ugly claws at it!”

“With all my heart!” I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the Obion.

Chapter Thirty Seven.A Lookout from aloft.It cost us a fatiguing ride of nearly twelve hours’ duration—most of it along by-roads and bridle-paths—at intervals passing through tracts of swampy soil, where our horses sank to the saddle-girths in mud. We rode continuously: stopping only once to recruit our horses at one of the “stands,” or isolated log hostelries—which are found upon the old “traces” connecting the sparse settlements of the backwoods. It was the only one we saw upon our route; and at it we remained no longer than was absolutely necessary to rest our wearied steeds, and put them in a condition for the completion of the journey. We knew the necessity of haste. Our only hope lay in being able to reach the mouth of the Obion before the canoe could pass out of it. Otherwise, our journey would be in vain; and we should not only have our long ride for nothing, but would be under the necessity of doubling the distance by riding back again.Along the route we found time to discuss the circumstances—both those in our favour and against us. The water-way taken by the canoe was far from being direct. Both the creek and the larger stream curved repeatedly in their courses; and in ordinary times were of sluggish current. The freshet, however, produced by the late rain-storm, had rendered it swifter than common; and we knew that the canoe would be carried down with considerable rapidity—faster than we were travelling on horseback. On such roads, for so great a distance, fast travelling was impossible; and could only have been accomplished at the risk of killing our horses. Mounted as I was, I might have made more of the time; but I was under the necessity of slackening pace for my companion—whose sorry steed constantly required waiting for. Our sole chance lay in our route being shorter, and in the circumstance that the fugitives had not a very long start of us; but for all this the issue was exceedingly doubtful; and by the nicest calculations, we were satisfied we should have but little margin to spare.I need hardly point out the importance of our arriving in time. Should the canoe get beyond the mouth of the Obion—without our seeing it—we should be left undetermined as to whether they had goneupthe Mississippi ordown; and therefore altogether without a guide as to our future movements. In fact, we should be unable to proceed further in the pursuit. So far as the mouth of the Obion, their route was fixed; and of course ours was also determined. But beyond, it would be on our part mere blind guessing; and, should evil chance conduct us in the wrong direction, the result would be ruin to our prospects. On the other hand, could we but arrive in time—if only to see the canoe entering the great river—and note which turning it took—our purpose would be accomplished. That is, ourpresentpurpose; for beyond that of ascertaining their route of travel across the plains, and their point of destination, I had formed no plans. To follow them wherever they might go—even to the distant shores of the Pacific—to seek them wherever they might settle—to settle beside them—besideher—these were the ideas I had as yet but vaguely conceived. All ulterior designs were contingent on the carrying out of these, and still shrouded under the clouded drapery of the ambiguous future.The purposes of my travelling companion differed slightly from mine, and were, perhaps, a little more definite. His leading idea was a settlement of old scores with Stebbins, for wrongs done to him—which he now more particularly detailed to me. They were sufficiently provocative of revenge; and, from the manner of my comrade, and the vows he occasionally uttered, I could perceive that he would be as eager in the pursuit as myself. In all probability, an encounter with the migrating party would bring about an important change in their programme: since the young hunter was determined, as he expressed himself, “to force the durned skunk into a fight.”Inspired by such motives, we pressed on to the end of our journey; and reached the mouth of the Obion, after a long and wearisome ride. It was midnight when we arrived upon the shore of the Mississippi—at its point of confluence with the Tennessean stream. The land upon which we stood was scarcely elevated above the surface of the water; and covered, every foot of it, with a forest of the cotton-wood poplar, and other water-loving trees. These extending along the marshy borders of both streams, hindered us from having a view of their channels. To obtain this, it was necessary to climb one of the trees; and my comrade being disabled, the task devolved upon me. Dismounting, I chose one that appeared easiest of ascent; and, clambering up it as high as I could get, I fixed myself in a fork, and commenced duty as a vidette.My position could not have been better chosen. It afforded me a full view, not only of the Obion’s mouth, but also of the broad channel into which it emptied—at their confluence, forming an expanse of water that, but for its rolling current; might have been likened to a vast lake. There was moonlight over the whole surface; and the erratic ripples were reflected in sparkling coruscations—scarcely to be distinguished from the gleaming of the “lightning bugs,” that hovered in myriads along the hedges of the marsh. Both banks of the lesser stream were draped to the water’s edge with an unbroken forest of cotton-woods—the tops of which exhibiting their characteristic softness of outline, were unstirred by the slightest breeze. Between rolled the brown waters of the Obion, in ruder, grander flow, and with channel extended by the freshet. Every inch of it, from side to side, was under my observation—so completely, that I could distinguish the smallest object that might have appeared upon its surface. Not even the tiniest waif could have escaped me—much less a canoe freighted with human beings; and containing that fairer form, that would be certain to secure the keenest and most eager glances of my eye.I congratulated myself on reaching this perch. I perceived that a better post of observation could not have been chosen. It was complete for the purpose; and, if I could only have felt sure that we had arrived in time, all would have been satisfactory. Time alone would determine the point; and, turning my eyes up stream, I entered upon my earnest vigil.

It cost us a fatiguing ride of nearly twelve hours’ duration—most of it along by-roads and bridle-paths—at intervals passing through tracts of swampy soil, where our horses sank to the saddle-girths in mud. We rode continuously: stopping only once to recruit our horses at one of the “stands,” or isolated log hostelries—which are found upon the old “traces” connecting the sparse settlements of the backwoods. It was the only one we saw upon our route; and at it we remained no longer than was absolutely necessary to rest our wearied steeds, and put them in a condition for the completion of the journey. We knew the necessity of haste. Our only hope lay in being able to reach the mouth of the Obion before the canoe could pass out of it. Otherwise, our journey would be in vain; and we should not only have our long ride for nothing, but would be under the necessity of doubling the distance by riding back again.

Along the route we found time to discuss the circumstances—both those in our favour and against us. The water-way taken by the canoe was far from being direct. Both the creek and the larger stream curved repeatedly in their courses; and in ordinary times were of sluggish current. The freshet, however, produced by the late rain-storm, had rendered it swifter than common; and we knew that the canoe would be carried down with considerable rapidity—faster than we were travelling on horseback. On such roads, for so great a distance, fast travelling was impossible; and could only have been accomplished at the risk of killing our horses. Mounted as I was, I might have made more of the time; but I was under the necessity of slackening pace for my companion—whose sorry steed constantly required waiting for. Our sole chance lay in our route being shorter, and in the circumstance that the fugitives had not a very long start of us; but for all this the issue was exceedingly doubtful; and by the nicest calculations, we were satisfied we should have but little margin to spare.

I need hardly point out the importance of our arriving in time. Should the canoe get beyond the mouth of the Obion—without our seeing it—we should be left undetermined as to whether they had goneupthe Mississippi ordown; and therefore altogether without a guide as to our future movements. In fact, we should be unable to proceed further in the pursuit. So far as the mouth of the Obion, their route was fixed; and of course ours was also determined. But beyond, it would be on our part mere blind guessing; and, should evil chance conduct us in the wrong direction, the result would be ruin to our prospects. On the other hand, could we but arrive in time—if only to see the canoe entering the great river—and note which turning it took—our purpose would be accomplished. That is, ourpresentpurpose; for beyond that of ascertaining their route of travel across the plains, and their point of destination, I had formed no plans. To follow them wherever they might go—even to the distant shores of the Pacific—to seek them wherever they might settle—to settle beside them—besideher—these were the ideas I had as yet but vaguely conceived. All ulterior designs were contingent on the carrying out of these, and still shrouded under the clouded drapery of the ambiguous future.

The purposes of my travelling companion differed slightly from mine, and were, perhaps, a little more definite. His leading idea was a settlement of old scores with Stebbins, for wrongs done to him—which he now more particularly detailed to me. They were sufficiently provocative of revenge; and, from the manner of my comrade, and the vows he occasionally uttered, I could perceive that he would be as eager in the pursuit as myself. In all probability, an encounter with the migrating party would bring about an important change in their programme: since the young hunter was determined, as he expressed himself, “to force the durned skunk into a fight.”

Inspired by such motives, we pressed on to the end of our journey; and reached the mouth of the Obion, after a long and wearisome ride. It was midnight when we arrived upon the shore of the Mississippi—at its point of confluence with the Tennessean stream. The land upon which we stood was scarcely elevated above the surface of the water; and covered, every foot of it, with a forest of the cotton-wood poplar, and other water-loving trees. These extending along the marshy borders of both streams, hindered us from having a view of their channels. To obtain this, it was necessary to climb one of the trees; and my comrade being disabled, the task devolved upon me. Dismounting, I chose one that appeared easiest of ascent; and, clambering up it as high as I could get, I fixed myself in a fork, and commenced duty as a vidette.

My position could not have been better chosen. It afforded me a full view, not only of the Obion’s mouth, but also of the broad channel into which it emptied—at their confluence, forming an expanse of water that, but for its rolling current; might have been likened to a vast lake. There was moonlight over the whole surface; and the erratic ripples were reflected in sparkling coruscations—scarcely to be distinguished from the gleaming of the “lightning bugs,” that hovered in myriads along the hedges of the marsh. Both banks of the lesser stream were draped to the water’s edge with an unbroken forest of cotton-woods—the tops of which exhibiting their characteristic softness of outline, were unstirred by the slightest breeze. Between rolled the brown waters of the Obion, in ruder, grander flow, and with channel extended by the freshet. Every inch of it, from side to side, was under my observation—so completely, that I could distinguish the smallest object that might have appeared upon its surface. Not even the tiniest waif could have escaped me—much less a canoe freighted with human beings; and containing that fairer form, that would be certain to secure the keenest and most eager glances of my eye.

I congratulated myself on reaching this perch. I perceived that a better post of observation could not have been chosen. It was complete for the purpose; and, if I could only have felt sure that we had arrived in time, all would have been satisfactory. Time alone would determine the point; and, turning my eyes up stream, I entered upon my earnest vigil.

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