Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1849], Leni-leoti, or, Adventures in the far west (Stratton & Barnard, Cincinnati) [word count] [eaf010].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
Main text
CHAPTER I.
STILL IN OREGON CITY — THE SECRET UNDIVULGED — A DILEMMA — RESOLVE TO MAKE
IT KNOWN — A STROLL — INTERRUPTION — EVA MORTIMER — BRIEF ACCOUNT OF
THE MORTIMERS — RESOLVE TO GO IN SEARCH OF MY FRIEND.
It was the last day of May, in the year
of our Lord 1843. Already the earth felt
the genial air of summer, and looked as
smiling as a gay maiden in her teens. The
blade had covered the ground with a carpet
of matchless green, amid which, their
lovely faces half concealed, bright flowers
of a hundred varieties, peeped modestly
forth to render the landscape enchanting,
giving their sweet breath to a southern
breeze that softly stole over them. The
trees in every direction were in full foliage,
and already among them could be
seen green bunches of embryo fruits. It
was in fact a delightful day, a delightful
season of the year, and a delightful scene
upon which I gazed, with feelings, alas!
that had more in them of sadness than
joy.
I was still in Oregon City; but two
months had flown since on the banks of
the romantic Willamette I offered my hand,
heart, and fortune to Lilian Huntly, and
was accepted, only to find the nuptial day
prolonged to an indefinite period — the return
of my friend and her brother. I did
not describe my feelings then to the reader;
but, as he or she must have imagined,
they were very painful. I had deceived
Lilian and her mother, I knew, in leading
them to hope, even, for the return of
Charles Huntly, and I felt stung to the
very soul, as one guilty of a crime. What
was I to do? Should I avow all to Lilian
and make her wretched by destroying all
hope of ever seeing Charles again? or
should I still let her remain in blissful
ignorance of his fate, and look in vain to
the future for the consummation of her
ardent wishes? It was a painful dilemma.
The first was the most open, upright,
and straight-forward manner of settling the
matter, most undoubtedly; and conscience
and a first impulse urged me to it; but
then, a doubt in my own mind that he
was really dead — a faint, a very faint
hope that he might sometime return to his
friends — a loathing to inflict a wound
upon the affectionate heart I loved, which
time alone could heal, perhaps cause
needless suffering to one who had already
suffered enough — restrained me; and
between a desire to do right, and a fear
to do wrong, I did nothing but muse
abstractedly, the result of which was, in
my own mind, to take a day for thought,
and then decide. But the next day found
me in the same quandary, and the next,
and the next.
Thus days rolled on, one after another,
and at the end of the month I was as undecided
as ever; and though daily basking
in the smiles of Lilian, and listening to her
artless words of musical sweetness, not
-- 008 --
[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
even a hint had I ever thrown out regarding
what I knew of her brother. Often
would she mention him, but always in a
way to denote she scarcely had a doubt
of seeing him the coming summer; and
the thought that she must be disappointed,
ever tended to make me sad and melancholy.
I had never objected to the indefinite
period fixed on for our wedding, for
the simple reason that, to object, was only
to subject myself to an inquiry into the
cause, and this I feared. What was I to
do? The question came up night and
day, at all times and in all places, and
troubled me sorely — so much so, in fact,
that I began to fear its effects upon my
constitution.
At last I resolved to tell her all, and for
this purpose invited her one morning to our
usual stroll on the banks of the Willamette.
The day was fine, and everything
around beautiful. We took our way directly
to the falls, and paused upon a bluff
immediately over the rolling, sparkling
waters. This bluff, which is the bank of
the stream at Oregon City, varies from
twenty to eighty feet in hight, and, running
back, forms the level upon which the
town was then just beginning to be laid
out. The scene was charming, notwithstanding
it was in the wilderness. A beautiful
forest stretched away on either hand—
below us rolled the river, roaring over
the falls — and on the opposite side rose
similar bluffs, and another pleasant forest.
It seemed a place fitted for the communion
of lovers; and here Lilian and I had
whiled away our happiest hours. Here I
had offered my hand to her — here been
accepted — and of course the scene could
not but recall pleasant associations. Hither
then we strayed; and as we paused above
the bright river, Lilian exclaimed, with a
look of joy:
“O, it will be so delightful when Charles
joins us! Do you know what I have determined
on, Frank?”
“Surely not,” I answered.
“Do you see that level yonder (pointing
down the stream), which sets off so
pleasantly below this, shaded by those tall
old trees?”
“Ay, I see, Lilian.”
“Well, there I have planned having such
a pic-nic, on the day when—when we—”
She paused, and blushed, and glanced
timidly at me, as if expecting I would
complete the sentence. I did not, for my
mind was busy with sad thoughts. Now,
thought I, is the time to tell her all. But
how should I begin to pain her! I was
uneasy, and felt miserable, and doubtless
looked as I felt, for the next moment she
added, in some alarm:
“Why, Francis, what is the matter?
You look so pale! Has anything happened?”
“Nothing new.”
“What then? You always look so
pained when I allude to brother Charles!
Surely there must be some cause! Have
you kept anything hidden from me? Speak,
Francis! — you left him well, did you
not?” and she grasped my arm, and
looked earnestly in my face.
“I did, Lilian.”
“Well, what then? You must have no
secrets from me now, you know.”
I must tell her, I thought, and there
can never be a better time than this.
“Lilian,” I began, and my voice trembled
as I spoke: “Lilian, I —”
“What ho! my lovers, are you here?”
shouted a merry voice. “I thought I
should find you here;” and the next moment
we were joined by the gay, light-hearted
Eva Mortimer. “In the name of
humanity,” she said, as she came bounding
up to us, “what makes you both look
so pale? Not making love again, I hope;”
and she ended with a ringing laugh which,
however pleasant it might have sounded
at another time, now jarred most discordantly
with the feelings of both.
“No, not exactly making love, Miss
Mortimer,” I answered, turning to her
with a forced smile, and, if truth must be
owned, rather rejoiced than otherwise that
she had broken off what must have proved
a painful interview.
“Well,” she rejoined, playfully, brushing
back her dark ringlets with one of the
prettiest white, dimpled hands in the world—
mind I say one of the prettiest, reader,
for of course I considered Lilian's equal,
if not superior: “Well, I am glad to hear
that, for I feared, from your sober looks,
you were either getting into a lover's
quarrel, or going over a nameless scene
that was enacted here some weeks ago;”
-- 009 --
[figure description] Page 009.[end figure description]
and she looked meaningly, first at Lilian,
who colored deeply, and then at me, who
I fancied stood it like a philosopher.
“Come,” she added, in the same gay tone,
“I have use for you both all day. We—
that is I, and my good mother, and yours,
Lilian, and some others — have decided
on going to see a beautiful lake, which, we
are told, ornaments a certain fern bluff
that you see away yonder, some half mile
back of this magnificent city. City indeed!”
she continued, with a curl of the
lip. “Why, it might be stolen from the
suburbs of Boston, or any other place of
note, and never be missed. But mother
would come in spite of me, and when she
takes a notion in her head she must carry
it out. She wishes herself back now, and
I join her with all my heart; but, heigh-ho!
I suppose I shall have to spend my
days here, for I see no means of getting
away. But I will tease her, though — I
am pledged to that—and that will be some
comfort, and save me dying of ennui.
Oregon City! Umph! I thought it would
turn out to be woods before I came, and I
told her so—but she would not believe me.
Come, Mr. Leighton, don't be standing
there looking so sober! nor you, my bonny
Lilian. I am going to have you along,
and if I don't make you laugh, why, I will
turn in and cry myself. Only to think of
being here without a lover! It don't matter
with you, Lilian, for you have got one;
but think of me, in pity do! Nobody here
but some thick-headed rustics that don't
know how to make love. I wish your
brother would come, Lilian — I am dying
to see him. He saved my life, you know,
and so I am bound, by all the rules of novels,
to fall in love with him out of pure
gratitude.”
“You will not need gratitude, I fancy,”
added I, with a sigh at the thought of him,
“Should you ever be fortunate enough to
see him; for he is a noble fellow, and one
I think to your liking.”
“Ah!” she replied, “you need not tell
me he is a noble fellow—for none but such
would have risked his life as he did for a
stranger. I have been in love with him ever
since I heard about it, though I had long
ago given up all hope of ever seeing him.”
“And he will be ready, I will vouch for
him, to reciprocate the tender feeling.”
“Do you think so?” she said, slightly
blushing, and her eyes sparkling. “O,
that will be so romantic! and I love romance
dearly. I will have him down upon
his knees at every frown, and will frown
twenty times a day, just to have him down
on his knees. Now that will be making
love to some purpose, eh?” and giving
vent to a ringing laugh, she added, taking
my arm: “Come, don't let us keep the
good people waiting, or they may get off
the notion, and I would not miss seeing
the lake for a costly ruby.”
My design of telling a sad tale was thus
broken off, and, as I said before, I was
not sorry for it. Arm in arm with the
two, I returned to what was denominated
the village, Eva the while chatting away
gaily, flying from one thing to another, but
ever adroitly returning to Charles Huntly,
showing that he now occupied no small
share of her thoughts.
From the specimen given, it will be seen
that Eva Mortimer was a very different
being from Lilian Huntly; and as she is
destined to figure more conspicuously in
these pages than the previous ones, I consider
the present a good opportunity to
describe her.
In person, Eva Mortimer was slightly
above medium, with a form well developed,
and a bust of rare beauty. Her
complexion was clear and dark, though
scarcely sufficient to entitle her to the appellation
of brunette. Her soft, hazel
eyes, shaded by silken lashes, were very
expressive, and could look love languishingly,
or sparkle with the poetry of mirth,
anger, or any of the passions of impulse.
Her features were regular and very prepossessing,
with a nose slightly acquiline,
and mouth and lips as tempting as one
would care to look upon. Her disposition
accorded with her looks. At heart she
was open and generous, with a desire to
please and be pleased, let fortune smile or
frown. Her spirits were almost ever buoyant,
and it required a strong cause to depress
them. Very different from some,
she could not easily be brought to consider
this bright earth as only a grave yard, and
herself a mournful inhabitant, ever stalking
among tombs. She did not believe in
storm, and cloud, and dreariness, so much
as in an open sky, sunshine, cheerfulness
-- 010 --
[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]
and joy. It would have required great
depth of reasoning to convince her that
God had placed man here expressly to
mope out his days in gloom and sorrow,
either real or imaginary. She did not
fancy the dark side of the picture; and
full of the poetry of an ardent temperament,
there was to her in the sunshine, the
breeze, the leaf, the blade, the flower, the
mount, the vale, the storm, and, in fact,
in everything of nature, something to
excite joy rather than sadness. Whatever
her fortune, she took care to make
the best of it and not repine. She was
lively even to gayety, and could rattle on
for hours in a light, frolicsome strain, calculated
to mislead such as look not below
the mere surface; but those who judged
Eva Mortimer by this, judged wrongly;
for beneath was a heart as warm, as earnest,
as pure, as true, as ever beat in the
breast of woman. This was the drift, the
foam, that floated along on the strong current
of a noble mind. Had you seen and
listened to her in her merry moods, you
would have thought, perhaps, she had no
mind above trifles, or beyond the mere
present; that she was vain and coquettish
to a fault; that she would take no delight
in serious meditation; and yet you could
not easily have erred more in judgment.
I have seen her alone, in the night, gazing
at the stars for hours, when she thought
no human eye beheld her. I have watched
her musing over a flower, while leaf by
leaf she dissected it, as if to lay bare its
mysteries — over the pebbles which she
had gathered in some ramble—over a leaf,
a blade of grass, and, in fact, over whatever
had chanced in her path—in a way
to show her possessed of mind, and that
of the highest order.
There were but few in her present locality
who really knew Eva Mortimer; and
none who seemed to appreciate her as did
Lilian. In their short acquaintance, these
two bright beings had become friends; not
the cold, unmeaning term of the world —
but friends sincere and true, and bound by
a tie beyond the power of death itself to
sever. Like the magnet and the needle
had they come together, to be held by attractions
peculiar to themselves. To each
other their hearts were ever open, and the
joys and sorrows of the one, were the joys
and sorrows of the other. They talked
together, walked together, read together,
(each had brought a few choice books,)
sang together, and both ever seemed happier
on all occasions for the other's presence.
They were nearly of the same
age, of different temperaments, and united
like the different strings of a harp, to
bring forth nothing but music. In short,
they loved each other—not with the evanescent
love of fiery passion, which burns
and freezes alternately — but with that
deeper and truer love which springs from
admiration of, and dependence on, in a
measure, the qualities we do not possess
ourselves. It was a holy love—the love
of two fair maidens just budding into
womanhood.
Am I getting tedious, reader—presuming
too much upon your indulgence—keeping
you too long from the more exciting
part of my story? Well, then, I will press
forward; for much is to be said and done
ere my task be finished.
Of the early history of Eva Mortimer, I
at this time knew but little, and this I had
gleaned from Lilian. Her mother, a woman
between forty and fifty years of age,
was a native of England, of wealthy parentage,
but not of noble birth. Some
twenty-five years before the date of these
events, she had clandestinely married a
French exile, apparently without name or
fortune, rather for the love of romance,
and because she was strongly opposed by
her friends, than for any real affection
which she felt toward the individual himself.
This proceeding had so incensed her
parents, that they had cast her off; but
unlike most parents in such cases, unwilling
she should suffer too much, had offered
her a life annuity above want, on condition
she quitted the country immediately and
returned to it no more. To this she had
readily assented, and shortly after, with
her husband, had embarked for America,
and had finally settled at Quebec, in Canada,
where for several years they had
continued to live together, though not, it
must be confessed, in the most harmonious
manner. Being rather head-strong and
self-willed, and withal possessed of an independence,
Madame Mortimer sought to
have everything her own way, and had not
scrupled occasionally to make her husband
-- 011 --
[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]
feel he was her debtor for every luxury
he enjoyed. Of a proud spirit, and a
temper somewhat irritable, he had not
displayed any too much Christian humility,
meekness and resignation, and
many a bitter quarrel had been the consequence.
Time rolled on, and at the end of five
years she had given birth to female twins.
Both had been hoping for a male heir; and
consequently this event, instead of mending,
had rather served to widen the breach.
Quarrel succeeded quarrel, and as love
was wanting to harmonize two opposing
spirits, it was at last found necessary to
separate. Two years had passed meantime,
when one morning Mortimer came
into the presence of his wife, with a letter
in his hand, and abruptly announced his
intention of leaving her.
“As you like,” returned Madame Mortimer,
coolly.
Mortimer turned and left her, nor had
she ever beheld him since. The night
following, the twin sister of Eva disappeared,
and the most diligent inquiries,
together with the offer of a large reward,
had failed in restoring her to her anxious
mother. The effect of this upon Madame
Mortimer proved very severe — for she
loved both her children dearly—and a nervous
fever was the result, which nearly cost
her her life. Soon after this she received
news of her father's death, and that, having
repented his rashness, he had left
her a rich legacy, with permission to return
to England. To England, therefore,
she went, and there had remained, superintending
the education of Eva, until a
desire of travel had brought her once more
to this country, whither she had come in
company with her daughter and a wealthy
American lady, whose acquaintance had
been made across the water, and who
subsequently introduced her into New-York
society, simply as Madame Mortimer,
without a word of explanation, this being
at her own earnest request. Thus it was,
as I have before mentioned, none who met
her in society had been able to learn who
she was or whence she came, and this had
doubtless added to her popularity. This
was all I had been able to gather from
Lilian, and all, in fact, she knew; and this
had been picked up at different times, from
remarks that had escaped the lips of Eva
in her more communicative moods.
In person, Madame Mortimer was large,
with a full, handsome countenance, expressive
black eyes, and a bearing dignified
and queen-like. At heart she was
kind and affectionate; and doubtless, had
she been properly mated, would have
made an exemplary wife. Her passions,
when excited, were strong to violence,
with a temper haughty and unyielding to
an equal, but subdued and mild to an inferior.
She loved passionately, and hated
madly. With her, as a general thing,
there was no medium. She liked or disliked,
and carried both to extremes. She
was a woman of strong mind, much given
to thought and reflection, an acute observer
of everything around her, and just
sufficiently eccentric to throw the freshness
of originality over all she said or did.
She would do what she thought was proper,
without regard to the opinion of others, or
what the world would say. She had
resolved on a journey to Oregon, not for
any particular purpose, but merely to carry
out a whim, and see the country. She had
done both, was dissatisfied with her present
locality, and now designed returning to the
States the first favorable opportunity.
But to return from this digression.
Of the fate of her brother, Lilian still
remained ignorant; for after the interruption
of Eva, I could never summon enough
moral courage to again attempt the sad
narration. As time rolled on, I became
more and more depressed in spirits, and
more perplexed as to the course I should
pursue. It was not impossible, I began
to reason, that Charles Huntly might be
living; and the more I pondered on this,
the more I was inclined to believe it the
case. He had been lost mysteriously, in
a part of the world notoriously infested
with robbers and Indians. If captured by
the former, there was no argument against
the supposition that he had been plundered
and sold into slavery. If by the
latter, might he not have been adopted by
some tribe, and now be a prisoner? In
either case, was I not in duty bound to go
in quest of him, and, if found, to rescue
him from a horrible doom, either by ransom
or force? At all events, I said to myself,
I can but fail, and may succeed.
-- 012 --
[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
On leaving home, I had supplied myself
with a large amount of gold to meet all
contingencies, and but little of this had
been expended. I could, perhaps, engage
a party, for a reasonable sum, to accompany
me; and this, after duly weighing all
the circumstances, I had decided to attempt
on the morning I have chosen for
the opening of this chapter. I would let
Lilian and the others suppose I had gone
home, and that I should probably return
with Charles Huntly. Having settled the
matter in my own mind, I resolved on
immediate action, and for this purpose
called Teddy aside to communicate my
intention.
“Teddy,” I began, gravely, “did you
love your former master?”
“Me masther!” repeated the Irishman,
with a look of curious inquiry, “and sure,
of who is't ye're speaking, your honor?”
“Of Charles Huntly.”
“Did I love him, is't? Faith, and
does a snapping turtle love to bite, or a
drunkard to drink, that ye ax me that
now?—Love him? Troth, and was he
living, I'd go to the ind of the world and
jump off jist to plase him, and so I would.”
“Maybe, Teddy, you can serve him
more effectually than by a proceeding so
dangerous.”
“Sarve him, is't! Och, now, I'd be
after knowing that same!”
“I've taken a fancy into my head that
he is living.”
“Howly St. Pathrick! ye don't say the
likes!” exclaimed the Hibernian, holding
up both hands in astonishment. “Ye're
joking, sure, your honor?”
“No, Teddy, I am serious as a judge.
I have always had some faint doubts of
his death, and now these doubts have
grown strong enough to induce me to set
off in search of him;” and I proceeded to
give my reasons.
“Ah, sure,” said Teddy, as I concluded,
“This is a happy day for me mother's son,
if nothing comes on't but parting wid—
wid—”
“But, Teddy, I had designed taking
you along.”
“And sure, Misther Leighton, is'nt it
going I is wid ye, now? D'ye think I'd
be afther staving behind, like a spalpeen,
and ye away afther Misther Huntly, pace
to his ashes, barring that he's got no ashes
at all, at all, but is raal flish and blood
like your own bonny self, that's one of the
kindest gintlemen as iver wore out shoemaker's
fixings, and made the tailor blush
wid modesty for the ixcillent fit of his coat?”
“But you spoke of parting, Teddy!”
“Ah, troth, and ye a gallant yourself,
your honor, and not sae it was a wee bit
of a female parthing I's mintioning, jist?”
“Female parting! I do not understand
you.”
Here Teddy scratched his head, and
looked not a little confused.
“Why, ye sae, your honor,” he replied,
hesitatingly, “ye sae the womens (Heaven
bliss their darling sowls!) is all loveable
crathurs, and it's mesilf that likes to maat
'em whereiver I goes; but somehow, your
honor, a chap's like to be thinking of one,
more in particular by raason of his nathur;
and that's the case wid mesilf now, and
Molly Stubbs that lives yonder, barring
that it's hardly living at all that she is in
this wild counthry.”
The truth flashed upon me at once.
One of the settlers, who had come here in
advance of my friends, had a large, buxom,
rosy-cheeked daughter of eighteen, who
went by the euphonious appellation of
Molly Stubbs—sometimes, Big Molly—
and I now remembered having seen Teddy
idling about the premises, though at the
time, without a suspicion of the real cause.
“And so, Teddy, you have been making
love, eh?”
“Divil a bit, your honor.”
“How? what?”
“No! ye sae it was all made to me hand,
and I've ounly been acting it out, jist.”
“Aha! exactly. And so you think you
can part with your belle ami, eh?”
“And sure, if it's Molly Stubbs you
maan by that Lathin, it's mesilf that can
say the farewell handsome, now.”
“Well, make your parting short, and
then see to having the horses got ready,
for in less than three hours we must be in
our saddles.”
With this I turned away, and with slow
steps, and a heart by no means the lightest,
sought the residence of Lilian to communicate
the unpleasant intelligence, that
in a few minutes we must part, perhaps to
meet no more.
-- 013 --
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
CHAPTER II.
INFORM MY FRIENDS OF MY RESOLVE—THEIR
SURPRISE—DEPARTURE POSTPONED ONE
DAY—PREPARATIONS—GENERAL LEAVETAKING—
TRYING INTERVIEW WITH LILIAN,
AND FINAL ADIEU.
As I neared the residence of Mrs.
Huntly and Lilian, (which had also been
mine for some months) for the purpose of
bidding my friends another long adieu, I
heard the merry voice and ringing laugh
of Eva Mortimer. Another time this
would have been music to my ears; but
now my spirits were greatly depressed,
and I was not in a mood to appreciate it.
The cabin—it would scarcely bear a more
exalted title—seemed surrounded with an
air of gloom. It was as good as any, better
than most, which formed the village of
Oregon City; but yet, what a place to be
the abode of those who had been used all
their lives to the luxurious mansion of
wealth!—and I could not avoid making a
comparison between the condition of the
tenants now, and when I had approached
to bid them farewell some three years before—
nor of thinking with what Christian-like
resignation they had borne, and still
bore, their misfortunes. Their present
dwelling was built of unhewn logs, whose
crevices were filled with clay, had a
thatched roof, puncheon floors, and three
apartments. One of these had been assigned
to Teddy and myself, another to
Lilian and her mother, and the third answered
the treble uses of parlor, sittingroom
and kitchen. A few beds and
bedding, a table, one or two chairs, together
with a few benches, and the most
common househould utensils, comprised
the principal furniture. And this was the
abode of the lovely and once wealthy
heiress, Lilian Huntly! And she could
seem contented here! What a happy
spirit, to adapt itself to all circumstances—
to blend itself, if I may so express it,
with every fortune!
With this reflection I crossed the threshhold,
and beheld Lilian and Eva in gay
conversation, and Mrs. Huntly seated by
the table, perusing a book. Both the
young ladies turned to me as I entered, and
Eva at once exclaimed:
“So, Mr. Francis, you have just come
in time—we have it all settled.”
“May I inquire what?” returned I,
gravely.
“May you inquire what?” she repeated,
with a playful curl of the lip. “Did you
ever see such a starch, ministerial look,
Lilian?—as grave is he as a sexton. Why,
one would suppose all his friends were
dead, and he had come to invite us to the
funeral. Heigh-ho! if ever I get a lover,
he shall wear no such look as that; if he
do, it will be at the risk of having his hair
combed and powdered, I assure you.”
“But I have reason for looking grave,”
I replied.
“Eh! what!” cried Eva, changing instantly
her whole expression and manner
“Surely you have no bad news for us?”
and she approached and laid her hand
upon my arm, with a troubled look, while
Lilian sunk down upon a seat, as if she had
some sad foreboding, and Mrs. Huntly
turned her eyes upon me inquiringly.
“Give yourselves no alarm,” I hastened
to reply. “I have only come to say, we
must separate for a time.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Eva, looking serious.
“You have heard tidings of Charles?”
added Mrs. Huntly.
I glanced at Lilian, but she said not a
word, though all color had forsaken her
features.
“No, I have not heard from Charles,”
I rejoined, in answer to Mrs. Huntly;
“but presume I shall ere I return.”
“Good heavens! then you are going
far?” cried Eva, in astonishment.
“I contemplate making a journey to the
east, and may meet Charles on the way,
in which case I shall return at once—
otherwise, I may be absent the summer.”
“Why, Francis, what has made you resolve
thus so suddenly?” inquired Mrs.
Huntly. “How are we to do without you?
I thought—(she paused and glanced toward
Lilian, who had turned her head aside
and seemed deeply affected,)—that—that
you intended to pass the summer with
us.”
“Cruel man,” said Eva, in a whisper,
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
“how can you leave the sweetest being on
earth? O, you men!” And then she
continued aloud: “I wish we were all
going with you. Can you not take us all
along?”
“Why, I fear it would not be safe.”
“As safe as it is here, I am certain.
Surely we could not be more than killed
if we went, and who knows but some
of these Indians, that are in the habit of
visiting our great city here, may take a
notion we have lived long enough, and so
murder us all, or marry us, which would
be the same thing! But whoever knew a
gentleman gallant enough to do what was
asked of him? Ah! I see—you don't
even listen now—your thoughts are all
with somebody else—and so I will retire.
Let me know when it is over, as I wish to
bid you adieu;” and she darted out of the
room.
Mrs. Huntly was on the point of interrogating
me farther, but perceiving by a
sign from Lilian that the latter wished to
see me alone, she made some excuse, and
went into an adjoining apartment. The
moment she had disappeared, Lilian sprang
up and flew into my arms.
“Is this true, Francis?” she exclaimed.
“Are you really going to leave us?”
“I fear I must for a time,” I said, in a
not very firm voice.
“A long time then,” sighed the fair girl;
“a long time, if you are going east. O,
Francis, I did not think we should part so
soon! What have you heard? Something,
surely—for you have never intimated
this before—and you would not deceive
one who loves you!”
This was said so touchingly, with such
naivete, that for a time I only replied by
pressing her more closely to my heart, and
imprinting a kiss upon her ruby lips.
“I cannot tell my Lilian everything,” I
at length made answer. “Suffice, that I
have important reasons for going; and
sometime, God willing, you shall know all.
My resolution to leave was formed to-day,
and to-day we must part.”
“To-day?” she gasped, and I felt her
whole form quiver like a reed shaken by
the wind. “O, no! not to-day, Francis!
that would be too much—too sudden!
You must not go to-day!”
“Why not, dearest? I shall return one
day sooner for it doubtless; and it will be
as hard to part to-morrow as to-day.”
“But it is so sudden—so unexpected,”
she pleaded. “Delay till to-morrow
Francis!”
“Well, anything to please you,” and I
stamped the promise with the seal of love
“Be cheerful as you can in my absence
Lilian, and when I return with your
brother—”
“O, then you are going to find him!”
she exclaimed, interrupting me. “That
return will be joyful indeed! Poor
Charles! If you do not meet him on the
way, most likely you will in Boston. Cheer
him all you can, Francis, and tell him we
are as happy as circumstances will allow
us to be.”
“Beg pardon, your honor,” said the
voice of Teddy at this moment, startling
Lilian, like a frightened roe, from my
arms. “Beg pardon for interrupting yees—
but the baast ye buyed this while ago,
is not inywhere to my knowing.”
“Never mind, Teddy, go and hunt it.
It must be about, unless the Indians have
stolen it, in which case I must get another.
Hunt for it—I shall not leave
to-day.”
“Troth, thin, I'll 'av another parthing
mesilf, jist,” returned Teddy, as he disappeared
with a pleased look.
At this moment Mrs. Huntly, hearing
another voice, reappeared, and my tete-a-tete
with Lilian was for the present broken
off. The former had a great many questions
to ask me—why I had decided leaving
so suddenly—when I expected to reach
Boston, and the like—so that I had no little
difficulty in replying in a way not to
commit myself. Then she had letters to
write to her friends; and Lilian had letters
to prepare also; and the news of
my departure having circulated quickly
through the village, numbers called to
see me, to send messages and letters to
their native land—so that with listening
to their requests, to an extra amount of
advice as to the proper mode of conducting
myself under all circumstances, and
attending to my own affairs, I was kept
busy all day, without the opportunity
of another private interview with Lilian.
A fine horse, which I had purchased a
few days before of an Indian, was lost—
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
the owner I suppose, or some of his friends,
thinking it best to recover the animal
without troubling me in the matter at all,
Consequently, another beast was to be
procured; and as this was for Teddy, I
allowed him to make his own selection—
the one I had ridden hither still being in
my possession.
At last, everything being prepared, I
retired to my couch, heartily fatigued with
my day's work. But thought was too busy
to allow me much sleep; and I question if
at least one other did not pass a restless
night from the same cause; for on appearing
in the morning, I noticed the features
of Lilian were very pale, and her eyes
red as if from recent weeping. But she
seemed firm, ready to endure the separation,
and uttered not a single word of
complaint. I could have loved her for
this, if for nothing else—her conduct was
so womanly and sensible. She did not
feel the less, that she did not show it
more, I knew. She was about to part
with one she had loved from childhood—
one to whom her heart and hand were
given — and this in a strange, wild country,
for a long separation, full of peril to
both, with no certainty of ever seeing him
again. It could not but be painful to her
in any situation—doubly so in the one she
was placed — and I fancy I appreciated
her noble firmness as it deserved.
The countenances of Mrs. Huntly, Madame
Mortimer, Eva, and many others, all
were grave; and I read in their looks unfeigned
sorrow at my close-coming departure.
The morning meal was partaken in
silence, as all were too sad and full of deep
thought for unnecessary conversation.—
Ere it was finished, my friends had all
collected to bid me farewell and God
speed; and the announcement by Teddy
that the horses were ready, was the signal
for me to begin the parting scene. Commencing
with those I cared least about,
I shook each heartily by the hand, and
passed from one to the other as rapidly as
possible.
“Francis Leighton,” said Madame Mortimer,
when I came to her, and her hand
pressed mine warmly, and her voice trembled
as she spoke, “remember that to you
and your friend my daughter owes her
life, and I a debt of gratitude that may
never be canceled. If my prayers for
your safe and happy return be of any
avail, you have them. God bless you,
sir! and remember, that whatever may
happen in this changing world, in me,
while living, you have a warm friend; and
(approaching and whispering in my ear)
so has Lilian and her mother. While I
have aught, they shall never want. Farewell,
my friend, farewell—but I hope only
for a time.”
It may not surprise the reader, if I say
the pressure of my fingers was none the
less for this information, nor my heart any
heavier, unless it was by the additional
weight of tears of joy.
Madame Mortimer stepped aside, and I
turned to Eva. There was no merriment
in her look—nothing light upon her
tongue.
“You have heard the words of mother,”
she said, impressively. “They are not
meaningless. To you and your friend I
am indebted for my life. My conversation
at times may have seemed light and
trifling; but notwitstanding, Francis, I
would have you believe, there is a heart
beneath all that does not overlook the
merits of its friends, nor feel lightly for
their welfare. When you see your friend,
tell him that he is prayed for daily, by
one who, though she never saw, can never
cease to remember him. Adieu! and
may God bear you safely through all
peril!” and she turned away, as if to hide
a tear.
“Francis,” said Mrs. Huntly, striving
to command her voice, which trembled not
a little, as she held both my hands in hers:
“Francis, it is hard—very, very hard—to
part with you. But I suppose I must, and
hope it is all for the best. I have had so
much trouble within a few years—have
seen so many of those I once supposed
my friends forsake me—that it really becomes
grievous to part with any of the
few I have tried and not found wanting.
But go, Francis, and God protect you!
Should you be fortunate enough to meet
with dear Charles (here her voice faltered
to a pause, and she was forced to dash
away the tears dimning her eyes),—tell—
tell him all. Break the matter gently, if
he does not already know it—and—and
comfort him the best way you can. My
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
love, my deepest, undying love to your
parents and all my friends. There—
there—I can say no more—no more. Go,
Francis, and God's blessing and mine
attend you! Good-by! farewell!” and
shaking my hands warmly, with her head
averted, she dropped them and disappeared
into another apartment, seemingly too
much affected to tarry longer in my
presence.
With a proper delicacy, for which I
gave them ample credit, one after another
departed, until I was left alone with Lilian.
While these several partings were taking
place, she had remained seated, watching
the whole proceedings, with what
feelings, I leave lovers to judge. I now
turned to her, and felt the grand trial was
at hand, and my heart seemed in my very
throat. Her sweet countenance was pale
and death-like, her very lips were white,
and her eyes full of tears. There was no
shyness—no trembling—no apparent excitement.
She seemed, as her heavenly
blue eyes fixed upon mine, rather a beautiful
figure, cut from the purest marble,
cold and motionless, than a living, breathing
human being. But oh! what thoughts,
what agonies were rending that soul
within, mastered only by a most powerful
will! With a step none of the
firmest, I approached and took a seat
by her side, and laid my hand upon
hers.
“Lilian,” I said, in a scarcely articulate
voice: “Lilian, the time has come
to—to—part.”
She did not reply in words—she could
not; but she sprang to her feet, her ivory
arms encircled my neck, and her feelings
found vent in tears upon my heaving
breast.
Smile, if you will, reader—you who have
passed the romantic bounds of a first pure
and holy passion, and become identified
with the cares and dross of a money-getting,
matter-of-fact, dollar-and-cent-life—
smile if you will, as your eye chances upon
this simple passage, and curl your lip
in proud disdain of what you now consider
foolish days of love-sick sentimentality;
but remember, withal, that in your long
career of painful experience, you can refer
to no period when you felt more happiness
more unadulterated joy, than that when
the being of your first ambition and love
lay trustingly in your arms. It is a point
in the life of each and all, who have experienced
it (and to none other are these
words addressed), which can never be
erased from the tablet of memory; and
though in after years we may affect to
deride it as silly and sentimental, it will
come upon us in our reflective moments
like a warm sunshine suddenly bursting
upon a late cold and gloomy landscape
and insensibly, as it were, our spirits will
be borne away, to live over again, though
briefly, the happiest moments of our existence.
The man who has passed the
prime and vigor of manhood without ever
having felt this—without this to look
back to—I pity; for he has missed the
purest enjoyment offered to mortal; and
his whole path of life must have been
through a sterile desert, without one garrer
blade or flower to relieve its barrer
aspect.
For some moments the heart of Lilian
beat rapidly against mine, and her tear
flowed hot and fast. I did not attempt to
restrain the latter, for I knew they would
bring relief to an overcharged soul, and I
rejoiced that she could weep. At length
they ceased, and Lilian spoke.
“I will not detain you longer, dear
Francis. Between you and I who know
each other so well, words are idle and
unmeaning, or at least, unexpressive of
our feelings. Avoid danger for your own
sake, and for the sake of her who loved
you; and do not forget that she will count
the days, the hours, ay, the minutes, of
your absence.”
“I will not, dearest Lilian,” I exclaimed,
straining her to my breast, and pressing
my lips again and again to hers. “I will
not forget what you have told me. I will
not forget there lives an angel to make
happy my return, and God send my return
may make her happy also! Adieu, dearest—
take heart—do not despond—and
Heaven grant our meeting may be soon
There, God bless you! and holy angels
guard you!” and taking a farewell salute,
I gently seated her as before, and rushed
from the cottage.
Two fiery horses stood saddled and
bridled at the door, pawing the earth
impatiently. Everything was ready for a
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
start; and snatching the bridle of one from
the hand of Teddy, I vaulted into the
saddle. The next moment I was dashing
away through the forest at a dangerous
speed, but one that could scarcely keep
pace with my thoughts.
CHAPTER III.
A RECKLESS RIDE—LUDICROUS APPEARANCE
OF TEDDY—KILL A BUCK—INDIANS—
FRIENDLY SIGNS—CLOSE QUARTERS—A
TALK—GIVE THEM TOBACCO—TREACHERY—
DEATH OF THE TRAITOR—PURSUE OUR
COURSE.
With the mind completely engrossed,
the body often acts mechanically, or by
instinct, and performs, without our knowledge
at the time, exactly what reason
would have dictated; and when some
trifling circumstance recalls us to ourself,
we arouse as from a dream, and are surprised
at what has been accomplished
during our brief alienation.
So was it with myself in the present
instance. On, on I sped as if riding for
life, my hand firmly upon the rein, guiding
unerringly my high-mettled beast, and yet
unconscious of anything external, with
thoughts wild and painful rushing through
my brain. How long or far I had ridden
thus, I do not exactly know; though
miles now lay between me and Oregon
city; nor how much longer I should have
continued at the same break-neck speed,
had my horse not stumbled and thus
broken the monotony of a steady ride, by
unseating and nearly throwing me over
his head.
Recovering my position, and reining my
steed to a halt, I found him covered with
foam, and very much blown from his late
run; and that I was upon a narrow upland
prairie, which stretched away before me
for several miles, fringed on either hand,
at no great distance, with a beautiful wood.
“Where am I!” was my first involuntary
exclamation—“how did I get here
with a whole neck? and where is Teddy?”
The last question found a more ready
answer than either of the preceding, in a
shout from the veritable Teddy O'Lagherty
himself. I looked behind and beheld
him coming as if on a race with death for
the last half hour of his existence. His
appearance was not a little ludicrous. His
body was bent forward at an angle of fortyfive
degrees, so as to allow him to grasp
the mane of the beast,—his only hope—
his feet having slipped from the stirrups
which were dangling against the animal's
flanks, and serving the purpose of spurs—
while his hat, for security, being held in
his teeth, smothered the shouts he was
making to attract my attention. Add to
this, that the horse had no guide but his
own will, that at every spring Teddy
bounced from the saddle to the imminent
danger of his neck, and greatly to the aid
of his digestive organs, and an idea of the
discomfiture of the poor fellow may be
formed, as his horse dashed up along side
of mine, and came to a dead halt.
It is said there is but one short step
from the sublime to the ridiculous, and I
certainly felt the force of the proverb on
the present occasion. I had been half
mad with distracting thoughts; but everything
was now forgotten, and I burst forth
in a roar of laughter, such as I am certain
had never startled those solitudes before.
“Be howly jabers!” cried Teddy, regaining
an upright position, with a face
the hue of a boiled lobster, “is ye mad
now, ye divil—beg pardon!—your honor
I maan. Howly jabers! what a ride!
Och! I'm done for—claan murthered
intirely—all pumice from me toes upward,
barring me body and head-piece, jist.”
“Why, Teddy,” returned I, as soon as
I could get calm enough to command my
voice, “what new feature of horsemanship
is this you have adopted? I am sure you
would make your fortune in any circus,
with such a heroic display of your animal
capacities.”
“Ah! ye may laugh and be d—plased
to yees; but it's me mother's own son as
feels more as crying, so it is. Fortune,
is it, ye mintioned! Be howly St. Patrick's
birthday in the morning! it's not
mesilf that'ud do the likes agin for twinty
on 'em. Och! I'm killed intirely—all
barring the braathing, as lingers still.”
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
“Well, well, Teddy, I trust you will
not have to repeat it,” pursued I laughing.
“But come—where do you think we are?”
“Think, is it? Ye ask me to think?
Sure, divil of a think I 'av in me now. I
lift it all on the road, that was no road at
all, but the worst traveled counthry I iver
put eyes on. We may be among the Hindoo
heathen, for all me knows conthrawise;
for not a blissed thing did I sae on
the journey, but r-rocks, traas and stumps,
and the divil knows what all, and thim a
going so fast I's could'nt git time to say
good-by to 'em.”
To the best of my judgment, we had
come about five miles, in a direction due
east. Far in the distance before me, I
now beheld the lofty, snow-crowned peak
of Mount Hood; and toward this, without
farther delay, we bent our steps, at a pace
strongly contrasting the speed which had
borne us hither.
“Why did you not call to me, when
you saw me riding at a rate so fearful?” I
inquired, as I rode along at a brisk trot.
“Call, is it?” replied Teddy. “Faith!
jist ax me lungs if I did'nt call, till me
breath quit coming for the strain upon'em.”
“And so you could not make me hear,
eh?”
“Make the dead hear! Och! I might
as well 'av called to a graveyard, barring
the looks of the thing. Was ye mad,
your honor?”
“O no, Teddy; only a little excited at
parting with my friends.”
“Ah! thim same parthings is mighty
har-r-d, now, so they is,” rejoined Teddy,
with a sigh.
“So you can speak from experience,
eh?”
“Be me troth, can I, now; and so can
Molly Stubbs, the swaat crathur, that she
is.”
“Did it break her heart, Teddy?”
“It's not asy for me to say, your honor;
but it broke her gridiron, and the ounly
one she had at that, poor dear!”
“Her gridiron!” I exclaimed, struggling
to repress my risible faculties, and
keep a grave face, for I saw Teddy was in
sober earnest, and apparently totally unaware
there was anything ludicrous in his
remark. “How did it affect the gridiron,
Teddy?”
“Why, ye sae now, she was jist holding
it betwaan her two fingers, and fixing for
a fry maybe, whin up I comes, and tapping
her under the chin, by raason of our
ould acquaintance, I sez:
“ `It's a blissed day I saw ye first, my
darling.'
“ `That it was, Misther O'Lagherty,' see
she.
“ `I wish that first maating could last
foriver,' sez I.
“ `And so do I,' sez she.
“ `But it wo'nt,' sez I; and thin
sighed, and she axed me what was the
mather.
“ `Oh! worra! worra!' I sez; `it'
about to part we is, Molly, dear.'
“ `Ye do'nt say the likes,' sez she; and
thin down come the gridiron, as if the
Ould Scratch was a riding it, smash upon
the stone harth, and into my arms pitched
Molly, wid a flood of tears that made me
look wathery for a long occasion.
“Now it's not what we did afterwards
I'm going to till at all, at all; but while
we both come sensible, our eyes besaw
the gridiron all broke, and not wort a ha'-pence.
Molly cried, she did, and I give
her a month's wages to ase her conscience
Musha, now, but parthings is har-r-rd
they is.”
In this and like manner I managed to
relieve my mind of many gloomy thoughts
which otherwise must have depressed it
I had parted the second time with Lilian
for a journey equally as full of peril as the
first, and, if anything, of a more indefinite
character. I was going in search of my
lost friend, it is true; but what little
chance had I, I thought, when I came to
look at it soberly, of finding him, even if
alive. I might travel thousands on thousands
of miles—be months, even years, on
the search—and yet be no nearer revealing
his locality than when I set out. If living,
it was a mere chance we should ever
meet again; and nothing, perhaps, but a
kind Providence could bring us together.
As may be inferred, when I quitted my
friends in Oregon City, I had no definite
plan arranged; and now that I was really
on the journey, the question naturally
arose as to what I should do, how first
to proceed, and where to begin. I had
resolved on engaging assistance, but where
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
was this to be found? For some time I
puzzled my own brain with the matter,
and then referred it to Teddy.
Though brought up in an humble sphere
of life, with very little education, Teddy
was nevertheless a keen, shrewd observer,
and of excellent judgment in matters
coming within the range of his intellect
and experience; and accordingly I relied
much upon his advice.
Having heard the case fully stated, with
the dignified gravity of a judge, and asked
several pertinent questions, he replied, that
our best course, in his humble opinion,
was to continue our present route as far as
Fort Hall, where we would be likely to
augment our number to our satisfaction,
and could then proceed in a southerly
direction and be guided by succeeding
events.
As this tallied exactly with my own
views, the plan was quickly adopted, and
I rode forward with great mental relief,
that I now had a fixed purpose, whether
right or wrong.
For several miles our course lay over
the upland prairie I have mentioned, and
then the ground changed and became
more rolling, which in turn gave place to
hills, sometimes sparsely and sometimes
densely wooded, interspersed with rocks,
gullies, and deep ravines, that greatly impeded
our progress. We halted to noon
in a little valley, through which, with a
roaring sound over its rocky bed, dashed
a bright stream of pure water, on whose
banks grew rich, green grass, of such
luxuriance as to satisfy the appetites of
our animals in a very short time.
While partaking of some plain food, of
which we had a small store, we amused
ourselves by overhauling our rifles, examining
their priming, as well as our other
weapons and ammunition, and seeing that
everything was in proper condition to meet
danger. Scarcely was this over, when in
a whisper Teddy called my attention to a
fine, fat buck, which was trotting along
within rifle shot. Quick as thought, I
drew up my piece and fired. The animal
instantly bounded forward a short distance,
reeled, and fell over upon its side.
The next moment we were on our way
to examine the carcass, and take from it
the most suitable portions for our wants.
We had scarcely proceeded twenty paces,
when Teddy grasping my arm, exclaimed:
“Injins, be jabers!”
And sure enough, just issuing from a
clump of bushes on the opposite side of
the valley, distant less than two hundred
yards, were six half-naked savages, armed,
two of them with rifles or muskets, and
the others with bows and arrows. As it
was impossible to divine their intentions,
only by their acts, and as they made
straight toward us, I snatched Teddy's
rifle from his hands, and ordering him to
load mine as quick as possible, raised it
to my shoulder, determined, should they
prove hostile, to sell my life dearly, and
die, if I must, with the satisfaction of having
done my duty in self-defence.
Perceiving my movement, they came to
a halt, and made me friendly signs, by extending
their open hands and then placing
them on their hearts. Dropping the muzzle
of my rifle, I did the same, and then
waited for them to come up, though, it
must be confessed, with not the most faith
imaginable in their amicable professions.
However, I kept well on my guard, and
by the time they had shortened the firstmentioned
distance between us by a hundred
paces, Teddy coolly announced that
two bullets were at their service, at any
moment they might choose.
Ere they joined us, I had made them out
by their costume and paint, to belong to
the Chinnook tribe, whose grounds lie due
north of Oregon city, on the opposite side
of the Columbia river. I had frequently
seen more or less of them in the village;
and had, in fact, purchased the horse,
mentioned as being stolen, from one of
their tribe; so that I now feared less a design
upon my life than upon my property.
The party in question were all inferior
beings, both in size and appearance; but
one seemed superior to the others, and
possessed of command. He approached
me in advance of his companions, and held
out his hand, which I accepted and shook
in a friendly manner. He next proceeded
to Teddy, and each in turn followed his
example. When all had done, the chief
addressed me in broken English:
“Where you come?”
“The village, yonder,” I replied, pointing
with my finger toward Oregon city.
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
“Where go?”
“Away beyond the mountains;” and I
pointed eastward.
“Good muskee (musket) got?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Good hoss got?”
I nodded again.
“Good present got, eh? poor Injin, eh?”
“I have nothing but some tobacco I can
spare,” I answered, of which I still had a
pretty good supply.
“Ugh! bacco good,” rejoined the chief,
with a smile.
This was in my sack on my horse, and
I was not sorry of an excuse to get to him
without showing myself suspicious of my
new acquaintances; for I had noticed
many a wistful glance cast in that direction,
and I feared lest, presuming on our
weakness, they might think proper to take
our animals by a coup de main, and leave
us to make the best of it. Accordingly, I
informed the savage where the article was,
and that I must go alone and get it.
“Why me no go?” he asked.
“Then your followers must stay beind.”
“Why dey no go?” he inquired, a little
angrily as I thought.
“Because I shall not permit it,” I replied,
decisively.
“Ugh! we so—you so,” he rejoined,
holding up first six
and then two fingers,
to indicate the number of each party.
“We strong—you weak, we go, eh?” and
he made a step forward.
In an instant the muzzle of my rifle was
pointed at his breast, and my finger on the
trigger, a movement imitated by Teddy,
who quickly covered another.
“Another step, chief,” I said, “and you
are a dead man,”
“Back, ye divils—ye dirthy blaggards!
d'ye hear the gintleman spaking to yees
now?” shouted Teddy.
This peremptory decision had a salutary
effect upon the white-livered knaves, who
instantly shrank cowering back, the chief
at once exclaiming, in a deprecating tone:
“No shoot. We no go. You go.”
Fearing treachery, we instantly started
for our horses, keeping our faces to our
foes, and our rifles leveled, prepared for
the worst. Having secured a few plugs
of the desired article, we both mounted
and returned to the savages, among whom
I made an immediate distribution. The
chief thanked me, and said they would
now go home. Accordingly, the whole
party set off in one direction, and we in
another, rifles in hand. We had scarcely
gone twenty paces, when crack went a
musket behind us, and a ball whizzed over
my head.
“The treacherous scoundrel!” I exclaimed;
and wheeling my horse as I
spoke, I beheld the whole six running and
dodging for their lives. Singling out the
villain that had fired at us, I drew up my
rifle and pulled trigger. The next moment
he lay howling in the dust, deserted
by his cowardly friends, whose speed
seemed greatly accelerated by this ever.
Teddy would have gone back for his
scalp, but this I would not permit, both
on account of its barbarity, and that by
delay we might encounter another party.
Setting spurs to our horses, therefore, we
dashed rapidly away, leaving our game
and foes behind us, and congratulating
ourselves upon our providential escape.
For the rest of the day our progress
was by no means slow, though the traveling
at times most execrable. The sun was
already throwing a long shade to the east-ward,
when, ascending a rough, stone
ridge, which we had been forced to do circuitously,
we beheld below us a beautiful
plain of miles in length and breadth
along the eastern portion of which towere
the lofty Cascade mountains, with the ever
lasting snow-crowned Mount Hood rising
grandly above all, till lost beyond the
clouds, glittering like a pinnacle of burnished
silver in the rays of the sinking sun.
It was a sublime and beautiful scene for
the painter and poet; and for many minutes
I paused and gazed upon it with feelings
of reverence and awe for the great
Author of a work so stupendous. A similar
feeling must have possessed Teddy
for he instantly crossed himself and repeated
the pater-noster.
Descending to the base of the hill, we
found a suitable place and encamped.
Though greatly fatigued, I did not rest
well; and either my thoughts, or the dismal
howl of surrounding wolves, or both,
combined with other circumstances, kept
me awake most of the night.
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
CHAPTER IV.
PASS MOUNT HOOD AT THE CASCADES—
ARRIVE AT FORT WALLA-WALLA—ENLIST
A FRENCH VOYAGEUR—FRENCH AND IRISH—
A QUARREL—A CHALLENGE—A FIGHT—
FOES BECOME FRIENDS.
Early the following morning we were
on our feet, and having partaken a slight
repast, we mounted and set off toward
Mount Hood. The traveling was now
good, being over a rolling prairie, which,
as we neared this collossal crection of nature,
gradually became more and more
level, so that our horses being refreshed
and full of fire, our speed was all that could
be desired even by the most impatient.
Before noon we reached the base of
Mount Hood; and if I had thought it sublime
at a distance, I now felt, as it were,
its sublimity in an awful degree. Up, up,
up it rose, until my eyes became strained
to trace its glistening outline in the clear,
blue ether. Its base surrounded with
sand, dead trees, and broken rocks, which
had accumulated there, perhaps, by the
torrents of ages, as they rushed and roared
down its jagged sides. For a considerable
distance above the plain, it was well
timbered; then came a long stretch of
green grass; then a long barren spot; and
then commenced the snow and ice, which
rose far beyond the ordinary hight of the
clouds—the whole combined, forming a
spectacle of which the pen can convey no
adequate idea. To the right and left
stretched away the Cascades, which, stupendous
of themselves, seemed as molehills
in compare with Mount Hood. Far
to the south rose the lofty peak of Mount
Jefferson, and as far to the north, on the
other side of the Columbia, that of Mount
St. Helens.
Having gazed upon the scene to my satisfaction,
I turned my horse to the right,
and began my ascent up a valley, formed
by the partial meeting of two hills, and
down the very bed of which roared a
sparkling streamlet. The farther I ascended,
the more wild the scene, the more
precipitous and dangerous the path. In
fact, on three occasions we were obliged
to dismount and lead our horses for a considerable
distance, and once our steps had
to be retraced for half a mile, in order to
pass around a frightful chasm. Near the
summit of the ridge we came upon a fine
spring, and an abundance of grass. Here
we encamped for the night, during which
I slept soundly.
The following day was cold and stormy,
with sleet and snow. This may surprise
the reader, who bears in mind that it was
now June; but snow-storms on the mountains
are not regulated altogether by the
seasons, and are frequently known to occur
in one part of the country, while in
another, not ten miles distant, the heat
may be excessive. As all are aware, the
higher we ascend, the colder the atmosphere;
and on many high mountains in
southern climes, there may be all kinds of
temperatures from the torrid to the frigid—
from the valley of dates, figs and oranges,
to the peaks of never-melting ice and
snow—and this within the distance of five
or ten miles.
Ere we raised our camp, I shot a mountain
goat, being the first game we had
killed since the buck of unfavorable memory.
Of this we prepared our breakfast,
and also put a few choice pieces in our
“possibles,” leaving the balance to the
wolves, which, in justice to the appreciation
they showed thereof, I must say, was
nothing but a pile of shining bones, ere
we were fairly out of sight. I now consulted
an excellent map, which I had
procured from one of the emigrants, and
referring to my compass, laid my course a
little north of east, so as to strike the
Dalles of Columbia, and thus the most
traveled route to and from Oregon City.
The day, as I have said, being stormy,
and our route lying over a wild, bleak
country, served not a little to depress the
spirits of both Teddy and myself. Nothing
of consequence occurred through the
day to distract our thoughts from their
gloomy channel, and but little was said by
either. By riding hard, we gained the
Dalles that night, and encamped on the
banks of the Columbia. Eager to arrive
at Fort Hall, we again pushed ahead on
the succeeding day, and following up the
Columbia, reached Fort Walla-Walla on
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
the third from our quitting the Dalles,
without any events worthy of particular
note.
This fortress, constructed on the plan
of Fort Laramie, described in “Prairie
Flower,” I shall pass without notice, other
than to say, it contained a small garrison
of resolute and daring adventurers, or
rather mountaineers and their squaw wives,
who preferred passing their lives here in
comparative case, at good wages, to the
privations and perils of trapping in the
wilderness.
Here I found a number of hardy fellows,
who had lately “come in,”—preparing to
set off again for the Blue Mountains—some
to hunt for game in the forests, and others
to trap in the streams. Here were also
several friendly Indians (friendly through
fear of the whites), the usual number of
traders, peddlers, one or two land speculators
and fur company agents, and one
French voyageur — all more or less engaged
in drinking, trafficking, and, gambling,
the usual routine of a gathering of
this kind.
Thinking it possible to raise a party
here, I made a proposition to several, but
found all had prior engagements. I next
made some inquiries concerning Black
George, and learned, much to my satisfaction,
that he had been seen quite recently
on the Blue Mountains, and that in all
probability I should find him at Fort Bois,
or Fort Hall, as he was then slowly taking
his way eastward.
“If you desire an excellent guide,” said
an agent to me, “let me recommend to
you Pierre Boreaux; who, though somewhat
eccentric at times, you will find most
faithful in the discharge of his duty. I
have tried him, sir, and know.”
“Just what I desire, exactly,” I replied.
“Come, then,” he said; and taking me
aside, he presented me to the individual in
question, who was none other than the
French voyageur previously mentioned.
He was a small, dapper personage, very
neat in his appearance, with a keen, restless
black eye, and a physiognomy more
inclined to merriment than melancholy.
His age was about forty, though he ever
took pains to appear much younger. His
penchant was for the wild and daring; and
never was he so well contented, as when
engaged in some perilous enterprise. This
taken in connection with his jovial turn
of mind, may at first seem parodoxical;
but it must be remembered, that most
persons incline less to their likes than their
opposites; and that the humorist is the
man who seldom smiles, while the man of
gravest sayings may be literally a laughing
philosopher. He was much addicted, too,
to taking snuff, of which he always managed
to have a good stock on hand, so
that his silver box and handkerchief were
in requisition on almost all occasions. He
spoke with great volubility, in broken English,
generally interlarded with French,
accompanied with all the peculiar shrugs
and gesticulations of his countrymen. He
was, in short, a serio-comical, singular
being of whom I can convey no better
idea than to let him speak and act for
himself.
“Ah, Monsieur,” he said in reply to
my salutation, taking a huge pinch of snuff
the while and bowing very politely; “ver
moche happe make you acquaintones,
Will you'ave von tam — vot you call him—
happeness, eh? — to take von leetle —
I forget him—so—(putting his thumb and
finger together, to indicate a pinch), avec
moi, eh?”
“Thank you,” I returned, “I never use
the article in that shape.”
“Ver sorre hear him. Vous remember
le grand Empereur Napoleone, eh?”
“Ay.”
“Ah! von plus great sheneral him
He take snoof, eh? Vell, you speak
now, you — vot you call him — bussiness,
eh?”
“I wish to engage you,” I replied, “to
go on a journey full of peril, in the capacity
of a guide.”
“Ou allez-vous?”
“How?”
“Ah, pardonnez-moi! I say, vere you
go?”
“To Mexico, perhaps.”
“Oui, Monsieur. I shall be ver moche
delight, I certainment assure you. Ven
you go, eh?”
“I leave here, en route for Fort Hall at
daylight to-morrow.”
Here the Frenchman took one or two
hasty pinches of his favorite, and closing
his box, said:
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
“Von leetle absence, Monsieur. I sall
'ave von ver moche pleasure;” and off he
skipped, as gay as a lark, to prepare himself
for the journey.
At daylight on the succeeding morning,
the Frenchman was at his post, well
mounted on a full blooded Indian pony,
armed to the teeth, and really looking
quite the warrior. Three minutes later
we had all passed the gate and were speeding
away.
This was the first meeting between
Teddy and Pierre, and I soon became
aware it was anything but a pleasant one,
particularly, on the part of Teddy, who
cast many a furtive glance upon the other,
expressive of dislike. What this arose
from -- whether from jealousy, national
prejudice, or contempt for the inferior
proportions of Pierre — I was at a loss to
determine. Never before had I seen animosity
to a fellow traveler so strongly depicted
on the features of the faithful Teddy.
It might be he fancied the Frenchman of
equal grade with himself, and was jealous
of his supplanting him in my favor, and
this seemed the most probable of the
three suggested causes. Pierre, however,
showed no ill will to the Irishman, but
merely returned his glances with a supercillious
look, as though he considered him
his inferior. But he could not long remain
silent; and so, after riding on
briskly for a short distance, he turned to
Teddy, and with a mischievous twinkle
in his small black eye, said, with much
suavity:
“Parlez vous Français?”
“Spake it in Inglish, ye spalpeen! and
thin a gintleman can answer yees,” replied
Teddy, reddening with vexation. “If it's
frog language ye's jabbering, sure it's not
mesilf as wants to know what ye says,
now.”
“Que voulez-vous, Monsieur?” inquired
the Frenchman, looking slyly at
me with a significant shrug, and secretly
enjoying the discomfiture of Teddy.
“Quack, quack, quack, kither hoben,”
rejoined Teddy, fiercely. “Sure, now, and
is it that ye can understand yourself, ye
tief! It's maybe smart, now, ye's afther
thinking yourself, by token ye can say
things I don't know the maaning of. And
so ye is smart, barring the foolish part,
which comprehinds the whole of yees.
Troth! can ye fight, Misther Frogeater?
Come, now, that's Inglish; and by St.
Pathrick's bones! I'll wager ye're too
cowardly to understand it.”
“Come, come, Teddy,” I said, “you
are getting personal. I can allow no
quarreling.”
“Och! there's no danger, your honor,”
returned Teddy, turning upon Pierre
a withering look of contempt. “It's not
inny frog-eater as is going to fight his
betthers; and sure it's not Teddy O'Lagherty
as can fight alone, jist.”
Meantime there had been a quiet, half
smile resting on the features of the Frenchman,
as though he was secretly enjoying
a fine joke. Even the abusive language
of the excited Irishman did not appear to
disturb his equanimity in the least. There
he sat, as cool and apparently as indifferent
as if nothing derogatory to his fighting
propensities had been uttered, or at
least understood by him. I was beginning,
in fact, to think the latter was the
case, or else that Teddy was more than
half right in calling him a coward, when
I became struck with a peculiar expression,
which suddenly swept over his
bronzed features, and was superseded
by the same quiet smile — as we sometimes
at noon-day see a cloud flit over a
bright landscape, shading it for an instant
only.
Suddenly Pierre reined his pony close
along side of Teddy, and in a very bland
voice, as if begging a favor, said:
“Monsieur, you say someting 'bout fight,
ch? Sare, I sall 'ave le plus grande delight
to soot you with un — vot you call him —
peestole, eh?”
“The divil ye will, now?” replied
Teddy, with a comical look of surprise.
“Sure, thin, an' it's mesilf that 'ud like
to be doing the same by you, and ye was
wort the powther it 'ud cost.”
“Sare,” returned the Frenchman with
dignity, “in my countre, ven gentilshommes
go for kill, dey nevare count de cost.
I soot you—I cut you troat—I sharge you
noting.”
“Well, be jabers! since ye've got your
foul tongue into Inglish, and be — to
yees! I'll do the same for your dirthy
self,” retorted Teddy; “for it's not Teddy
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
O'Lagherty as 'll be behind aven a nager
in liberalithies of that sort, now.”
“You are both too liberal of your
valor by half,” I rejoined, laughing at
what I thought would merely end in
words.
But I was soon convinced of my error;
for scarcely had the expression left my
lips, when the Frenchman. sprang from his
pony, and strking his hand on his pistols,
exclaimed:
“Je l'attaquerai: I vill 'ave at you,
Monsieur, ven you do me von leetle honoor,
sare.”
“It's not long you'll have to wait thin,”
cried Teddy; and before I could interfere—
or in fact was fully aware of what was
taking place — he had dismounted and
drawn a pistol.
“Tin paces, ye blaggard!” he cried;
“and may howly Mary be marciful to
yees!”
“Hold!” I shouted. “Rash men,
what are you about? I forbid —”
Here I was interrupted by the reports
of two pistols, followed by a stifled cry of
pain from Pierre, who instantly dropped
his weapon, and placed his hand to his
shoulder. The next moment I was on my
feet, and rushing to his assistance, accompanied
by Teddy, whose features, instead
of anger, now exhibited a look of
commiseration.
“Are you hurt, Pierre?” I inquired, as
I gained his side.
“Ver leetle scratch,” replied the Frenchman,
taking away his hand covered with
blood.
I instantly tore away his garments, and
ascertained that the ball of Teddy had
passed quite through the fleshy part of his
arm near the shoulder, but without breaking
a bone or severing an artery.”
“A lucky escape, Pierre,” I said.
He merely shrugged his shoulders, and
coolly proceeded to take snuff, with an indifference
that surprised me. When he
had done, he turned to Teddy with:
“Vill you 'ave von more — vot you
call him — le plus grand satisfactione,
eh?”
“Sure, and it's mesilf as is not over parthicular
inny ways. If ye's satisfied, I'm
contint — or conthrawise, as plases ye
most.”
“Vell, then, suppose we shake hand,
eh?” rejoined Pierre. “I soot you—you
soot me. Ve'ave both satisfactione, eh?”
and the next moment these two singular
beings were pleasantly engaged in complimenting
each other on his bravery.
O, curious human nature! From that
moment Pierre Boreaux and Teddy O'Lagherty
were sworn friends for life—non
did I ever hear an angry word pass between
them afterward.
CHAPTER V.
PASS FORT BOIS—THE HOT SPRINGS—A CAPITAL
JOKE — SUPERSTITION OF TEDDY—
“THE DIVIL'S TAE-POT” —A NIGHT ATTACK—
STRATAGEM OF THE INDIANS FOILED
BY PIERRE—FOE PUT TO FLIGHT — FOUR
SCALPS—A PACK OF WOLVES—IN DANGER
OF BEING DEVOURED—A DISMAL NIGHT
OF IT.
Pursuing our course along the banks
of the Walla-Walla, we passed Dr. Whitman's
station, and camped the following
night in a romantic dell at the foot of a
ridge adjoining the Grand Round. In the
course of the evening we were visited by
several Indians, with whom we held a
small traffic for provisions. For fear of
evil consequences, we kept well on out
guard, but they displayed no hostile intentions.
Pierre complained somewhat of
his arm, which I had bandaged at the time
as well as circumstances would permit.
I advised him to consult the Indians, who
are known to be great proficients in the
healing art. He did so, and the result
proved highly beneficial; so much so.
that he was able to use it sooner than I
expected.
The next day we crossed the Grand
Round, (a delightful valley of twenty miles
in extent, watered by a pleasant stream,)
also the Blue Mountains, and descended
into the valley of the Snake River. The
scenes we passed over were, many of them,
wild, and some of them romantic in the
extreme; but as more important matters
press me, I cannot pause to describe them.
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
The Indians we now beheld on every side
of us—but they offered no violence. The
third day from crossing the Grand Round
we reached Fort Bois, where we passed
the night.
The next morning we pursued our journey,
having learned, meantime, that Black
George, for whom I made particular inquiries,
had passed here a few days before,
in company with two other trappers, on
their way to Fort Hall. This was cheering
news to me, and we pushed forward
as fast as circumstances would permit, in
the hope of overtaking him.
About noon of the third day from leaving
Fort Bois, we came upon some half
a dozen fine-looking springs, when Teddy
declared he must quench his thirst.
As he descended from his horse, the
Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and
gave me a very significant wink.
“What do you mean, Pierre?” I inquired,
fully at a loss to comprehend what
seemed to him a capital joke.
“Paix! le diable!” he exclaimed, laying
his hand on my arm and pointing to
Teddy, who, having reached a spring, was
just in the act of bending down to the
water. “Monsieur sall see.”
“See?” I repeated.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“What shall I see?”
“Och! howly murther! be St Pathrick!
jabers!” cried Teddy at this moment,
springing to his feet and running toward
us with all his fleetness, holding his tongue
with one hand, and pressing the other upon
his forehead. “Och! murther! I'm dead
intirely—bit—ate up—claan killed, I is!”
“What is the matter?” I inquired, unable
to comprehend the meaning of such
strange actions, while Pierre leaned forward
on his saddle and held both hands
upon his ribs, fairly screaming with laughter.
“Mather, is't?” rejoined Teddy. “Musha!
but it's mather intirely. Me tongue's
burnt out of me, jist, barring about sax
inches on't.”
“Burned, Teddy?”
“Ay, burnt your honor — that's the
wor-r-rd, now. Sure, that's the divil's
pool, and so it is—and hell must be hereabouts.
Och! but I'm in a hurry to lave
the spot betimes;” and springing into his
saddle he rode away, in spite of my calls
to the contrary, as fast as his beast could
carry him.
“What is it, Pierre?” I exclaimed; but
Pierre was too much convulsed to answer
me; and dismounting, I approached the
miraculous water myself.
Now I understood the joke; and to do
myself justice, I must say I so far imitated
the Frenchman, that I was unable to quit,
the spot for at least ten minutes. In his
eager desire for a cool, refreshing draught,
Teddy had plunged his face into, and
gulped a mouthful of boiling water, from
what are known as the Hot Springs. Of
these there are some five or six, the water
of which bubbles up clear and sparkling,
and, all meeting, form a small stream,
which rolls away with a pleasing murmur.
No wonder Teddy, not understanding the
phenomenon, and being superstitious too,
should imagine Old Nick had something
to do with it.
“Vell, you see, eh?” exclaimed Pierre,
as I remounted. “By gar! him von ver
moche good joke. He tink him von diable,
eh?” and he ended with another
hearty laugh, in which I was forced to
join.
About three miles further on we overtook
Teddy, whose running ardor had
cooled down to a quiet walk.
“Ah, faith!” said he, dolefully, “it's
mighty feared I's beginning to git, that
ye'd not come at all, at all.”
“Why so, Teddy?”
“Oh, worra! worra! that I should iver
live to taste the divil's pool! And did ye
sae him, body and bones, your honor?—
and how did he look, if it's all the same
to yees, and he no forbid your tilling raasonably?”
“Why, Teddy, there was nothing to be
alarmed at;” and I proceeded to explain
the mystery. “It's a very natural phenomenon,
I assure you.”
“Nath'ral, is it? Och! thin I have it,
'pon me sowl!”
“Have what?”
“Why sure, your honor, I sae claan
through it.”
“Well, what do you see, Teddy?”
“Musha! but it's the divil's tae-pot.”
“Tea-pot?”
“Ah! troth and it is. Ould Sathan is
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
at the bottom of it, does ye mind! He
haats the wather there, now, to coax saints
to dhrink tae wid him, the spalpeen! and
thin he'll make the most of em, d'ye sae,
your honor? Och! it's a lucky man Teddy
O'Lagherty is for gitting off so asy,
barring he's more unlucky by token he
wint to the place at all, at all.”
It had become a fixed fact with Teddy,
which all my jests and arguments failed to
alter, that the Hot Springs and his Satanic
majesty were indissolubly connected. But
this did not lessen the joke, which for a
long time afterward served Pierre and myself
as a specific for blue devils and ennui.
As I said before, we were now traveling
through a country thickly peopled with
savages. What we had seen of these appeared
to be friendly; but knowing the
treacherous nature of many, we felt that
self-preservation demanded we should at
all times be on our guard. For this purpose,
our arms were always ready to our
hands in the day time, and at night each
took his turn of standing sentinel. Thus
far we had escaped all difficulty; but Pierre
often warned us not to be too sanguine of
reaching Fort Hall without a brush of some
kind, as he well knew the nature of those
surrounding us.
The sun was just sinking behind the
Blue Mountains, when we came to a small
stream—a tributary of Snake River—that
took its devious course through a valley
between two precipitous ridges, and thence
through a canon of a thousand feet in
depth. The valley was shaded by large
trees of various kinds, and was romantic
in its appearance. It contained good grazing
also, and good water, and this made
it a desirable camp-ground. Hoppling
our horses and setting them free, we kindled
a fire, around which we squatted to
cook our meat, smoke our pipes, and fill-up
the intervals with the most amusing
subjects, among which Teddy and his
“divil's tae-pot” came in for their full
quota of mirthful comment.
At length we began to grow drowsy,
and having seen our animals tethered
within the circle of the fire, and it being
Pierre's turn to stand guard, Teddy and I
threw ourselves upon the ground, our
blankets rolled around us, and soon were
fast asleep. For an hour or two everything
passed off quietly, when Pierre awoke me
with a gentle shake.
“Ver sorre, Monsieur, to—vot you call
him—deesturb you, eh?—but de tam Injen—
sacre le diable!”
“Well,” said I, starting up, “what is
it? Are we attacked?” and at the same
time I awoke Teddy.
“By gar!” returned the Frenchman,
“I see von leetle—vot you call him—
sneaker, eh? Him creep—creep—creep—
and I tink I wake you, sare, and soot
him, by tam!”
“Faith, that's it!” cried Teddy, grasping
his rifle and springing to his feet:
“That's it, now! Shoot the haathen!”
By this time I was fully aroused to the
sense of danger; and quickly learning
from Pierre where he had seen the savage,
I grasped my rifle and sprang beyond the
fire-light, in an opposite direction, followed
by my companions. We had not gained
ten paces, when crack, crack, went some
five or six muskets, the balls of which,
whizzing over our heads, did not tend to
lessen our speed. However, we reached
the covert unharmed, and for the time
considered ourselves safe. We turned to
reconnoiter; but not a sign of a living
thing could we see save our horses, which
stood with ears erect, trembling and snorting,
as if conscious of a hidden foe.
For an hour we remained in this manner,
when, concluding the enemy had departed,
I proposed returning to the fire.
“Hist!” whispered Pierre, grasping
my arm. “You sall see, Monsieur.”
And he was right; for not ten minutes
afterward, he silently directed my attention
to some dark objects lying flat upon
the ground, which, with all my experience
and penetration, I could not believe were
savages, until I perceived them gradually
near our horses. Then I became alarmed,
lest, reaching them, they might speedily
mount and escape, leaving us to make the
best of a perilous and toilsome journey on
foot.
“What is to be done, Pierre? I fear
we are in a bad fix.”
“Je me couche—je tire fur lui: I lie
down, sare—I soot at him. You sall see.
Wait von leetle minneet. Ven you hears
my cannon, den you soot and run at him
as le diable.”
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
Saving this, Pierre glided away as
noiselessly as an Indian, and I saw nothing
more of him for several minutes. Meantime,
Teddy and I kept our eyes intently
fixed upon our stealthy foes; and our rifles
in rest, ready to give them their deadly
contents at a moment's warning. Slowly,
like a cat creeping upon her game, did
these half naked Indians, serpent-like,
steal toward our animals, every moment
lessening the distance between them and
the objects of their desires. I began to
grow nervous. What had become of
Pierre! If he intended to do anything,
now I thought was the time. A few moments
and it would be too late; and acting
upon this thought, I drew a bead upon
the most advanced savage, and was about
pulling the trigger, when the latter suddenly
bounded to his feet, uttered a yell
of delight, and sprang toward the now
frightened animals, imitated in his maneuver
by some ten or twelve others.
“Good Heaven! all is lost!” I exclaimed,
bitterly.
The words had scarcely passed my lips,
when bang went a pistol from among the
horses; and the foremost savage—the one
I had singled out, and who was on the
point of grasping one of the tether ropes—
bounded into the air, with a horrible
yell, and fell back a corpse. This was
wholly unlooked for by his companions,
and checked for an instant those pressing
on behind. Remembering Pierre's request,
I whispered Teddy to “throw” his
man and charge. Both our rifles spoke
together, and down tumbled two more.
At the same moment Pierre's rifle sent
another to his account; and simultaneously
springing forward, all three of us made
the welkin ring with our shouts of joy and
defiance. This was the grand coup de
grace of the night. The Indians were
alarmed and bewildered. They had
counted on certain success in stealing our
horses without the loss of a man. Four
had fallen in as many seconds; and fancying
themselves in an ambuscade, they
turned, with wild yells of affright, and
disappeared in every direction; so that by
the time I had joined Pierre, we were
masters of the field, and not an unwounded
foe in sight.
“You see hoss safe, Monsieur,” said
Pierre, hurriedly, as we met; “and I see
to tam Injen, eh?” and without waiting a
reply, he darted forward, and the next
moment was engaged in tearing off the
bloody scalps of the slain.
As every mountaineer considers this his
prerogative, I did not interfere, but ordering
Teddy to assist me, cut the lariats and
led our horses back into the darkness, from
fear of another attack, in which we might
come out second best. In a few minutes
Pierre approached me leisurely, and laughingly
said:
“Tout va bien: All pe vell, sare;” and
he held up to the light four bloody scalps.
“Von, two, tree, not pe dead, I kill him.
Good for—vot you call him—stealer, eh?—
ha, ha, ha!” and taking out his box, he
deliberately proceeded to take snuff with
his bloody fingers, adding, by way of
accompaniment: “Von tam ver moche
exsallant joke, him—ha, ha, ha! Sacre!
me tink him get von leetle tam—vot you
call him—astonishment, eh? By gar!
ver moche good.”
As we did not consider it prudent to
venture again within the fire-light, we decided
to remain where we were through
the night, and guard against surprise. All
was dark around us, except in the direction
of the roaring fire, which, flickering
to the passing breeze, made the scene of
our late encampment look dismal enough.
To add to its gloom and cheerlessness, we
were presently greeted with the distant
howl of a hungry pack of wolves. Every
moment these howls grew louder, showing
the animals were approaching the spot,
while our horses snorted and became so
restless we could scarcely hold them.
Nearer and nearer came the hungry beasts
of prey, till at length we could perceive
their fiery eyeballs, and occasionally catch
a glimpse of their bodies, as they hovered
around the circle of the fire, fearing to approach
the carcasses they so much coveted.
For an hour or two they prowled and
howled around us, “making night hideous
with their orgies,” while the fire gradually
growing less and less bright, increased
their boldness accordingly.
At last one, unable longer to bear the
keen pangs of hunger, leaped forward
and buried his teeth and claws in the carcass
of one of our late foes. The others
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
followed his example, and in less than a
minute as many as fifty of these ravenous
animals were growling, fighting, gnashing
their teeth, and tearing the flesh from the
bones of the dead Indians.
Pierre now informed me we were in imminent
danger of being attacked ourselves,
as, having once tasted blood, and their
appetites being rather sharpened than
appeased, they would only become more
bold in consequence. To my inquiry as
to what should be done, he replied that we
must continue to kill one of their number
as fast as he might be devoured by his
companions; and setting the example, he
shot one forthwith. Sure enough! no
sooner had the beast fallen, than the rest
sprang upon and devoured him. By that
time my rifle was loaded, and I knocked
over another, which met the same fate.
In this manner we kept firing alternately
for a couple of hours, during which time
the old stock was replenished by new
comers, until I began to fancy all of the
genus would be present before daylight.
But at last one after another got satisfied,
and slunk away licking his chops. No
new ones appeared, and ere the stars grew
dim, nothing was visible of the last night's
butchery but a collection of clean-licked,
shiny bones. While the fire lasted, we
could see to take sight; but after that
went out, we fired at random; though,
knowing the exact location of the beasts,
our shots generally proved successful in
killing or wounding.
When morning again put a smiling face
upon the recent sable earth, we mounted
our horses and quitted the loathsome spot,
thanking God for our providential deliverance.
CHAPTER VI.
ARRIVE AT FORT HALL—FIND BLACK GEORGE—
ENLIST HIM WITH THREE OTHERS —
SOME NEWS OF PRAIRIE FLOWER—A STORM—
UNDER WAY—A TURBULENT STREAM—
DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT OF PIERRE—ALL
SAFE AT LAST.
It was a warm, pleasant afternoon in
June, that we came in sight of Fort Hall,
which we hailed with three cheers of delight;
and setting spurs to our horses, in
less than half an hour we rode gaily within
the gates.
As we entered the area, which, though
much smaller, was fashioned like Fort
Laramie, I perceived a small group of
mountaineers or trappers, among whom
were two or three Indians, all apparently
engaged in some important traffic. The
next moment I heard a well known voice
exclaim:
“It's done gone then, or I'm no snakes;
and heyar's what never backs for nobody
and nothin.”
The next moment the speaker sauntered
toward me, just as I had dismounted from
my horse. As he approached, he looked
me steadily in the face a moment, and then
springing forward with hand extended and
flashing eyes, fairly shouted:
“Bosson—for a thousand wild-cats—I'll
be dog-gone ef 'tain't;” and ere the sentence
was concluded, my hand was suffering
under the powerful but welcome pressure
of that of Black George. “Well,”
he added, “I'll be teetolly rumflumuxed,
ef I don't think you're a trump, and a ace
o' diamonds at that. Whar d'ye come
from now, and which way goin? ef it's not
tallied on a private stick.”
“Direct from Oregon City,” I answered,
by no means backward in displaying
my delight at meeting him again.
“Whar's the gals?”
“Left them all behind me.”
“Augh! 'Spect you left your heart
thar too, eh?”
“Possibly.”
“I'd swear it. Well, hoss, don't blame
ye. Them's about as nice human picters
as ever this nigger seed. Been thirty year
younger, might hev got into deep water
thar myself, and lost the whole kit. Howsomever,
this coon never tried treein a gal
but once't—and Suke Harris soon blowed
damp weather on to his powder, and it
warn't no shoot no how—augh! Well,
well,” he added, with something like a sigh,
“them's by-gones any how, and 'spect it's
all for the best—'case I'm an ole dog, and
lead a wanderin life; and when I kind o'git rubbed out—why, ye see, I haint got
no pups nor nuthin to be a barkin over my
last roost.”
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
Here Black George coughed a little, and
turned aside his head, when his eye chanced
upon Teddy and Pierre, who, having
dismounted at another part of the enclosure,
were now approaching to join me.
“Why, hello, hoss! how goes it?” continued
the old trapper, addressing the
Irishman, and extending his hand. “And
here's Pierre too, lookin as nateral 's a
young cub; and I'll be dog-gone of that
same old smell-box aint jest whar it used
to was, a reg'lar fortress, makin his fingers
runners 'tween it and his nose. Augh!
gin us a chaw, and see the gintcel done.”
“Faith! ye're the same ould chap,” rejoined
Teddy, grasping one hand, while
the Frenchman took the other. “Sure,
an' it's good for sore eyes to sac the likes
o' ye again.”
“Ah! Monsieur Blake Shorge,” added
Pierre, “it give me von ver moche le plus
grande delight, for—vot you call him—
discoverment you, eh? Ver exceeding
tam glad, by gar!”
As soon as the congratulations were
over on all sides, Black George turned to
me with:
“Well, Bosson, hearn anything o' your
pardner?”
“Nothing; and I am now on my way
to hunt him out, if among the living.”
“A long tramp, and no beaver, or I'm
no prophet.”
“You think it impossible for me to find
him, then?”
“Well, hoss, it's hard sayin what's unpossible;
but I'd jest as soon think o'
huntin for a singed tail beaver, I would,
and odds on my side at that.”
Here I entered into an explanation of
how he was lost, and wound up by asking;
“And now do you not think it possible
he was taken prisoner?”
“Nothin again it, as I knows on.”
“And if taken prisoner by the Mexicans,
is it not possible—nay, more, is it
not probable—he was sold into slavery?”
“Why,” replied Black George, who
seemed struck with this last suggestion,
“I'll gin in it sort o' edges that way, that's
a fact--I'll be dog-gone ef it don't! But
'spose it's all so—how's you to diskiver
him?—'case it looks a heap mixed to this
child, to see it in the cl'arest light.”
“That is just what I wish to know my
self, and for that purpose have started on
the search—being the least to my mind, I
could do under the circumstances.”
“Then you're bound sothe'ard, 'spose?”
“Exactly; and desire you to join me,
with three as good men as you can select.”
“Ah, yes; but ye see, it's beaver time
now, and—”
“I understand; but I am willing to pay
you as much as you could make in your
regular vocation.”
“You is, hey? Well, come, now, that's
a sensible and feelin speech, and you
couldn't hev bettered the gist on't, ef you'd
a splattered it over with all the big words
as is English. I like a straight for'ardtoe-the-mark
way o' dealin—I'll be dogged
ef I don't!—and bein's I know you're
a gentleman—why, I'll jest tell ye I'm in,
ef it takes all my hair to put her through.
Besides, thar's a chance to raise hair, and
that's a sport as this nigger al'ays had a
nateral incline for. I've jest got in from
the Blues, and made a sale of some hides—
so I'm ready to travel and fight jest
when you speak it. Got any bacca?”
“Can you raise me three more of the
same sort?”
“I reckon.”
“Do so; and we will start, if possible,
to-morrow mornin.”
“Well, that'll jest save me a big spree—
augh! I say, boys,” he continued,
drawing from the pocket of his hunting
shirt a small canteen, “got the critter here—
and so 'spose we take an inside wet, eh?
Spect 'twont hurt your feelings none;” and
he set an example which was very accurately
followed.
“By-the-by, George,” said I, “have
you seen or heard anything of Prairie
Flower, since that night when she appeared,
gave the alarm, and disappeared so
mysteriously?”
“Jest what I's a-goin to ax you. No,
I haint never sot eyes on her purty face
sence; but I hearn a trapper, as come
from the sothe, say as he had seed her
down to Taos way, and all her Injins was
along. She was axin him, now I come to
remember, ef he'd heard o' a prisoner
bein taken that-a-ways and sold to the
mincs.”
“Well, well, what did he reply?” exclaimed
I, as a sudden thought struck me.
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
“That he'd hearn o'several—but none
in partikelar.”
“Heaven bless her! I understand it
all!”
“All what?” inquired Black George.
“Why, when I saw Prairie Flower last,
I informed her of the fate of Charles Huntly;
and ten to one she has set off to search
for him!”
“That's it, for my old muley!” cried
Black George, not a little excited. “I've
said afore she was a angel, and heyar's a
a possum what don't speak without knowin.
Lord bless her! I could love her
like darnation, jest for that. Ef she aint
one on'em, why was peraries made, hey?”
A few minutes more were spent in like
conversation, when Black George parted
from me to engage some companions for
our journey. Bidding Teddy look to our
horses, I entered the common reception
room of the fort, greatly elated at the intelligence
just received. Sweet Prairie
Flower! She was doubtless at that very
moment engaged in an undertaking which
should have been performed by me long
before; and I could not but condemn myself,
for what seemed either a great oversight
or gross neglect of duty. And should
Heaven favor her, and she discover my
friend and set him free—what a debt of
gratitude would he owe her for saving him
twice! first from death, and secondly from
a slavery worse than death. And should
this happen, what would be the result to
two beings, who, whatever might be outward
seemings, loved each other with a
passion strong, and, on the part of Prairie
Flower at least, imperishable! Sweet,
mysterious being! I could hardly realize
she was only mortal; for there was something
in her every look, thought, and deed,
which spoke a divinity—a something ennobled
above mere frail humanity.
In the course of an hour, Black George
rejoined me, bringing with him three largeboned,
robust, good-looking fellows, who,
he informed me, were ready to follow me
at a fair remuneration. In a few minutes
everything was settled, when each departed
to make preparations for an early start
on the morrow.
A storm, however, set in during the
night, which raged with such violence the
next morning, that I was feign to defer
my departure for twenty-four hours longer.
To me the day wore tediously away;
for my mind was continually harping on
my lost friend and Prairie Flower; and
now that I had gained some intelligence
of the latter, I could not avoid connecting
the two, in a way to raise my hopes in a
great degree; and consequently I was
doubly anxious to be on the way.
But if the delay proved tedious to me,
not so was it with my companions, who
had a jolly time of it over their cups and
cards; and drank and played, till it
became a serious matter for them to
distinguish an ace of trumps from a gill
of whisky.
However, the day went at last, as all
days will, and I was gratified the second
morning with a peep at old Sol, as he rose
bright and glorious in the east. I hastened
to rouse my companions—who were rather
the worse for the previous day's indulgence,
but who turned out as well as
could be expected, all things considered—
and in a short time we were all mounted
and in motion, a goodly company of seven.
Shaping our course southward, a couple
of hours brought us to Port Neuf river,
which we found very turbulent from the
late storm, and in consequence very difficult
to cross. After examining the banks
for some distance, and finding no good
ford we determined on swimming it. This
was no easy undertaking; for the current
ran very swift, and loudly roared, as its
flashing but muddy waters dashed furiously
against the rocks, which here and there
reared their ugly heads, as if with a halfformed
intention of damning and forcing
it to another channel.
“Monsieur,” said Pierre to me as we
stood hesitating what to do; “you see
tother bank, eh?”
I nodded assent.
“Sacre! by tam! now I tell you me
like him. I sall 'ave von grande satisfaction
of put my foot dere—or I sall be
von—by gar! vot you call him—dead,
wet homme, eh?”
As he spoke, he spurred his horse
forward, and the next moment the fiery
animal was nobly contending with an
element, which, in spite of his struggles,
rapidly bore him down on its bosom, while
his rider, as if to show his utter contempt
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
for danger, sat erect on his back, coolly
engaged in taking snuff.
“H—!” exclaimed Black George,
with a grin. “ef thar aint that old smell-box
agin! Ef ever he goes under, he'll
do it with a sneeze. Augh!”
“Sure, and its throublesome he finds
the wather now, I'm thinking,” observed
Teddy.
“Good heavens! he is indeed in difficulty!”
I exclaimed. “Quick! let us
ride down the bank and be prepared to
give him aid.”
And in fact our aid came none too soon;
for the stream had borne both rider and
horse down to a narrow channel, where
the water rushed furiously over the rocks,
and being partially obstructed below, formed
an eddy or whirlpool of a very dangerous
character, in which the beast was
floundering and vainly striving to reach
either bank. By this time Pierre had
become aware of his danger, and was
exerting his utmost skill to keep his seat,
and guide his animal safely out of the
fearful vortex. Just below him was a narrow
canon, of considerable depth, and at its
farther termination a slight fall, where the
water seethed and foamed with great violence,
after which it became comparatively
tranquil, as it spread out on a broad level,
to again concentrate its greatest force at
a point still below. As we reached the
bank along side of the guide, we all
dismounted, when Black George, leaping
upon a steep rock overhanging the stream,
instantly threw him a rope which he had
selected for the purpose. Pierre caught
one end of it eagerly, and fearing to remain
longer where he was, instantly abandoned
his horse and plunged into the water. The
next minute we had drawn him ashore,
though not entirely scatheless, as the
whirling current had several times thumped
him against the rocks, and bruised his
limbs and body in several places.
Pierre, however, seemed to care more
for his horse than himself; and no sooner
had he found a safe footing on terra firma,
than giving himself a shake, he cried,
“Mine hoss, by gar!” and darted away to
the rescue of the unfortunate brute, which
was now being hurried against his will
through the canon. We all followed Pierre
down the stream, but ere we gained the
tranquil part of the river before spoken of.
the animal had passed safely over the falls,
and, with a joyful whicker, was now fast
swimming to the shore, where he was
soon caught by his owner, who expressed
his joy in sundry shouts and singular antics.
“Ah! sacre!” cried the Frenchman, as
he remounted his gallant pony, shaking
his hand with an air of defiance at the
heedless river: “I sall 'ave von le plus
satisfactione again try you tam drowning;”
and no sooner said, than he spurred into
the liquid element, and succeeded, after
some difficulty, in gaining the opposite
shore, an example we all safely imitated.
We now struck one of the most northern
points of the Bear River Mountains;
and for the rest of the day pursued our
course without accident, over steep ridges,
through dangerous defiles, dense thickets,
deep gorges and ravines, passed yawning
chasms, and all the concomitants of wild,
mountain scenery. Sometimes we stood
on a point which commanded an extensive
view of a country of great beauty and
grandeur—where the soul could expand
and revel amid the unchanged fastnesses
of a thousand years—and anon we were
completely hidden from the sight of anything
but the interwoven shrubbery,
through which we diligently labored our
way. At last we came to a fine spring,
around which grew a limited circle of
excellent grass, presenting the appearance
of a spot, which, at some remote period,
had been cultivated. Here we encamped,
built a fire, ate our suppers, and slept to
the music of howling wolves.
CHAPTER VII.
BEAR RIVER MOUNTAINS — BEAR RIVER —
TRAPPING — REMARKS ON THE TRAPPERS—
A STAMPEDE—ALARM—FLIGHT—MORE
SCARED THAN HURT — THE JOKE ON ME —
STAND TREAT.
It is unnecessary to weary the reader
with farther detail of mountain life. Unless
in cases of extreme peril, from savages or
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
wild beasts, the seenes are monotonous;
and enough I think has already been
recorded to give a correct idea of life as
it is, with all its dangers and hardships,
beyond the boundaries of civilization. I
may therefore be permitted to press forward—
annihilate time and space—only
pausing occasionally to give something
new, or out of the regular routine of
every day adventure.
It was my intention on leaving Fort
Hall, to make the best of my way toward
Taos — a small Mexican village, much
frequented by mountaineers, situated in
the country of Texas, on the western side
of an arm of the Green Mountains, some
fifty or sixty miles north of Santa Fé, and
on a small tributary of the Rio Grande.
This was to be my first destination, and
where I was in hopes to gain some intelligence
of my friend, from the many adventurers
there collected — the traveling
representatives of all the territories as
well as Mexico. It was possible, too, I
might fall in with Leni Leoti (which the
reader will bear in mind is the Indian
name of Prairie Flower), and her tribe,
from whom I had sanguine expectations of
gaining some information, either good or
bad. If Prairie Flower had, as I inferred
from what Black George imparted, actually
been in search of Charles Huntly, I could
at once gain the result and extent of her
operations, and shape my own accordingly.
With this view of the matter, as may
readily be supposed, I felt no little anxiety
to see her, and on no route, to my thinking,
would I be more likely to find her, than on
the one I had chosen and was now pursuing.
Making the best of our way over the
hills, we struck the Bear river on the third
day from leaving Fort Hall. This river,
which takes its rise in the very heart of
the mountain range to which it gives name,
presents the curious phenomenon of a
stream running adverse ways, and nearly
parallel to itself, for a distance of from
one to two hundred miles. Beginning, as
just stated, in the very center of the Bear
River Mountains, it dashes away northward
on its devious course, for a hundred
and fifty or two hundred miles, and then,
encircling a high ridge with the bend of
an ox how, runs southward nearly the
same distance, enlarging with numerous
tributaries, and empties at last into the
Great Salt Lake, within fifty or seventy-five
miles of its own head waters. Formerly
this stream was much resorted to
by trappers, who here found beaver very
numerous, and mountain game in abundance.
Beaver dams, in process of decay,
may here and there be seen at the present
day, and, at rare intervals, a thriving settlement
of the little fellows themselves;
but, as Black George remarked with a
sigh of regret:
“It aint what it used to was, no how.”
Soon after we had camped, Black
George, who ever had an eye to business,
started out in search of game, and soon
returned with the intelligence that “beaver
sign was about,” and forthwith proceeded
to get his traps, which he had brought
along in his possibles.
“What are you going to do?” 1 inquired.
“Make 'em come, hoss—nothin short.”
As I had never witnessed the modus
operandi of catching beaver, I expressed
a desire to do so, which was responded to
with:
“Come on, Bosson, and I'll put ye
through.”
Taking our way to the river, which was
here rather shallow, Black George led me
down some two hundred yards, and then
directed my attention to some small tracks
made in the muddy bottom of the stream,
along the margin of the water.
“Them's the sign, d'ye see! and thar's
fur about, sartin, or this nigger don't know
beaver.”
Saying this, the old mountaineer proceeded
to set his traps, of which he had
some five or six. Moistening a small stick
in his “medicine,” as he termed it—an
oily substance obtained from a gland of
the beaver—he fastened it to the trap, and
then placed the latter in the “run” of the
animal, just under the edge of the water,
securing it to a sapling on the bank by a
small cord. Another cord led off from
the trap several feet, and was attached to
a “floating stick”—so called from its
floating on the water—by which appendage
the trapper, in case the beaver caught
makes off with his property, is enabled to
recover it.
“And now,” said I, when he had done,
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
“what inducement has the animal to become
your victim?”
“Why he gits to be my meat you
mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I'll jest explanify—though maybe
I'll not git it out as scientiferic nor
some folks—for's I said sometime ago,
edication never come in this child's line.
Ye see, it's jest this: beaver's like I've
hearn say women-folks was. He's got an
orful cur'osity, and it gits him into bad
snaps without his intendin it. Ye see,
he'll come along here arter a while, and
he'll smell that thar “medicine,” and
think maybe thar's another beaver about—
leastwise he'll want to know purty bad—
and so he'll come smellin round, and afore
he knows it, `he's put his foot in't,' and
is a gone beaver. Augh!”
Having delivered himself of this, Black
George coolly continued his operations, till
all his traps were set, and then together
we returned to our camp. On arriving,
I found that the beaver mania had taken
possession of Black George's companions,
who were in consequence absent with like
sinister designs against the harmless little
fellows.
On returning with the old mountaineer
in the morning, I soon discovered he had
“made a raise,” as he expressed it, “of
three old 'uns and a kitten.” The other
trappers were somewhat successful also;
so that on that fatal night, no less than a
dozen beaver lost their “run” forever.
Before raising camp, my mountain
friends proceeded to skin the animals,
scrape the inside of the pelts of fat and
all superfluous matter, and then stretch
them on hoops for drying—after which
they were ready for packing. This latter
is done by turning the fur inside, putting
several together and fastening them with
cords, when they are tightly pressed into
the possibles of the trapper, and thus conveyed
on mules to the rendezvous-market,
sometimes one place and sometimes another.
The labor of the trapper is very severe,
and his perils without number. Some
times he traps on his own account—alone,
or with two or three associates—and sometimes
for a company. In the first instance,
his cognomen is the “free trapper;” in
the last, the “hired hand.” In either
case, however, his hardships are the same,
He sets off to the mountains, as soon as
the spring rains are over, and there generally
remains till the approaching storms of
autumn drive him to winter quarters,
where his time is spent in all kinds of dissipation
to which he is accessible. If he
makes a fortune in the summer, he spends
it in the winter, and returns to his vocation
in the spring as poor as when he started
the year previous; and not unfrequently
worse off; for if a “free trapper,” ten to
one but he sacrifices his animals in some
drunken, gambling spree, and is forced to
go out on credit, or as a “hired hand.”
He braves all kind of weather in his business,
and all kinds of danger, from the
common accidents of the mountains, to his
conflicts with wild beasts, and wilder and
more ferocious savages. But he is a philosopher,
and does not mind trifles. So he
escapes with a whole skin, or even with
life, he looks upon his hardships, encounters
and mishaps, only as so much literary
stock, to be retailed out to his companions
over a warm fire, a euchre deck, and a
can of whisky.
Seeking the best beaver regions, he
scans carefully all the rivers, creeks, and
rivulets in the vicinity for “beaver sign,”
regardless of danger. If he finds a tree
across a stream, he gives it close attention,
to ascertain whether it is there by accident,
by human design, or whether it is
“thrown” by the animal of his search for
the purpose of damming the water. If
the first or second, he passes on; if the
last, he begins his search for the “run of
the critter.” He carefully scrutinizes all
the banks, and peers under them for
“beaver tracks.” If he finds any, his
next examination is to ascertain whether
they are “old” or “fresh.” If the latter,
then his traps are set forthwith, in the
manner already shown.
In his daily routine of business, he not
unfrequently encounters terrible storms of
rain or snow — the former suflicient to
deluge him and raise rivulets to rivers—
and the latter to bury him, without almost
superhuman exertions, far from mortal eye,
and there hold him to perish,
“Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.”
These are the least of his dangers. He
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
is often attacked by wild beasts, when
nothing but his presence of mind, his coolness
and good marksmanship, can extricate
him from his difficulty; and yet he rarely
fails to come off conqueror. Escaping
these, he must be continually on his guard
against his worst foe, the wily Indian; so
that he can never approach a bush with
the surety that a treacherous ball may not
put a close to his mortal career, and all
his hard earnings pass into the hands of
an enemy he ever hates with the bitterness
of concentrated passion. With all
these dangers, and hardships, and vicissitudes,
your bona fide trapper loves his
calling, would not be content to follow any
other and is in general a rough, jolly,
dare-devil sort of fellow, who not unfrequently
attains to the appointed age of
man, and at last “goes under” with all
the stoicism of a martyr,
“With not a stone, and not a line,
To tell he e'er had been.”
Continuing our course, but in a more
easterly direction, we at length quitted the
mountains and descended to a large, beautiful,
rolling prairie, with little or no vegetation
but short buffalo grass. Taking our
way over this, we had been about half a
day out, and were beginning to lose sight
of the lower ranges of hills, when we
heard a deep rumbling, like heavy thunder
or a distant earthquake, and our guide
came to a sudden halt, exclaiming:
“Le Diable!”
“Howly jabers! what is it, now?”
cried Teddy.
“Hist!” exclaimed Black George. “I'll
be dog-gone ef I don't think we're chawed
up this time, sure as sin!”
“What is it?” I echoed.
“Von grande stampede, by gar!”
answered Pierre.
“Stampede of what, I pray?”
“Buffler,” replied Black George, sententiously.
“Where are they?”
“Yonder they is now—here a-ways they
soon will be;” and as he spoke, he pointed
over the plain with his finger.
Following the direction with my eyes,
I beheld in the distance a cloud of dust,
which rolled upward like a morning fog,
through which, and in which, I could
occasionally catch a glimpse of the huge
animals, as they bounded forward with
railroad velocity.
“What is to be done?” I cried.
“Grin and bear it,” responded the old
trapper.
“But we shall be trodden to death
See! they are coming this way!”
“Can't die younger,” was the cool
rejoinder.
“But can we not fly?”
“Howly mother of Mary!” shouted
Teddy, worked up to a keen pitch of
excitement; “it's fly we must, sure, as if
the divil was afther us, barring that our
flying must be did on baasts, as have no
wings, now, but long legs, jist”
“What for you run, eh?” grinned the
Frenchman. “Him catche you, by gar!
just so easy as you catche him, von leetle,
tam—vot you call him—musquito, eh!”
“It's no use o' showing them critters our
backs,” rejoined Black George. “Heyar's
what don't turn back on nothin that's got
hair.”
“Well,” continued I, “you may do as
you please; but as for myself, I have no
desire to stand in my tracks and die without
an effort.”
Saying this I wheeled my horse and,
was just in the act of putting spurs to him,
when Black George suddenly dashed up
along side and caught my bridle.
“See heyar, boy—don't go to runnin—
or you'll discomflumicate yourself oudaciously—
you will, by —! Eh, Pierre?”
“Certainment, by gar!” answered the
guide; and then both burst into a hearty
laugh.
“What do you mean?” cried I, in
astonishment, unable to comprehend their
singular actions; and I turned to the other
mountaineers, who were sitting quietly on
their horses, and inquired if they did not
think there was danger.
“Thar's al'ays danger,” replied one,
“in times like this; but thar's no safety in
runnin.”
“For Heaven's sake, what are we to do,
then? Stay here quietly and get run over?”
Black George gave a quiet laugh, and
the Frenchman proceeded to take snuff.
This was too much for my patience. I
felt myself insulted, and jerking away my
rein from the hand of the trapper, I
exclaimed indignantly:
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“I do not stay here to be the butt of
any party. Teddy, follow me!”
The next moment I was dashing over
the prairie at the full speed of my horse,
and the Irishman, to use a nautical phrase,
close in my wake, whooping and shouting
with delight at what he considered a narrow
escape. The direction we had taken
was the same as that pursued by the running
buffalo; and we could only hope for
ultimate safety, by reaching some huge
tree, rock, or other obstacle to their progress,
in advance of them. How far we
would have to run to accomplish this, there
was no telling; for as far as the eye could
reach ahead of us, we saw nothing but
the same monotonous rolling plain. The
herd, thundering on in our rear, was so
numerous and broad, that an attempt to
ride out of its way, by turning to the right
or left, could not be thought of — as the
velocity of the animals would be certain to
bring a wing upon us, ere we could clear
their lines. There was nothing for it,
then, but a dead race; and I will be free
to own, the thought of this fairly chilled
my blood. Exposed as I had been to all
kinds of danger, I had never felt more
alarmed and, depressed in spirits than now.
What could my companions mean by their
indifference and levity? Was it possible
that, having given themselves up for lost,
the excitement had stupified some, and
turned the brains of others? Horrible
thought! I shuddered, and turned on my
horse to look back. There they stood
dismounted, rifles in hand, and, just beyond
them, the mighty host still booming
forward. Poor fellows! all hope with
them is over, I thought; and with a sigh
at their fate, I withdrew my gaze and
urged on my steed.
On, on we sped, for a mile or more,
when I ventured another look behind me.
Judge of my surprise, on beholding a long
line of buffalo to the right and left, rushing
away in different directions, while directly
before me, nothing was visible but my
friends, who, on perceiving me look back,
made signs for me to halt and await them.
I did so, and in a few minutes they came
up laughing.
“Why, Bosson,” said Black George,
waggishly, “I hope as how you've run the
skeer out o' ye by this time; for I'll be
dog-gone ef you can't travel a few, on
pertikelar occasions!”
“Oui, Monsieur,” added Pierre, “vous
'ave von le plus grande—vot you call him—
locomotion, eh?”
“But how, in the name of all that is
wonderful, did you escape,” rejoined I.
“Just as nateral as barkin to a pup.”
answered Black George. “We didn't
none on us hev no fear no time; and was
only jest playin possum, to see ef we could
make your hair stand; never 'spectin,
though, you was a-goin to put out and
leave us.”
“But pray tell me how you extricated
yourselves?” said I, feeling rather crestfallen
at my recent unheroic display.
“Why, jest as easy as shootin—and jest
that, hoss, and nothin else.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Well then, we kind o' waited till them
critters got up, so as we could see thar
peepers shine, and then we all burnt
powder and tumbled over two or three
leaders. This skeered them as was behind,
and they jest sniffed, and snorted, and sot
off ayther ways like darnation. It warnt
anything wonderful—that warnt—and it
'ud been onnateral for 'em to done anything
else.”
“I say, your honor,” rejoined Teddy,
with a significant wink, “it's like, now,
we've made jackasses o' ourselves, barring
your honor.”
“Very like,” returned I biting my lips
with vexation, “all but the barring.”
The truth is, I felt much as one caught
in a mean act, and I would have given no
small sum to have had the joke on some
one else. I detected many a quiet smile
curling the lips of my companions, when
they thought I did not notice them, and I
knew by this they were laughing in their
sleeves, as the saying is; but, being in my
service, did not care to irritate my feelings
by a more open display. It was very galling
to a sensitive person to know he has
made himself ridiculous, and is a private
subject of jest with his inferiors. It is no
use for one under such circumstances to
fret, and foam, and show temper. No!
such things only make the matter worse.
The best way is to come out boldly, own
to the joke, and join in the laugh. Acting
upon this, I said:
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“Friends, I have made a fool of myself—
I am aware of it—and you are at liberty
to enjoy the joke to its full extent. But
remember, you must not spread it! and
when we reach a station, consider me your
debtor for a `heavy wet,' all round.”
This proved a decided hit. All laughed
freely at the time, and that was the last I
heard of it, till I fulfilled my liquor pledge
at Uintah Fort, when Black George ventured
the toast, “Buffler and a run,”
which was followed with roars of mirth at
my expense, and there the matter ended.
CHAPTER VIII.
A BEAUTIFUL VALLEY—A LEGEND—THE OLD
TRAPPER'S STORY — FATE OF BEN BOSE —
REFLECTIONS—TEDDY'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF—
DEATH OF HIS PARENTS — THE
“OULD PRAAST”—HIS FIRST LOVE—THE
WAY HE CAME TO LEAVE IRELAND —
ALARMING ONSET OF INDIANS.
Passing Uintah Fort, which awakened
many painful recollections of what had
occurred since my former visit here in
company with my lost friend, we took a
southerly course, and crossing Green river,
continued over an undulating, mountainous
country to Grand river, and thence to
the most northern range of the Green
Mountains, where gush forth the head waters
of the Arkansas and Rio Grande.
Here we came to a beautiful valley, shut
in by high hills, through which flowed a
limpid stream, whose banks wore a velvet
covering of rich green grass and innumerable
wild flowers. A little back from
the stream, on either side, was a delightful
grove, stretching away in rows of artificial
regularity. In fact, from what I
saw, and the information I gathered from
my compagnons d'voyage, I have every reason
to believe this valley was at one time
a nobleman's park. I said it was shut in
by hills; but there was one outlet toward
the west, where the streamlet flowed gently
away between two ridges. Entering
through this pass, you are struck with the
singular beauty of the spot; and not more
so than by a huge pile of ruins on a gentle
eminence away to the right. Here, as
tradition goes, once stood a famous castle,
belonging to a Spanish nobleman, who,
for some state intrigue, was exiled his
country, but who subsequently flourished
here in great power. He had a beautiful
daughter, to whom a descendent of the
Aztecs paid court; but neither the father
nor the daughter fancied him, and his suit
was rejected. Enraged at this, he swore
revenge; and possessing power and influence
over a barbarous race, he succeeded
by bribes and treachery in accomplishing
his fell design. The lord of the castle, his
daughter and attendants, all fell victims;
and the mighty structure, touched by the
devastating fingers of Time, at last became
a heap of ruins. Such is a brief
outline of the tradition, which I give for
the benefit of future romancers.
As we entered this ancient retreat, the
bright sun of a hot July day was just beginning
to dip below the line of the western
horizon, and his yellow light streaming
along the surface of the meandering
waters, gave them the appearance of a
long stream of molten, quivering gold.
Everything in and about the place seemed
to possess the charm of enchantment.
Beautiful and merry songsters, of all hues,
warbled sweet tones among the branches
of the trees, or amid the tall grass and
flowers beneath them. Here and there
small animals of the hare species might be
seen running to and fro, while the waters
of the rivulet occasionally displayed the
shiny sides of a mountain trout. Take it
all in all, to me the place seemed a second
Eden; and when I turned my eyes upon
the old ruins, my imagination at once carried
me far back into the dark ages of the
past, and the strange tales I had heard
seemed literally enacting before me.
“Thar's been a heap o' blood spilt herea-ways,
take one time with another,” observed
Black George, as, with our pipes in
our mouths, we sat round the camp-fire in
the evening.
“Faith! and it's mesilf, now,” said
Teddy, “that 'ud be afther saaing the
spot as hasn't been likewise, in this haathenish
part of Christendom.”
“Oui, Monsieur Teddy,” rejoined the
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
Frenchman. “Ha, ha! by gar sacre!
dat pe ver nice spoke—ver nice. You
sall make von moche grande—vot you call
him—oratore, eh!”
“But tell us what you know,” said I,
addressing the old trapper, whom I was
anxious to draw out in one of his marvelous
tales.
“Well, hoss, I'll gin ye the gist of a
spree I once had here, ef Teddy'll agree
to tell a story when I'm done.”
“What say you, Teddy?”
“Och, now, it's not me mother's child
as was iver blist wid the gift of gab; but
to make the time slip off asy, I'll do me
trying of it, rather thin lose that of Misther
Black George, barring that I'd lose
what I niver had, and that 'ud be lost
twice d'ye mind!”
“As how, Teddy?”
“Why, your honor, and sure wouldn't
I lose the hearing the story towld, and the
story itsilf besides? and troth, wouldn't
hat be two? and isn't two twice, now?”
“Very good for you; but come, Black
George, go on with the tale!”
Here the old mountaineer took out his
pipe, knocked out the ashes, put some of
the weed into his mouth, and after twisting
and turning himself into a comfortable
position, thus began:
“Thar's none o' ye here, I spect, as
knowed Ben Bose; and the more's the
pity; for Ben was a screamer, he was,
right out and out. He could eat more
buffler meat, drink more whisky, chaw
more bacca, cuss louder and tell bigger
lies, nor any white nigger this coon ever
seed—and that's a dog-gone fact. Maybe
you think as how I exaggerrate; but I ken
jest prove all I've said and more too.
Why, I've seed Ben afore now, when his
meat bag war right smart empty, chaw up
half a buffler, all wet down with about
two gallon o' whisky, and then swear till
all the trees round him 'ud git the ager,
that ef he didn't git somethin to eat soon,
he'd hef to go a wolfin with starvation.
And as for lyin—O he could tell sich lies,
could Ben, and swear to 'em so parfict,
that though you knowed all the time they
was lies, you'd sort o' b'lieve 'em, and
wouldn't care to do nothin else; for you'd
kind o' say to yourself, ef they ain't facts
they ort to be, and that's the same thing.
Why Ben used to tell sich almighty lies
and stick to 'em so long, that he'd git to
believing 'em himself, he would—and then
he'd quit 'em; for he war never know'd
to tell anything as he suspicioned bein true
ef he could help it. The only time this
child ever hearn him tell a fact, was one't
in a joke, when he said he was the biggest
liar on arth; but he made up for that right
purty, by swearin the next minnet he'd
never told a lie in his life.
“But whar am I gittin to? Well, ye
see by this, that Ben was one of the boys,
he was, and nothin else. Poor feller! he
went under at last like a sojer. He gin in
the pint right out thar-a-ways, whar ye
see the light shinin on that big tree.”
“Ah! then he died here?”
“Well he did,” said the old trapper
with a sigh; “but he died game, and
that's suthin. It's how he went out I'm
goin to 'lighten ye; but I'm goin to make
the story short, for somehow these here
old by-gones makes me feel watery like,
and I never had much incline for water,
no how. Augh!
“Ben was purty much of a gentleman,
any how, and me and him, when we'd
meet, used to come together like two
pieces o' wax, and stick to each other like
darnation, ef not more. The last time I
ever seed Ben, I got on his “run” jest
back here a few mile. He was jest makin
his tracks out from Taos, and this coon
war jest crossin over from Bent's Fort.
Me and him had two muleys apiece, and
was both goin out alone, and happened to
meet jest whar two trails jine.
“`How is ye?' sez he, `and whar
bound?'
“ `Why I'm some,' I sez back agin,
`and out for a venter.'
“ `Jest from Bent's?'
“ `No whar else, hoss.'
“ `I'm from Taos. Let's splice and
double the game. Augh!'
“So we jined in, and went talkin 'bout
this thing and that, and tryin which could
outlie tother, till we got to this here valley
and camped.
“ `What d'ye think o' this place, any
how?' sez he.
“ `I reckon it's a few,' sez I.
“ `D'ye ever see any ghosts here?' sez
he.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
“ `Never, hoss.'
“ `I hev,' sez he. `I was campin here
one night, and'd jest got ready to bliad
my daylights, when I happ'd to cast one
over thar to that old castle, and may I be
sot down for a liar, ef I didn't see a live
ghost standin right on that big pile, all
dressed in white, and lookin orful serious
right at me. At fust I tried to think it a
opterkal collusion,' sez he; `but then I
knowed right off that ef I didn't see that
I didn't see nothin; and ef I didn't see
nothin, what in — did I see? Well,
arter squintin at it,' he sez, `till my eyekivers
got so heavy I had to put splinters
under 'em to prop 'em up, I riz up on to
my travelin pins, and sot out on a explore,
to see ef 'twas the ghost of a white man
or nigger. On that,' sez he, `the ghost
got miffed, and makin jest one step, stood
right plum beside me.'
“ `Ben Bose,' sez the ghost, `I want
you.'
“ `And so does the devil,' sez Ben.
“ `Well, I'm him,' sez the ghost; and
at that Ben sez the thing jest turned black in
the face, and looked orful skeerful.
“ `Hadn't you better wait till I git ready?
' axed Ben.
“ `No,' sez the old chap, `I want you
now;' and at that Ben sez he took hold
on him, and his fingers felt hot as burnt
pitch.
“ `Well,' sez Ben, `I jest clinched in to
him, and sich a tussle you never seed. Fust
me and then Brimstone, and then Brimstone
and me, for two mortal hours. But,
by hokey! I licked,' sez Ben, `and the
feller mosied with a flea'n his ear, and
his tail hangin down like a licked puppy's.'
“Now, boys,” continued Black George,
“as I've said afore, Ben was the all-firedest
liar on earth, or else I might a b'lieved
suthin o' this; for he hadn't but jest done
spinnin it, when bang, bang, bang—whizz,
whizz, whizz — yeahup! yeaho! whirp!
come ringin in our ears, as ef the arth was
all alive with shootin niggers—and that's
a scripter, dog-gone fact, as I'm a gentleman!
(Somebody gin me a chaw.
Thankee! Old by-gones starts the juice—
augh!)
“ `O the infarnals!' sez Ben, jumpin up
and showin blood on his noddle. `I'm
dead meat, sartin. But I'll hev company
along,' sez he; and he ups and blazes
away, and throwed the nigh one, as was
comin up, right purty.
“Two on 'em,' sez I, `for a pint;' and
old Sweet-love gin the second one the
belly-ache, instanter.
“ `Now let's dodge,' sez Ben, `and keep
our hair;' and with that he grabbed hold
o' me, and both on us put out for the hills.
“But Ben 'ud got a settler, and felt topheavy.
He travel'd 'bout fifty yard, with
my arm in his'n, and five yellin devils
close behind us, and then he pitched on to
me, and said he'd got to quit, and axed me
to lift his hair[1] and keep it from the cussed
niggers. I hated to do it like darnation—
but thar wasn't no help. Ef I didn't the
skunks would; and so I outs with my
butcher, and off come his scalp afore you
could say beans.
“ `Thankee,' sez Ben. `Good-by, old
hoss, and put out, or you'll lose two on
'em.'
“I knowed he war right, and though I
hated to quit, I seed thar was no help, and
I started for the old castle yonder, fodderin
Sweet-love as I went. I hadn't got fur,
when I knowed by the yell the rascals had
come up to him. They 'spected to make
a raise thar, and two stopped for his fur,
and the rest followed me. Ben was cunnin
though, and they didn't never tell what
happ'd—them fellers didn't—I'll be dog-gone
ef they did! Ben kind o' played
possum, and they thought he was gone
under, and so while they was foolin thar
time, Ben had his eye skinned, burnt his
pups'† powder, and throwed both on 'em
cold right han'some, and then turned over
and kicked the bucket himself. I managed
to plug another jest about then, and the
other two scamps sot off, instanter, for a
more sal-u-bri-ous climat—they did—and
ef you'd only seed 'em streak it, you'd a
thought lightnin warn't no whar. Why,
jest to tell the clean truth, I'll be doggone
ef they didn't travel so fast, that a streak
o' fire followed 'em, and the animals as
had been snoozin on thar way, waked up
and looked out, and concluded the arth
was burnin most conscrimptiously, and so
they put out arter them same flyin niggers.
Fact, by Judas! and ef you don't b'lieve
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
it, you ken jest bile me for a persimmon
and no questions axed.”
“O, of course,” said I, as Black George
paused and looked around triumphantly,
“we all believe it, and I should like to see
the man that would not.”
“Faith, now,” chimed in Teddy, tipping
me the wink, “the man that wouldn't belave
all that asy, wouldn't belave that the
moon's made o' graan chaase, nor that
Metooselah (blissings on his name of
scripter mimory!) was twice as big as a
maating house.”
“Ha, ha! ver fine,” chimed in the
Frenchman, rubbing his hands and giving
a peculiar shrug. “I am ver moche delight.
I sall pelieve him till I pe von—vot
you call him—gray beard, eh!”
The other mountaineers laughed, winked
at one another, but made no reply, and
Black George resumed, with all the gravity
of a parson:
“Well, sence you b'lieve it, I don't see
no use as I'll hev to prove it—and that's
suthin gained,” he added, sotto voce.
“Well, when I seed the field was clear, I
jest mosied back to Ben, to see how he'd
come out, for then I didn't know. I shuffled
up to him, and thar I seed the varmint
lyin by his side, clean meat and nothin else,
and Ben Bose as dead nor a biled kitten.
I felt kind o' orful for a while, and had to
play the squaw a leetle, jest for old
acquaintance's sake. When I'd rubbed
the water out o' my spy-glasses, I sot to
work, dug a hole, and kivered Ben over
decent, at least a foot below wolf-smell.
Then I went a hair raisin, and lifted all
the skunks' top-knots, took all thar muskets
and powder, and sot down to my lone
camp-fire, feelin as used up and womanish
as ef I'd shuk with the ager a month. The
only feel-good I had that night, was hearin
the infernal wolves tearin the meat off o'
them — dirty niggers' bones. The next
mornin I sot on agin, and took on Ben's
muleys, and it was a purty considerable
time afore I made another trail in this here
valley. Thar, you've got the meat o' the
story, and I'm done. Augh!”
Though more familiar with mountain life
and all its rough scenes than when I first
heard the old trapper relate his adventures,
yet the tale he had just told in his rude,
off-hand way, produced many painful feel
ings. The story in the main I believed to
be true—at least that part which related
to the death of the trapper—and I could
not avoid some very unpleasant reflections.
Who was Ben Bose, and how came he
here? Had he any near and dear relatives?
Ay, perchance he had a sister—
a mother — who knows but a wife and
children?—all of whom loved him with a
pure affection. He had been driven, it
might be, by the stern arm of necessity,
to gain a living for himself and them
among the wild fastnesses of the mountains.
He had toiled and struggled, braved
dangers and hardships, with the bright
hope of one day returning to them, to part
no more in life. And they, all ignorant of
his untimely fate, had possibly been—nay,
might be now—anxiously looking for his
return. Alas! if so, they must forever
look in vain. No news of him, peradventure,
would ever reach their ears—and
certainly no Ben Bose would ever again
appear. Should they venture, however,
to make inquiry among the trappers who
had known him, what painful tidings would
the common brief rejoinders, “he's gone
under,” or “been rubbed out,” convey
to them, and how lacerate their sinking
hearts! Poor fellow! Here he slept his
last sleep, unheeding and unheeded, his
memory forgotten, or recalled only on an
occasion like this, as a fire-side pastime.
“Alas! sighed I, “what an unenviable
fate! and how many hundred poor human
beings like him are doomed to share it!”
I was recalled from my rumination, by
hearing clamors for a story from Teddy,
who, now that Black George had told his,
seemed little inclined to favor us.
“Remember your promise,” said I,
joining in with the others.
“Faith!” answered Teddy, resorting
to his peculiar habit, when puzzled or perplexed,
of scratching his head: “Faith,
now, gintlemen, if ye'll allow a poor body
like meself to obsarve, it's me mother's
own son as is thinking it's a mighty tight
fix I'm in. Troth! ye axes me for a story,
and it's hardly one that meself knows to
tell yees. Och! I has it!” he exclaimed,
his eyes brightening with a sudden thought,
“I has it now, claan at me fingers' ends,
barring the nails, which isn't counted at
sich times, and won't make any difference
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
for being longer some. I has it! I'll tell
yees how I com'd to lave ould Ireland—
the swaat land o' murphies and murthering
fine ladies—bless their angel sowls, ivery
baastly one on 'em! barring the baastly
part, now, which I only mintioned by way
of smoothing the sintence.”
“Yes, yes, give us the yarn,” cried a
voice, “and don't spin it too long, for it's
gittin late.”
“Ay, Teddy,” I added, “I think that
will do — only make it short.”
“By gar!” rejoined Pierre, having
recourse to his box, “I think so, Monsieur.
Cut him off so, von two, tree feets, and
den him be von ver exsallent good, eh!
Je le crois.”
“Will, ye sae, thin gintlemen,” resumed
Teddy, “to begin at the beginning, as
Farther Murphy used to say whin he wint
to carve a chicken tail foremost, I was
born in ould Ireland, not a tousand miles
from Cor-r-k, ayther ways. Me father—
pace to his ashes!—barring I niver saan
the proof he was me father, and there was
dispute about it—was a gintleman laborer,
as had plenty to do all his life and little to
ate. He loved whisky, the ould chap—
spaking riverintly—and one day he took it
into his head to die, by token as he said
there wasn't air enough for ivery body to
brathe, and he'd jist sacrifice himself a
marthyr for the good of others. Will, me
mother — Heaven rist her sowl! — she
became a widder in coorse, and took on
mighty bad about her Saint Dennis, as she
called me dead father—though it's little
of a saint as she thought him whin living—
and so to drown her sorrow she took to
the bothel too, and soon afther died spaachless,
calling for wather, wather, the ounly
time I had iver heerd her mintion it, and by
token of that I knowed she was uncanny.
“Will, gintlemen, ye sae, by raason of
both my parents dying, I was lift a hilpless
infant orphan of fourteen, widout
father or mother, or a shilling in me pocket,
or a divil of a pocket in me coat, barring
that it wasn't a coat at all, at all ounly
rags sowed thegither, jist. Me father's
and mother's estate comprehinded ounly a
bed, some pots and kithles, two broken
stools, and a table, as had it's legs cut off
for kindlingwood. So, ye sae, that was
soon sittled, and thin I was lift a poor,
houseless wanderer, widout a place to go
to, or a relation in the wide wor-r-ld, barring
three brothers as was away, an uncle,
two aunts, and about a dozen cousins, all
poorer nor mesilf. Will, I took to crying
for a living, and a mighty nice time I had
on't, till one day Father Murphy come'd
along—blissings on his name, the ould
spalpeen!—and axed me would I like to
come and live wid him.
“Faith! maybe it wasn't long saying
yis I was; and so the ould praast took me
home wid him, and said if I'd work right
har-r-d, and a good boy, I should live as
will as his pigs—which was mighty will,
he said, for they got fat on't; and so did
I, barring that all the flish as crept on me
bones over the night, was worked off o' me
through the day; howiver, it's bether nor
starving to death, I sez to mesilf, barring
it's not much choice I sees in it, and one's
jist as asy as the tother, and a good bit
asier.
“Now's you're afther having a short
story, I'll skip over four years, and till ye
what turned up thin, by way of variety.
“The praast, Father Murphy, ye sae,
had a beautiful niece, as was jist my age,
barring that she was a couple o' year
younger. Now ye must know I iver had
a fondness for the female sex, and I kind
o' took to liking Kathleen by raason of
natheral instinct. And Kathleen, the
darling! she sort o' took to liking me betimes,
more by token I was a dacent
body, and she hadn't inny one bether to
like: and so betwaan us, we both thought
of each other waking, and dramed about
'em in our slaap. Now divil a word did
the praast know of it, at all, and that was
all the bether for the pair of us.
“At last I got to making love to her,
and tilling her she was too swaat a being to
be living all alone by hersilf jist, and that
if her poor parints should be taken away
like mine was and she become a poor
orphan like mesilf, what would she be
afther doing for a protector, and all thim
things. She cried, she did, and she sez;
“ `Teddy,' sez she, `what would become
o' me?'
“ `It's not knowing,' I sez, `and it's a
mighty har-r-d thing to go by guess work
on sich occasions.'
“At that she cried the more, by token
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
her inner faalings was touched, and axed
me would I conthrive a way to git her out
o' her troubles.
“ `Ah, faith,' sez I, all of a sudden, `I
have it now!'
“ `What is, Teddy, dear!' sez she
“ `Och! come to your Teddy's arms,
and he'll be father, and mother, and
victuals and drink to yees, my own swaat
Kathleen!' I sez.”
“Aha!” interrupted the excited Frenchman,
“dat vas von ver nice bon, exsallent
coup de grace, eh! Certainment, je le
crois.”
“Ah, the darling!” pursued Teddy—
“blissing on her sowl, be it where it will,
and pace to her ashes, if she's dead, which
I'm not knowing, and hoping conthrawise—
she fill right into me arms, and comminced
crying jist like wather dripping
through a seive. And thin, ye sae, I cried
too, more by token o' saaing her cry, nor
that I felt bad like at all, jist. Will, I
wiped me eyes wid me sleeve, and had jist
begun to say comfortable things to her,
whin who should happen along but the
ould chap of a praast, her uncle!
“ `Och, ye spalpeen! and what is it
ye're at there, ye villain?' sez he.
“At this, Kathleen let an awful scraam,
and rin for the house, laving me alone to
fight the ould tiger-cat as best I could. I
filt mighty small jist then, ye'd bether
belave, and wished wid all my heart an
arthquake would open and swaller the pair
of us. I saan the praast was in a dangerous
timper, and I knowed something was coming,
asy as squaaling to a pig. But I'll
not provoke his riverince, I sez to mesilf,
or he'll jist murther me outright, widout
judge or jury.
“ `Who are ye,' sez he coming up and
taking me by the collar of me coat, barring
that me coat had no collar, and I
stood in me shirt sleeves, jist. `Who are
ye?' sez he; and thin he shook me till
me teeth rattled.
“ `I'm Teddy O'Lagherty, your riverince,
' sez I.
“ `Ye're a baastly dog!' sez he.
“ `Troth, and so was me father before
me,' sez I, `and hisn before that,'—for I
wanted to plase him.
“ `Ye're a blaggard!' sez he.
“ `That comes by nather,' sez I.
“ `Ye're a scoundrel! — a villian — a
maan, contimptible spalpeen!' sez he.
“ `Sure, and that comes by associations,'
sez I.
“At this Father Murphy got as red in
the face as a baat, and 'pon me sowl I
thought he would swaller me widout cooking
or buther.
“ `What was yees doing here wid Kathleen?
' sez he.
“ `Loving her, your riverince,' sez I.
“ `And how dare you love sich as she?'
sez he.
“ `Troth! and I'm thinking her as good
as mesilf, your riverince,' I sez.
“At that I thought the ould praast
would choke himsilf, he held his grip so
tight upon his own throat. Jabers! but
it was rejoicing, I was, that it wasn't
mesilf's he fingered that ways.
“ `Teddy,' sez he, afther a bit, and
spaking more calm like, though I knowed
the divil was behind it all: `Teddy I'm
going to have yees whipped to death, and
thin sint away for a baastly vagabone, to
arn yees own living in the cowld world,'
sez he.
“ `Jist as plases your riverince,' sez I
`But sure, ye'll be afther knowing I've
done many worse things than love the
swaat Kathleen, blissings on her sowl!'
“ `And do ye raaly love her?' sez he,
in a softher voice.
“ `Och, your riverince, and is it mesilf
as loves good aetables, now?'
“ `Will, thin,' sez he, `for the sake of
me niece, as is the apple o' me eye, I'll
pardon yees, on one condition.'
“ `And, sure, what might that be, your
riverince?' sez I.
“ `That ye'll lave the counthry, and
niver come into it agin,' sez he.
“ `What,' sez I, faaling me anger rising,
`and lave darling Kathleen all alone by
hersilf, widout a protector! Be jabers!
Father Murphy, it's me own mother's son
as 'ud sae me own head cut off first, and
thin I wouldn't.'
“ `What,' sez he, gitting his dander riz
agin, `and does ye dare to talk that ways
to me, a praast of the gospel, and I as has
raised ye from poverty to be my own
sarving man, and gin ye the bist of ivery
thing as was lift, whin we'd all aetin, and
the pigs had done? Say that to my face,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
as has been a father to yees, ye ungrateful
varlet? I'll have ye horse-whipped out
of town so I will!'
“`And if ye does,' sez I, `I'll staal
around and rin off wid Kathleen, as sure's
my name's Teddy O'Lagherty, and Dennis
O'Lagherty was me father'—which wasn't
so sure, d'ye mind! but the praast didn't
know that.
“This put Father Murphy to thinking
agin, and after a bit he sez, quite amiable
like:
“`And sure, ye wouldn't be after doing
that, now, to one as has trated ye iver
wid sich respict, Misther O'Lagherty?”
sez he.
“Howly murther! thinks I, what's
coming now! Ayther a mighty sto-r-m,
or sunshine sure—for I'd niver hearn the
praast spaak that way afore.
“`Misther O'Lagherty,' sez the praast
agin, `I love ye.'
“`Faith!' sez I, `and it's glad I am to
hear the likes, more by raason ye niver
showed the faaling, at all, at all.'
“`Will, ye think of gitting Kathleen—
but it's all in your eye,' sez he. `She
don't care for ye, me son!'
“`That's a lie,' sez I, `begging your
reverince's pardon for spaaking plain
Inglish!'
“Father Murphy bit his lips, and his
two eyes looked jist like fire-balls, they
did.
“`Will,' sez he, sez Father Murphy,
`we'll jist let that pass; but she can niver
be yourn, Teddy, by raason of her being
bargained to another.'
“`That alters the case,' sez I.
“`It does, sez he. `Now ye sae, me
son, ye can't make nothing by staying
round here—not a bit of it—and as I maan
to do the gintaal by yees, I'd like to be
knowing what ye'd ax to lave the counthry,
and have the money down?'
“`And sure, where'd I go?' sez I.
“`To Amirica,' sez he.
“Will, I'd al'ays heerd of Amirica—
and what a blissed counthry it was for
liberty, ladies, and poor folks—and the
notion plazed me; and besides, I knowed
what the praast said about my niver gitting
Cathleen was thrue. So I thinks it over a
wee bit, and sez:
“`Why, Father Murphy,' sez I, `saaing
it's you, and you're a praast too, and a
gintleman I respict, (I had to lie a little,
d'ye mind!) I'll go if ye'll give me dacent
clothes, pay me passage out, and five
pounds to dhrink your rivirence's health.'
“He wanted to baat me down, but I
saan I had him, and I swore divil a step
would I stir widout he'd do my axing. At
last sez he:
“`Teddy, I'll do it, if ye'll agree to
start right off, and niver sae Kathleen
agin—otherwise I won't.'
“`It's har-r-rd, so it is,' sez I; but I was
afeard he'd back out if I didn't accept
soon, and so I towld him, `It's a bargain,
your riverince.'
“`Stay a minnet, thin,' sez he; and he
rin into the house and brought me out five
sovereigns. `These'll pay ivery thing,'
sez he; `and so lave now, and niver show
your dirthy face here agin, or I'll have you
up for staaling.'
“`Troth!' sez I, feeling like a lord wid
me hands on the goold, `it's not throubled
wid me ye'll be agin soon. The top o' the
morning to your riverince!' and so I left
him.
“Will, to wind up, I com'd to Amirica,
and spint all me fortune, and then wint to
work and earned more money, and thin
wint thraveling to sae what I could find,
whin, blissings on me luck! (turning to
me) I fill into your honor's sarvice, for
which good bit of accident howly Mary be
thanked! That's me story.”
At the moment Teddy concluded, and
ere a single comment or remark had
escaped our lips, a frightful volley of musket
balls flew round us like hail, and one
of our party, springing up with a yell, fell
back a corpse.
eaf010.n1[1] Take his scalp.
eaf010.dag1† Pistols.
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
CHAPTER IX.
RUN FOR COVER—A REMARKABLE VOLLEY—
ASSAIL THE FOE — WONDERFUL SUCCESS—
BLOODY TROPHIES — FRIGHT OF OUR
ANIMALS — A DILEMMA — UNEXPECTED
REINFORCEMENT — ALARM, ROUT, AND
ALMOST TOTAL ANNIHILATION OF THE
INDIANS—THE WONDERFUL HORSEMAN—
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE—SPOILS OF THE
VICTORS—ANIMALS RECOVERED—ROUND
THE CAMP FIRE — MORE TIDINGS OF
PRAIRIE FLOWER, ETC., ETC.
“Indians,” was the simultaneous cry
which burst from our lips, as each man
grasped his rifle and sprang to his feet.
“Tree, boys,” cried Black George, just
as a series of terrific yells resounded on
all sides, and a host of dusky figures were
seen bearing down upon us from every
direction but one, which seemed providentially
left open for our safety. Toward
this, the only point of compass possible for
us to escape without a personal conflict,
we fled precipitately, and soon reached a
small clump of trees, which afforded us
immediate protection, leaving our dead
comrade in possession of the savages.
With a shout of triumph, a dozen of the
latter rushed up to the unfortunate trapper,
and one of the number instantly tore off
his scalp, while several others buried their
knives in his body, to make sure of their
victim.
Meantime the rest of the party, which
consisted of some thirty in all, made for
our retreat, uttering demoniac yells of
barbarous exultation, doubtless fancying
us an easy prey.
“Now, boys,” cried Black George, in
a stentorian voice, “every man pick a nigger,
and give the — skunks h—!”
His advice did not need a repetition; for
scarcely were the words out of his mouth,
when crack went our six rifles, and, almost
miraculous to record, six of the foremost
assailants rolled howling in the dust—each
man, by a friendly providence, having
selected a separate target with a fatal aim.
This was a result as unlooked for by us,
as alarming to our foes, who suddenly
halted and rent the air with howls of rage
and dismay. While it staggered them, it
gave us courage, and in the moment of
their indecision and our triumph, the voice
of Black George was heard shouting the
inspiring words:
“Well done, boys! Foller me, and let
us bark our pups and butcher at close
quarters!”
Saying this, he sprang forward with a
yell, a proceeding we all imitated, and before
the astonished savages were fully
aware what was taking place, they found
us in their midst, shouting, shooting, and
cutting, with a daring, activity, and ferocity
they had probably never seen equaled.
So suddenly had we become assailants in
turn, and so vigorously did we press upon
them, that they instantly wavered, became
confused, and after a slight resistance, took
to flight, leaving four more of their number
companions to the first unfortunate six.
Being all more or less experienced in
Indian warfare, we were consequently wise
enough not to follow them, well knowing
they would return to the charge as soon as
pressed into cover. Both of Black George's
companions had been wounded in the melee,
but not dangerously, and we now congratulated
ourselves, with a triumphant shout,
on our success.
“Reckon they'll stay put till we ken
butcher and raise these here dogs' hair,”
said the old trapper; and forthwith all set
to work, save myself, in killing the wounded
and scalping the slain. When this bloody
business was over, Black George observed:
“This heyar coon wonders how the
niggers feels now! Maybe they've got a
notion in thar heads that they're some in
a bar-fight. Sarved 'em right, the —
possums! What business'd they to be
pitching into us, when we was tellin stories
and troublin nobody. Augh!”
“By gar! I tink so,” added the Frenchman,
as he gave his olfactory organ an extra
dose, and his shoulders an unusually
vigorous shrug. “Ha, ha, Monsieur Blake
Shorge—you say ver moche true, sarve
him right, Certainment, he got von most
tam ver good exsallent—vot you call him—
drubbing, eh! Ha, ha! certainment.”
“Och, now, but didn't the blaggards
look a wee bit astonished, the spalpeens!”
joined in Teddy. “Faith! but I thought
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
whin they rin, maybe as it was a race they
was rinning for whisky or the likes.”
“Well,” said I, “we have been fortunate
so far, that is certain; and now let us
take care for the future. Load quiek, my
friends, and let us bring our animals together,
or the Indians may rally and dash
upon them, and leave us in a bad condition.”
“Right, boy,” cried Black George, with
a start: “I'd forgot. What a old fool I
is sometimes. Quick! or the skunks will
head us—for I knows 'em of old.”
Fortunately for us, the Indians had not
as yet made a seizure of our horses,
(which, at the time of the attack, were
quietly feeding in the valley, but now
running to and fro and snuffing the air,)
thinking, I suppose, that victory for them
was certain, and well knowing that an
attempt to take the animals first, would
create an alarm, and perhaps defeat their
design of making us their victims. Our
possibles, too, had escaped them, probably
from being concealed under the brushwood
collected for our fire, and also from
their being put to flight so suddenly. All
these were certainly matters for congratulation;
and hurriedly removing our property
from out the fire-light, I ordered
Teddy and Pierre to guard it with their
lives, while the rest of us, having reloaded
our rifles, set off to collect our animals.
We had not been any too soon in this
matter; for the Indians, having recovered
from their first alarm and confusion, we
now espied dodging from tree to tree, with
the evident intention of getting between
us and the beasts, and so capturing the
latter.
“Heyar's a fix,” observed Black George,
making a halt. “Ef we go for'ard, the
cussed varmints will pick us off and make
meat on us; and ef we stay here-a ways,
they'll catch our critters and leave us to
foot it. I'll be dog-gone ef it don't look
like a dilemmer, as I hearn a scholard say
onc't—that's a fact.”
It was a dilemma, sure enough, and
how to act was a matter of great moment.
We could not charge upon the savages as
we had done before, for they had “treed”
in every direction, and, as Black George
observed, would be sure to pick us off
singly. To lose our cavallada was not to
be thought of, for this would in a measure
place us in their power. What was to be
done! Several propositions were made
by one and another, but all as soon rejected
as being impracticable.
Meantime the Indians were not inactive,
and though the night was without moon,
we could occasionally perceive a figure
flitting before us like a shadow, and the
circle they had made around our horses
gradually narrowing. It was a time for
action of some kind, and yet we stood
irresolute. At length the old trapper
suggested that we should separate, and
each shift for himself in the manner best
calculated to annoy our foes. This was
the best plan as yet proposed, and was
instantly adopted. We had already begun
to put it in execution, when, to our
astonishment, a small body of horsemen,
with loud yells, suddenly dashed out from
a distant thicket, aud separating, bore
down upon the rear of our enemies. The
next moment we heard the sharp crack of
fire-arms, mingled with the shouts of the
assailants, and yells of terror from the
surprised Indians, who instantly took to
flight in all directions. In their confusion,
a portion ran toward us, and were received
by a well-directed volley, which wounded
one, killed two, and increased the alarm
of the survivors, who instantly changed
their course and fled toward the western
hills, only to find their flight intercepted
by an occasional horseman.
“Don't know who fights for us,” cried
Black George, “and don't care a kick—
but know they's some—and so let's arter
and disconflumicate the — skunks all
we ken.”
Saying this, the trapper set forward in
eager chase of the flying foe, an example
we all followed, and for the next quarter
of an hour the valley presented an indescribable
scene of confusion and excitement.
Nothing of life could be seen but
flying fugitives, hotly pursued by a bitter
enemy, whose only mercy was instant
death; and nothing heard but shrieks,
yells, groans, and shouts of triumph—
these from victors, those from vanquished—
together with the constant sharp crack
of fire-arms, and the clashing of knives,
as here and there two met in personal and
deadly conflict. To use a military phrase,
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
the rout was total, the enemy badly beaten,
and the victorious skirmishers only withdrew
from the field of conflict for want of
a foe.
During the melee, we had all become
mixed up, and but for the distinguishing
difference of color and equipments, we
might, owing to the darkness, have made
sad havoc with our best friends. But the
new comers were whites, and there was
no difficulty in distinguishing between
them and the savages. But who were
they, and how came they here so opportunely
for us, were enigmas I had no time
nor opportunity to solve till the affray was
over. Whoever they were, they were
brave to a fault—if I may call that courage
a fault which is reckless of self-preservation—
and they fought like demons.
One of their party, whom I took to be
leader, displayed an agility, intrepidity,
and fierceness I had never seen equaled
but once. Mounted on a fiery steed,
which seemed to comprehend his slightest
wish, he rushed among the frightened savages,
and twice, as he passed near me, did
I observe him bend from his saddle, seize
the scalp-lock of an Indian, stab him in
the neck, and then, with a motion quick as
thought, cut around and tear off the
bloody scalp, without scarcely checking
the speed of his horse.
Already I fancy I see the reader smile,
and say such feats are impossible. I do
not blame him; for had I not seen them
myself, I should require more than one
person's evidence to convince me of their
possibility, to say nothing more.
A long, loud shout at last attested our
complete victory, when I, in company with
my companions, approached our deliverers,
to return our sincere thanks for their
timely aid. Moving up to the personage I
supposed to be leader, who now sat quietly
on his horse, surrounded by a dozen stalwart
figures, all mounted, I said:—
“Whom have I the honor to thank for
this invaluable assistance, at a point of
time so critical to us?”
“Why, as to thanks,” answered the
one addressed, in a voice that seemed
familiar to me, “I don't 'spect thar's any
needed; but ef you thank anybody, thank
all—for every man's done his duty, and
nothing more.”
“Methinks, sir, I know your voice,” I
rejoined, “but I cannot see your features.”
“Well, it struck me as I'd heard your's
afore,” returned the intrepid horseman;
and he bent forward in his saddle, for a
closer scrutiny of my person.
At this moment Black George came up,
and casting one glance at the speaker, exclaimed:
“Kit Carson, or I'm a nigger! Reckon
you knows old Black George, don't
ye?” and in an instant the two were
shaking hands with the hearty familiarity
of old friends.
“Kit Carson!” cried I, in surprise.
“Well, sir, I might have known it was
you, from your manner of fighting;” and
in turn I seized his hand with one of my
strongest grips.
“You have a leetle the advantage of
me,” said Kit, when I had done.
“I presume you have not forgotten
Frank Leighton, and the fight at Bitter
Cottonwood?” I replied.
“Good heavens! is it indeed you?
Why, I thought you war rubbed out thar,
and I've never heard anything of you
sence. I'm glad to see you, sir;” and an
extra grip and shake of the hand, convinced
me he meant what he said. “I'll
have a talk with you, by-and-by; but just
now we mountain men hev got a right
smart chance at scalping—arter which I'm
at your service.”
While most were occupied in the barbarous
practice (I can never call it by a
milder term,) of scalping the slain, I called
Teddy, Pierre, and one or two others
to my aid, and proceeded to collect and
picket the frightened animals. This was
no easy task, and it was at least an hour
before order and quiet were again restored.
In the meantime the Indians were scalped,
and rifled of everything valuable, and then
left to feed the wolves, some of which had
already begun their feast, and were fast
being joined by others. Of the slain, we
counted in all twenty-three carcasses; so
that it was evident but few, perhaps only
five or six, escaped—and these, doubtless,
more or less wounded. Of my party, not
one was injured in this last affray; but
several of the horsemen had received cuts
and stabs, though none of a dangerous
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
character. When we had all collected
around the camp-fire, the wounded were
looked to, and their wounds dressed as
well as circumstances would allow. This
done, we proceeded to bury the mountaineer,
who had been killed, as the reader
will remember, at the onset. As soon as
all these matters were arranged, we squatted
down in a circle round the fire, to talk
over the events of the last two hours.
I now had an opportunity of conversing
with Carson, which I eagerly embraced.
I informed him, in brief, of all that had
occurred since we last met, and listened
to a hasty recital of his own adventures,
the principal part of which referred to
Fremont's first expedition, and is already
before the public. He said, that after
parting with Fremont, he had been engaged
to conduct a party to California, and was
on his return to St. Louis, by way of
Uintah Fort, St. Vrains, and Fort Laramie,
when, stopping at the first mentioned, he
found the present party of adventurers
anxious to obtain a guide to Taos, and
thence to Santa Fe, and that they had
induced him to accompany them as far as
Taos. He said that they had been on our
trail for some time, but had not come in
sight of us, until the present evening,
when, camping just the other side of one
of the surrounding hills, he, in a short
ramble, had accidentally discovered our
camp-fire, and had determined on joining
us in the morning. The attack on us by
the Indians had been heard, and as soon
as possible, thereafter, the whole party had
come to our aid, with what result the
reader knows.
He further added, it was rumored that
Fremont had begun his second expedition,
and was even now on his route westward by
way of Bent's Fort—that he was anxious
to join him—and that if an arrangement
could be effected to do without him, he
would in the morning cross over to the
valley of the Arkansas, and take a direct
course for Bent's.
In answer to my inquiries concerning
Prairie Flower and her tribe, he said he
had not met with any of them since the
battle of Bitter Cottonwood; but that he
had heard of their being in this part of the
country quite recently, and was inclined
to believe them somewhere in the neigh
borhood of Taos at the present time.
With regard to my friend, he expressed
much sorrow for his loss, but could give
me no information concerning him.
I was now more than ever anxious to
find the Mysterious Tribe; for something
whispered me that Prairie Flower had
been in search of my friend—or at least
was now with her tribe on that errand—
or, if neither of these surmises should
prove correct, I could perhaps prevail upon
them to assist me. At all events, I determined
on finding them as soon as possible,
and accordingly resolved to start at day-light,
and push through to Taos with all
haste.
Busy thoughts prevented me from sleeping
that eventful night, and at the first
tinge of morning light I awoke my companions
for the journey. As we had all
one destination, the party of Carson consented
to part with him and join mine;
and shaking my hand, with a hearty prayer
for my success, he set off alone over the
mountains, while we continued down the
valley of the Rio Grande.
CHAPTER X.
ARRIVE AT TAOS—DISAPPOINTMENT—A SIN
GULAR CHARACTER—JOYFUL TIDINGS—
SOUTHWARD BOUND—SANTA FE—ADDITIONAL
NEWS—ON THE RIGHT COURSE—
PERPLEXITY — ALL RIGHT — TRIUMPHANT
SUCCESS—RETURN TO THE NORTH.
As our party was now quite formidable,
we had no fears of again being attacked,
so long as we remained together. On the
fourth day from quitting the valley described
in the previous chapter, we entered
the small village of Taos. Here I found
a melange of all nations and colors, consisting
of trappers, hunters, traders, adventurers,
&c.
Mingling with all classes, I at once
proceeded to make inquiries regarding the
present whereabouts of the Great Medicine
Tribe, and also if any had seen or
heard of a certain young man (giving a
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
full description of Huntly) being taken
prisoner by the Indians or Mexicans. To
my first inquiry, I received from several
the answer, that a singular tribe of Indians,
among whom was a beautiful female, had
been seen in the vicinity within a few
weeks; but where they now were, or in
what direction, none could tell. As to the
latter, each replied with a shake of the
head, that he could tell me nothing. It
was not an uncommon thing, they informed
me, for a white man—an adventurer—to
be taken, robbed, held for ransom, knocked
on the head, or sold into slavery; but no
one remembered hearing of, or seeing such
as I had described.
To me this news produced great disappointment;
for, from some cause which I
cannot explain, I had been sanguine of
getting information of Huntly so soon as
I should arrive at Taos. Here, then, was
a complete overthrow of my most ardent
hopes! and I now felt keenly the sandiness
of the foundation on which I had reared
my expectations. I might pass a long life
in a wearisome and dangerous search, and
be no wiser of Huntly's fate at last. There
was still a faint hope that Prairie Flower,
who I doubted not had gone south with
her tribe for this purpose, had gained
some information of him; and at once I
determined to hunt her out, with the additional
resolve, that should my surmises
prove correct, and she had failed also, to
set out on my return forthwith. But where
should I begin to look for her was the
next question. She might be as difficult
to find as Huntly, and there was no certainty
of my ever seeing either again.
The day following my a rival in Taos, I
was passing along one of the streets, pondering
upon these matters, when I chanced
to meet an old mountaineer, whom I did
not remember having seen before. Determined
to leave no stone unturned, I
accosted him with the same inquiry I had
made of the others He stopped, looked
at me attentively a moment, as if to comprehend
my questions, and then in a
musing, half soliloquizing manner, replied:
“'Bout the Injins, don't know—think
I've seed such—won't be sartin—don't
like to be sartin when I aint. Yes! think
I hev seed 'em—yes, know I hev—but it
war two year ago, and away up north a
— of a ways: Fact. 'Bout the other
chap, don't know;—yes—no—stop—let
me see—y-e-s, I reckon—aint sartin—
what was he like?”
Here I proceeded to give a description
of my friend, with what conflicting feelings
of hope and fear I leave the reader to
imagine. In fact, my voice became so
tremulous, that several times I was forced
to stop and put my hand to my throat to
prevent, as it were, my heart from strangling
me.
“Git cool, and jest say that thar over
agin,” rejoined the other, when at length
I tremblingly paused for his answer.
I repeated it twice, before he seemed
satisfied.
“Now,” says he, “I'll think—let me
see!” and he deliberately proceeded to
take up each point of my description, and
apply it to some person he had seen,
making his own comments as he went
along, “Slim and graceful—let me see!—
yes—no—ye-a-s—rather reckon he was—
know it—fact. 'Bout twenty-three—
stop — let me think!—yes—reckon he
might be—know he was—sartin. Good
face — han'some featurs—stop—a—y-e-s—
know it—settled.”
Thus he went on until I found my patience
completely exhausted, and was about
to interrupt him, when he suddenly exclaimed:
“Seen him, stranger—sartin as life—
know I hev.”
“Where? where?” cried I, breathlessly,
grasping his hand.
“San Domingo.”
“When?”
“'Bout a year ago.”
“God be thanked! You are sure?”
“Sartin, or I'd never said it.”
“Well, well—what became of him?”
“It's more'n I ken say—spect he war
made a slave. A — old Greaser had
him, and wanted to sell or git him ransomed.
He axed too high, and nobody
traded. I pitied the poor feller, but I
hadn't no money, and thar warn't no Yankees
thar then to help me out in takin
him. Old Greaser went sothe; and some
I axed shuk thar heads, and said that
that old scamp war a robber chief, and
had lots o' help close by. All I know,
stranner.”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
“But do you think he is alive now?”
“Can't say, ye see, 'cause don't know.
Never say what don' know. Anything
more to ax, stranger?”
“Nothing that you can answer,” I replied;
and thanking him kindly for his information,
I placed a gold coin in his hand,
and hurriedly left him to seek out my companions—
my spirits, so lately depressed,
now buoyant and bounding.
The party which had joined mine at the
valley, had not yet quitted Taos; and calling
all together, I proceded to lay before
them my joyful intelligence. When I had
done, Black George gave a shout, Teddy
a whoop, Pierre shrugged his shoulders
and doubled his dose of snuff, and every
one expressed his delight in his own peculiar
way. The Rovers—so our new companions
termed themselves—were nearly
all young men from the States, who had
come west more for adventure than speculation;
and as I had become a favorite
with them in the short time of our acqaintance,
they at once volunteered me
their assistance, an offer I accepted with
tears of gratitude.
Ordering out our animals, we mounted
and set forward immediately, and, although
the day was partly advanced, succeded in
reaching Santa Cruz about nightfall. By
noon of the next day we rode into Santa
Fé—a place of much importance and notoriety,
from being centrally located on
the great caravan route from Missouri to
Southern California. At the time of which
I write, Santa Fé contained some four or
five thousand inhabitants, and was the emporium
of the northern trade between New
Mexico and Missouri. However, it was
anything but an agreeable place—its inhabitants
being mostly made up of the offscourings
of the earth—without religion,
morality, or any other noble quality. To
gamble, steal, rob and murder were among
the refined amusements of the most worthy
set. To make matters still worse,
there had recently been some difficulty between
the Mexicans and the citizens of
the United States, and on both sides existed
a bitter hostility, which was productive
of the most violent crimes. It was
dangerous for any one to traverse the
streets alone, particularly after nightfall;
for at every corner he turned, he knew
himself in danger of assassination. The
Indians here generally sided with the
Mexicans, and looked upon all Yankees as
their worst enemies.
Such was the state of affairs at Santa
Fé on my arrival; and the same inimical
feeling, to a greater or less extent, prevailed
in all the adjacent towns. As myself
and party had no desire to quarrel
with any one, we took care to be civil, always
together, well armed, and to mind
our own business on all occasions; and
in consequence we fortunately escaped
without molestation.
Making several inquiries in Santa Fé,
and gaining nothing further of Huntly or
the Mysterious Tribe, we pursued our
course southward through Cinega to San
Domingo.
Here the story of the old trapper was
so far confirmed, that several persons remembered
having seen the notorious
robber, Gonzalez, in possession of a handsome
young prisoner, whom he was anxious
to dispose of, declaring he could not
find not it in his heart to kill him, and could
not afford to part with him without recompense;
that no one there being disposed to
purchase him, he had gone farther south;
but what had since become of him none
could afford me any information. In answer
to my inquiry concerning Prairie
Flower, I learned that some time ago she
had been seen in this vicinity with her
tribe—that she had made inquiries similar
to mine, and that all had departed
southward.
This news almost made me frantic with
joy. Huntly, I argued, was living. Prairie
Flower, like some kind angel, had gone
to his rescue; and it might be, that even
now he was free and enjoying her sweet
companionship. The joyful thought, as I
said but now, nearly drove me mad with
excitement; and all my olden hopes were
not only revived, but increased by faith to
certainties.
Hurrying forward to San Bernilla on
the Rio Grande, I heard nearly the same
tale as at San Domingo; and following
down the river to Torreon, listened to its
repetition—and at Valencia, Nutrias, and
Alamilla likewise. At Valverde, the next
village below the last mentioned, I could
gain no intelligence whatever. This led
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
me to think Gonzalez had disposed of his
prisoner between the two villages — or,
what was just as probable, had taken another
course. For what I knew, he might
have crossed the Rio Grande and struck
off into the Sierra de los Mimbres—a
mountain chain only a few miles to the
west of us, whose lofty, snow-covered
peaks rose heavenward to a vast hight,
and had been distinctly visible for several
days. If he had taken this direction, the
chances of tracing him successfully appeared
much against us. It was equally
as probable, too, he had gone eastward—
perhaps to Tabira—a small village some
seventy miles distant. But which course
should we take? Consulting my friends,
we at length resolved to retrace our steps
to Alamilla, make inquiries of all we might
meet on the way, and then, if we could
gain no satisfactory information, to strike
out for Tabira on a venture.
This matter settled, we at once turned
back, but had not proceeded far, when we
met a couple of Mexican hunters. As I
understood a smattering of Spanish, I at
once addressed them, and, in course of conversation,
gained the joyful tidings, that
a prisoner, such as I described, had been
purchased by a Mexican, living not more
than three miles distant, and that in all
probability we should find him there now.
The path to his residence having been
pointed out, I rewarded each of my informants
with a gold coin, and then driving
the spurs into our horses, in less than
half an hour we reined them in before a
small hacienda, much to the terror of the
inmates, who believed we had come to rob
and murder them. Assuring the proprietor,
a rather prepossessing Mexican, that
in case he gave us truthful answers no
harm should be done him—but that, being
partially informed already, the slightest
prevarication would cost him his tongue
and ears, if not his head—I proceeded to
question him.
Thus forewarned, and much in fear of
the execution of the threat, he gave
straight-forward replies, to the effect that
more than a year ago Gonzalez had paid
him a visit, and offered him an American
at a small price, declaring that if he did
not purchase, he would knock the prisoner
on the head without more ado, as he had
cost him more time than he was worth;
that at first, he (the proprietor of the hacienda)
had refused to buy, having as many
slaves as he cared about; but that something
in the young man's appearance, and
the appeal he made with his eye, had
touched his feelings, and the bargain had
at length been struck. He farther stated,
that the prisoner had not been treated like
the rest of his slaves, but with more respect,
and had behaved himself like a gentleman
and won his confidence. A short
time ago, he continued, a small tribe of
Indians had called upon him, and offered a
ransom for the prisoner, stating he was an
old acquaintance; that he had accepted
the offer, and the prisoner had departed
with them toward the north, in fine spirits.
This was the substance of the information
I gathered here; but it was enough
to intoxicate me with joy, and was received
by the rest of the party with three
hearty cheers, much to the astonishment of
the old Mexican, who did not comprehend
what was meant.
The prisoner was Huntly—there was
no doubt of that—and the Great Medicine
was the Indian tribe which had set him
free. The next thing was to go in quest
of them. They had gone toward the
north, and had had some time the start of
us. It might be difficult to find them—
but nothing, I fancied, in comparison with
the task I had first undertaken of tracing
out my friend. The Rovers agreed to accompany
me as far as Santa Cruz, when,
after having seen me so far safe, they
designed returning to Santa Fé.
It is unnecessary for me to detail each
day's journey. Suffice, that in due time
we arrived at Santa Cruz, where I parted
from the Rovers, with many expressions
of gratitude on my part, and heart-felt
wishes for my success on theirs. My party
was thus reduced to six; and as two of
the number preferred remaining here to
going north immediately, I settled with
them at once, still retaining Teddy, Pierre,
and Black George.
With these I again set forward rapidly,
making inquiries of all I met. For two
or three days I could get no tidings of the
Mysterious Tribe, and I began to have
doubts of being on the right course.
Fortunately, before we had decided on
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
changing our direction, we met a party of
mountaineers, who informed us that a few
weeks before they had seen a small tribe
of friendly Indians, somewhere between
the Spanish Peaks and Pueblo, among
whom were a white man and a beautiful
female half-breed—that they were moving
very leisurely toward the north—and that
in all probability they were now encamped
somewhere in the beautiful valley of the
Arkansas.
Elated with the most extravagant anticipations
of soon realizing our sanguine
hopes, we again pressed forward for two
or three days, and leaving the lofty Spanish
Peaks to our right, tracing up the head
waters of the Rio Mora, we struck off over
the Green Mountains and camped at last
in the far-famed valley of the Arkansas,
within full view of the eternal snow-crowned
Pike's Peak.
CHAPTER XI.
MORE CHEERING NEWS—A FRANTIC RIDE—
IN THE EMBRACE OF MY FRIEND—EFFECT
OF THE MEETING — SAD TIDINGS FOR
HUNTLY—DEEP EMOTION—STORY OF HIS
CAPTIVITY AND RELEASE — HIS SECOND
MEETING WITH PRAIRIE FLOWER — OLD
FEELINGS RENEWED—LOVE, ETC.
For two days after reaching the valley,
our search proved fruitless, and the reader
can better imagine my feelings than I can
describe them. My anxiety to see my
long-lost friend was so great, that I could
not rest at night, and barely devour enough
food to support nature. A consultation
had resulted in shaping our course up the
river, and on the third day we had the unbounded
delight to meet with a couple of
trappers, who informed us they had seen
the Great Medicine Tribe only two days
before, and that they were then camped
on a small creek, in a lovely valley, at the
base of the southwestern mountain chain,
surrounding what is known as the South
Park, not more than sixty or seventy miles
distant. Never can I forget the feelings I
experienced, nor the wild, prolonged, and
deafening cheers which resounded at this
announcement. Each of my companions
seemed frantic with joy; and as for myself,
I could have clasped the informants,
rough and half civilized as they were, to
my beating heart.
Becoming at last a little more tranquil,
we managed to impress upon ourselves a
brief description of the route to be taken,
and then set forward with the wildness of
madmen just loosened from an insane
asylum. On, on we dashed, over plain
heath and ridges, through thickets and
streams, till the blowing and reeling of our
animals warned us we must be more
prudent, or their lives, at least, would be
the penalty of our rashness.
Throughout that day, nothing was
thought of, nothing talked of, but our fortunate
adventure, and the speedy prospect
of gaining what we sought. Time, distance,
everything was overlooked; and
when the sun went down, it appeared to us
the day had been by half the shortest of
the season. But very different was it with
our horses, which were so exhausted from
hard riding, that serious fears were entertained
lest we had ruined them. But a
thorough rubbing down, and an hour or two
of rest revived them; and we at last had
the satisfaction of seeing them crop the
plentiful blade with their wonted gusto.
I slept none that night; in fact did not
lie down; but most of the time paced the
earth to and fro before the fire-light, anxiously
praying for the dawn, to resume
our journey. My companions, however,
slept soundly; for they had far less to
think of than I, and moreover were sorely
fatigued.
At the first blush of morning I roused
them, and again mounting we set forward.
As both Pierre and Black George knew the
country well, we lost no time by going out
of the way, but took the nearest and safest
course to the point described. A ride of
four hours brought us to the brow of a
hill, looking down upon a fertile valley,
where, joy inexpressible! we beheld a
village of temporary lodges, and a few Indians,
whom I instantly recognized as
belonging to the anxiously-sought tribe.
“Hurray! we've got 'em—I'll be dog-gone
ef we haint!” cried Black George.
“Hurray for us, beavers, sez I! and a
quart on the feller as is last in!”
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
Uttering yell after yell, as wild as those
of savages, we spurred down the hill with
reckless velocity, each one striving to lead
the rest and be first to reach the goal of
our present desires. Had the tribe in
question not been peaceably inclined, this
proceeding would have been dangerous in
the extreme, and a shower of rifle balls
might have changed our joyous shouts to
cries of pain and lamentation, or put us
beyond the pale of mortality. Our rapid
and tumultuous approach alarmed our
friends, and men, women, and children
came running out of their huts, with fear
depicted on their faces. Among them were
two figures that fixed my attention; and
from that moment I saw nothing but
Charles Huntly and Leni Leoti, till my
gallant beast stood panting in the center
of the crowd.
“Charles!” I exclaimed, as I leaped
from my steed, my brain fairly reeling with
intense emotion; and staggering up to
where he stood, bewildered and confused,
I threw my arms around his neck and
swooned in his embrace.
When consciousness again returned, I
found myself lying on a mat in a small
cabin, hastily constructed of sticks and
skins, and my friend standing by me,
chafing my temples, dashing cold water in
my face, and entreating me in the most
piteous tones to arouse and speak to him.
There were others around, but I heeded
them not. I had neither ears, nor eyes,
for any but my friend. My first glance
showed me he was altered, but not more
than I had expected to find him. His form
was somewhat wasted, and his pale features
displayed here and there a line of grief
and suffering which I had never before seen.
“Frank,” he cried, “for God's sake
look up, and speak to me!”
“Charles!” I gasped.
“Ha! I hear it again — that dearly
loved voice!” and burying his head upon
my breast he wept aloud.
In a few minutes I had completely recovered
from my swoon; but it was a long
time before either of us could master his
emotion sufficient to hold conversation.
We looked at each other, pressed each
other by the hand, mingled our tears together,
and felt, in this strange meeting,
what no pen can describe, no language
portray. We had literally been dead to
each other—we who had loved from childhood
with that ardent love which cements
two souls in one—and now we had come
to life, as it were, to feel more intensely
our friendship for the long separation.
The excess of joy had nearly made us
frantic, and taken away the power of
speech. At last we became more tranquil,
when our friends who had been present,
but almost unnoticed, withdrew and left
us to ourselves.
“And now, Frank,” said Huntly, looking
me earnestly in the face, his eyes still
dimmed with tears, “tell me the news.
Have you been home?”
“I have not.”
“Ah! then I suppose you know nothing
of our friends!”
“More than you imagine,” and I turned
away my head, and sighed at the thought
of the mournful intelligence I was about
to communicate.
“Indeed!” said Huntly. “But why
do you avert your face? Has—has anything
happened?”
“Prepare yourself for the worst, dear
Charles!” I said, in a tremulous tone.
“For the worst?” he repeated. “Great
Heaven! what has happened? Speak!
quick! tell me! for suspense at such times
is hard to be borne; and our imagination,
running wild with conjecture, tortures us,
it may be, beyond the reality.”
“In this case I think not.”
“Then speak what you know — in Heaven's
name, speak!”
“Promise me to be calm?”
“I will do my best,” replied my friend,
eagerly; with a look of alarm, while his
frame fairly trembled with excitement, and
his forehead became damp with cold perspiration.
“Your father, dear Charles!” I began.
“Well, well, Frank—what of him?”
“Is—is—no more. The sod has twice
been green above him.”
“Merciful God!” he exclaimed, throwing
his hands aloft, with a look of agony I
shall never forget; then covering his face
with them, he groaned as one in the throes
of death.
For some time I did not disturb him,
thinking it best to let his first grief take its
course in silence. At length I said:
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
“Come, my dear friend, rouse thee, and
be a man! Do not give too much sway
to your sorrow! Remember, that in this
world we all have to die — that we are
doomed by the immutable laws of nature
and the decrees of an over-ruling God, to
part from those we most dearly love! But
it is only for a time. God is wise, and
good, and does all things for the best; and
it is only a short time at the longest, ere
we in turn shall depart to join them in a
life beyond the reach of death. Cheer
up, dear Charles! and look upon your
father as one who has done with the cares
and perplexities of life, and made a happy
change. I know how dearly you loved
him—I know the trial to give him up is
most painful — and from my very soul I
sympathize with you in your affliction.
But, my dear friend, we have other duties
than to wail the dead; for the living demand
our attention; and you have friends
still left you, equally near and dear, who
stand in need of your most iron energies.”
“Alas!” he groaned, his face still hid
in his hands—“dead! dead! dead!—and
I — his only son — far, far away!” He
paused, and trembled violently for a few
moments, and his breath came quick and
hard. “But you are right, dear Frank,”
he said, at length, slowly raising his face,
now sadly altered. “You are right, my
friend! We know such things must, do,
and will take place; and we should, to
what extent we can, be philosophers all,
and strive to be resigned to God's will.
It is terrible, though—terrible—to lose a
beloved parent, and not be at hand to hear
his parting words, nor see him set forth on
that journey from whence none ever return.
But I—I—will strive to bear it—to at least
appear calm. And now, dear Frank—
my—my—I fear to mention who—lest I
hear more painful, heart-rending tidings.”
“You mean your mother and sister?”
He grasped my arm nervously, partly
averted his head, as if in dread of my answer,
and answered almost inaudibly:
“I do.”
“Be not alarmed, dear Charles! I left
them well.”
“Left them well?” he repeated, in surprise.
“Did not you tell me you had not
been home?”
“True! neither have I.”
“Then where did you see them, and
where are they now?”
“I will answer your last question first.
They are now in Oregon City.”
He gave me a deep, searching look,
such as one would bestow upon a person
whose sanity he had just begun to question.
“I do not wonder you look surprised,”
I added: “but listen ere you doubt;” and
I proceeded to narrate, as briefly as I
could, how I had met them near the South
Pass of the Rocky Mountains, and under
what singular circumstances; how I had
soon learned of their misfortunes, both in
the loss of their dearest friend and their
property, (which latter seemed to affect
Charles less than I had expected;) how
I had there met the Unknown, been warned
of danger by Prairie Flower, and what
followed; how I had subsequently accompanied
the party to Oregon; how I had
proposed to Lilian, been accepted, and on
what conditions; and how I had at last
been led to set off in search of my dearest
friend, and what had happened on the
journey. In short, I gave him condensed
particulars of all that had occurred since
we parted, not forgetting my night search
for him, and the effect of his loss upon me
at Los Angelos.
He listened attentively throughout, occasionally
interrupting me with questions
on points of more than usual interest, or
where, in my hasty narration, I had failed
to make the matter clear to him.
“Strange! strange!” he said, when I
had done; “very, very strange is all
this! It looks improbable — seems impossible—
and yet I do not doubt your
word. So, then, I am not worth a dollar?”
“Do not let that trouble you, Charles!
While I have money, neither you nor your
friends shall want.”
“I know it, Frank,” he said, pressing
my hand warmly; “I know it. That, at
present, is the least of my concern. And
so you have seen the Unknown? and she
is called Eva Mortimer?” He mused a
moment, and added: “Well, this is more
singular than all. Frank, we must set out
for Oregon immediately!”
“As soon as you please. And now tell,
me something of your own adventures.”
“Alas!” sighed he, “after the painful
news you have communicated, I feel
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
myself unable to enter into particulars. I
will give you something in brief, for I know
your curiosity is excited. In fact, I will
give you the outline of my story, and anon
will fill it with detail.”
“Proceed.”
“At the time we separated to follow the
wounded goat,” he began, “I hurried
around the foot of the mountain which you
were ascending. In my haste, I missed
the path, and had spent some time in
searching for it, when suddenly I found
myself surrounded by half-a-dozen guerillas,
who, it seems, were in waiting here for
the return of a larger party, momentarily
expected, when all designed an attack upon
some merchants coming in from Santa Fé.
A single glance showed me resistance
was useless, and I surrendered myself a
prisoner. They seized and began stripping
me of everything valuable, when it occurred
to me I could let you know my situation,
and I accordingly shouted as if
calling to a party of my friends. The
next moment I was seized and gagged,
when the cowards, fearful I suppose, this
precaution had been taken too late, (for a
cheer from you was heard in answer,) and
that they might be attacked soon, if they
remained where they were, began to sneak
away, taking me with them.
“When they had rendered themselves
safe, by penetrating farther into the mountains,
they kept quiet till night, and then
sallied forth to the rendezvous, where they
joined the others, in all some twenty persons.
“A consultation was now held, whether
I should be put to death, or taken along
and sold into slavery. The latter was
finally adopted, and Gonzalez, the chief,
took me under his charge. Taking the
great Spanish trail, we set off toward Santa
Fé, traveling mostly in the night and
lying by through the day, often in ambush
for some unfortunate wayfarers, who, in
the encounters that sometimes ensued, generally
lost both money and life. My dear
Frank, I could describe events which have
passed before my own eyes, that would
make your hair stand with horror; but
but these are almost irrelevant to my story,
and so I shall omit them.
“It was a strange fancy they had formed
of selling me into slavery, and I could
never rightly comprehend it. It could not
have been for the amount I would bring—
for that was small, in comparison to the
trouble I must have cost them in guarding
me from escape. No! I am inclined to
think it the result of a whim—perhaps of
the chief—who ever treated me with as
much leniency as I could expect, or have
dared to ask for. Still I was made to do
menial services, and used as a slave; and
it might have been my life was preserved
for this; for save myself, the party had
no servant. O! how it made my blood
boil at times, when I thought what I
had been, and what I was! and how I
groaned in secret, to think what must be
your feelings, and the feelings of my
friends, should the latter ever hear of my
fate! But I still had hope; I was still
alive; and I struggled to bear up manfully,
and be resigned to my lot till Providence
should favor my escape.
“The first hundred miles I was forced
to proceed on foot—the robbers having no
horses but what they rode themselves.
Sometimes they traveled fast, obliging me
to keep them company, and in consequence
I suffered most severely. At last one of
the band got killed in an affray, and his
beast was assigned to me, which proved a
great relief.
“One day the chief informed me, that
if I would take the oath of his dictation, I
might join the band and have my freedom—
or rather, the freedom of a robber.
I declined his offer, in language so decisive
that he never after repeated the proposition,
and I continued as before, a slave.
But I must avoid detail.
“At last we reached the Sierra de los
Mimbres, where the band divided—the
chief and a few followers taking me down
to San Domingo, where I was offered for
sale. Not meeting with success here, he
continued down through the several villages,
and, in short, to the very hacienda
whither you and another (God bless you
both!) traced me. Had he failed here in
disposing of me to Pedro Lopez, I do believe
he would have put an end to my
existence.
“After much quibbling, the bargain
was at last struck, and I became the property
of Pedro Lopez. I shall now pass
over the period of my slavery—the most
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
unhappy one of my life. True, I was
treated better than my companions, and,
on the whole, suffered much less physically
than mentally. But still I knew myself
a slave—knew I was degraded; and
the thought of my position—that thus I
might be doomed to spend my days—
nearly drove me mad. Sometimes evil
thoughts would enter my head; and then
I would half resolve to kill my master and
take the consequences, or put an end to
my own being. Then hope would revive,
that something might turn up for my deliverance,
and I would strive to labor on,
resigned to bide my time. Thus a year
rolled around, when one day Pedro Lopez
came to me and inquired if I were contented
with my situation! At first I
thought he was mocking me, and I half-raised
a garden-tool I had in my hand
to dash out his brains. He must have
guessed my intention from my looks; for
he took a step back, and bade me be
calm and give him a civil answer. I replied
by inquiring if he would feel contented
to be a slave in a foreign land?
He shook his head, and said he would not—
that he had felt for my situation from
the first—and that that was the cause of
my being treated better than my companions.
He then told me, that as I had ever
behaved myself with propriety, and as he
had been offered a fair ransom by a small
tribe of Indians, if I felt disposed to go
with them he would give up all claim to
me. A thought flashed upon me, that
possibly this might be the tribe of Great
Medicine, and I begged to see them. My
request was granted, and, the first glance
showed me I was right in my conjectures;
and uttering a joyful cry, I rushed outside
the gate, to where they were assembled
before the walls of the hacienda.
“Frank, it is impossible for me to describe
my feelings then. Life, liberty,
everything joyous, seemed bursting upon
me at once, and my brain grew dizzy with
the exhilarating, intoxicating thoughts. I
hugged the first Indian I met; I danced,
capered around, shouted, laughed, cried—
in short, did everything extravagant to
give my overpowering feelings vent. For
an hour or two I was insane with joy, and
my reasoning powers as bewildered as
those of a lunatic. At last I began to
grow calm; and then I went around to
each of my old friends and shook them by
the hand, thanked them with tearful eyes
and trembling voice for my deliverance,
and received their congratulations and
caresses in return.
“But where was Prairie Flower? As
yet I had not seen her. I made the inquiry,
but could get no direct answer.
Some shook their heads, others said she
was not here, and others again that she
was away. Finding none would answer
me, I concluded they had a sufficient reason
for their evasion, and dropped the
subject.
“When everything had been satisfactorily
arranged, and I became reasonably
sobered down, we all set out toward the
north. A horse had been provided for
me, and all were mounted—the females,
of whom there were several, mostly on
mules.
“Some three miles from the hacienda,
we reached a heavy wood. Entering this
about a mile, we made a halt by a spring.
While watering the animals, I heard a distant
rustling of the bushes and the tramp
of more horses. Presently an airy figure,
gaily attired, and mounted on a coal black
Indian pony, burst through a dense copse
near me, followed by five dusky maidens,
and rode swiftly up to where I was standing
by my steed.
“`Prairie Flower!' I shouted; and the
next moment she was on her feet, and her
hand clasped in mine.
“`O, the emotions of that moment
Time seemed to have turned his wheel
backward, and years of toil, and grief, and
fatigue, were forgotten. Passions, which
had slumbered, or been half-obliterated
by other events, were again awakened and
wrenched from their secret recesses; and
I saw her as I had seen her three years
before, and felt all I had then felt, but in
a two-fold sense.
“As for Prairie Flower, she was pale and
exceedingly agitated. She grasped my hand
nervously, gave one searching glance at
my features, and burst into tears—but did
not speak. Then she sprang away from
me a few paces, dashed the tears from her
eyes, and returning with a bound, asked
me a dozen questions in a breath: `How
I had been? Where I had been? If I
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
were well? If I were glad to get my liberty?
and so on; and wound up by adding:
`She was rejoiced to see me, and hoped
I should be more fortunate hereafter.'
“Throughout our first brief interview,
her manner was wild and her language
almost incoherent — which, so different
from anything I had seen, surprised and
alarmed me. She would ask a question,
and then, without waiting an answer, ask
another and another, or make some remark
altogether irrelevant. At last, with a
hope that I would now be happy, she informed
me that she could see me no more
that day; and before I had time to reply,
she skipped away, sprang into her saddle
and was off—followed by all the females
of the tribe, and some half a dozen of the
other sex.
“This proceeding perplexed me not a
little. I asked several the meaning of it,
but they only shook their heads, and I
was left to ponder it over in secret.
“We pursued our way slowly toward
the north, and I saw nothing of Prairie
Flower, nor of those who had accompanied
her, till about noon of the succeeding
day, when she again joined us, with
the balance of the tribe, among whom
were some women and children I had not
before seen, which led me to infer there
had been two camps, and this supposition
was subsequently confirmed by Prairie
Flower herself.
“My second meeting with Prairie Flower
was very different from the first. She
was calm, constrained, and I fancied cold;
though somehow I was led to think this
rather forced than natural. She was polite,
civil, and agreeable; but all that passionate
enthusiasm of the preceding day
was gone. She did not speak with freedom,
and her words seemed studied, and
her sentences regulated by previous
thought. In fact, she seemed to have
relapsed into the same state as when we
first were guests of herself and tribe.
There was either something very mysterious
about this, or else it sprang from
one natural cause—and my vanity, it may
be, led me to infer the latter. If she
loved me, her actions were easily accounted
for; if she did not care for me, why
had she taken so much pains, as her own
lips revealed, to hunt me out?
“In course of conversation which ensued,
she narrated how she had met you—
under what circumstances — and how,
urged on by a sense of duty, she had at
once set off with her tribe in the hope of
learning something more of my fate.
Fortune favored her; for while on her
way south, she met with an old mountaineer,
who gave her tidings of a cheering
nature. As her adventures have been so
much like your own, Frank, I shall not
enter into detail. Enough that she was
successful in finding me, and that I am
here.
“Day after day, as we traveled north,
I had more or less interviews with Prairie
Flower; but though she ever treated me
with respect and politeness, she always
studied to avoid familiarity.
“At last we reached the present spot,
where the tribe have encamped for a few
weeks, or until the fishers and hunters
shall have laid in a supply of provisions,
when they intend proceeding farther north.
From Prairie Flower having seen you
where she did, I inferred you had gone
home, and every day have been intending
to follow. But somehow, when the time
has come to start, I have again put it off
for another twenty-four hours, and thus
have been delaying day after day, for what
purpose I hardly know myself. I believe
I have been held here by some charm too
powerful to break, and now that you have
come I am glad of it.”
“And that charm,” said I, as my
friend concluded with a sigh, “is Prairie
Flower.”
“It may be,” he answered, musingly.
“She is so strange—I do not know what
to make of her. She is not an Indian—I
feel certain of that: but as to who she is,
I am as unenlightened as ever. Do you
really think she loves me, Frank?” he
asked suddenly, rousing himself and fastening
his eye earnestly upon mine.
“How can I answer?” I said, evasively.
“But I know of one that does, Charles.”
“You mean the Unknown — or rather,
Eva Mortimer?” he rejoined, musingly.
“I do. I have already delivered her
message, sufficient to assure you of the
fact; and she is certainly one worthy of
being loved.”
“It may be,” he sighed, and there
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
was a time, Frank, such intelligence would
have made me happy. But now — (he
paused, shook his head, and mused a moment) —
now it is not so. When I first
saw Eva, I had never seen Prairie Flower;
and ere the germ of a first passion had
been brought to maturity, the tree was
transplanted to another soil, and the sun
of another clime, although it did not change
its nature, ripened it to another light. Or,
to drop all metaphor,” he added, “Eva was
the first to arouse in me a latent passion,
which doubtless a proper intercourse would
have warmed to a mutual attachment; but
ere this was consummated — ere I even
knew who she was — without a hope of
ever seeing her again — I departed, and
have never beheld her since. She touched
some secret chord in my breast, and I
dwelt on her memory for a time, and loved
her as an unapproachable ideal, rather
than as an approachable substance. I
loved her—or fancied I did—rather that I
had nothing else on which to place my affections,
than for any substantial cause.
In another I afterward found a resemblance
which arrested my attention, and
changed the current of my thoughts. The
singular manner in which we were thrown
together—our daily interviews—my gratitude
to her as the preserver of my life and
yours—her generosity—in short, the concentration
in her of every noble quality—
the absence of all others—gradually drew
me to Prairie Flower; and ere I was aware
of it myself, I found her presence necessary
to my happiness. At last we parted,
as you know how, and I strove to forget
her; but, Frank, though I mentioned her
not to you, I now tell you, that I strove a
long time in vain. By day and by night,
in a greater or less degree, did she occupy
my thoughts; and it was only when misfortunes
fell upon me that her image gradually
gave place to more trying thoughts.
But our second meeting — an additional
debt of gratitude for deliverance from
slavery—has done the work; and I now
feel I can love none but Prairie Flower.”
“Then you are really in love, Charles?”
“I am; and I fear hopelessly so.”
“I fear so too,” sighed I. “But where
is Prairie Flower? I must see and thank
her from my heart.”
As I spoke, the subject of our conversation
glided into the rude lodge, and stood
before me.
CHAPTER XII.
APPEARANCE OF PRAIRIE FLOWER — HER
BEAUTY — HER STRONG RESEMBLANCE TO
EVA — STARTLING SUSPICION — MAKE IT
KNOWN—HER AGITATION—PROMISED INQUIRY—
ABRUPT DEPARTURE—MY FRIEND
IN LOVE—INTERRUPTION.
“Prairie Flower! my dearest friend!”
I exclaimed, springing to my feet and
clasping her extended hands in both of
mine: “Prairie Flower! this is a happy
meeting—most happy!”
“I am very glad to see you Mr. Leigh
ton,” she said, with something like a sigh
“very, very glad!” and she closed in a
tremulous tone, while her dark eyes filled
with tears.
O, how beautiful she looked, as we stood
face to face, her hands clasped in mine!
Never had she appeared more lovely!
Since our first meeting, time had ripened
her to full maturity; and though her sweet
countenance was pale and sad, and though
something like care and thought could be
traced thereon, yet it was so mellowed, so
blended with something lofty and noble,
that it added a peculiar charm to her
appearance which mere physical beauty
could not sustain. It was a something
that, while you admired, awakened your
sympathy, and drew you to her, as toward
one you felt it your duty and delight to
soothe, cherish, and protect. As I gazed
upon her a moment in silence, I became
forcibly struck with the resemblance she
bore to Eva Mortimer. She was a shade
darker, perhaps; but this might be owing
to her life in the mountains, and constant
exposure to the free, bracing air. There
was the same mold of feature, and in her
now sad and thoughtful expression, a
marked resemblance to that I had seen on
the countenance of Eva as she bade me
farewell. A sudden thought sent a hot
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
flash over me, and involuntarily I took a
step backward and scrutinized her again.
Good heavens! could it be possible! No!
no! it was too visionary! And yet why
too visionary, I said, half aloud. As
strange things had happened. Eva had
a sister—a twin sister—who was lost at
an infantile age — who had been stolen
away. There was no existing proof—or
at least none to my knowledge—that that
sister was dead: no one knew what had
become of her. Here was a being of her
own age apparently, and of a marked resemblance.
Her history she would never
touch upon—perhaps did not know. Might
Prairie Flower not be that twin sister?
The thought, the suspicion, was wild and
romantic—but what argument was there
against it? The ways of Providence are
strange, but not in all cases past finding
out.
“It must—it must be so!” I ejaculated,
completely absorbed with my speculations,
and forgetful of everything around
me.
I was aroused from my reverie, by the
voices of both my friend and Prairie
Flower.
“What is the matter, Frank?” cried
Huntly, grasping my arm, shaking me,
and gazing upon me with a look of alarm.
“Speak to me! speak! that I may know
you have your reason!”
“Are you ill, sir?” joined in Prairie
Flower, with a startled look. “I fear you
are ill, Francis! Fatigue has overcome
him,” she added to Huntly. “Better get
him to lie down on the mat, while I run
for assistance.”
“Stay! stay!” I exclaimed, as the
latter turned to depart. “I am not ill. I
was only—I beg your pardon!—did I act
strangely?”
“As I never saw you before,” replied
Huntly. “You stared wildly at Prairie
Flower, and spoke incoherently. Tell me!
are you in your senses?”
“Most certainly I am. I was only
thinking of—of—”
“Of what, pray?”
“Prairie Flower, speak?” I exclaimed,
addressing her, as she stood near the entrance,
uncertain whether to depart or not:
“Speak! what do you know of your history?”
“My history?” she repeated in surprise.
“Have I not forbid you—”
“Never mind now! I have important
reasons for asking.”
She colored to the eyes, and seemed
greatly embarrassed.
“What reasons can you have,” she rejoined,
“for asking this, in this wild manner?
You surprise and alarm me!”
“A resemblance,” I replied, “a strong
resemblance you bear to another. Fear
not to tell me and my friend what you
know, and we promise, if necessary, to
keep your secret inviolate.”
“Ay, do, Prairie Flower!” urged
Huntly, vehemently, who now comprehended
the whole matter. “Speak, dear
Prairie Flower, without reserve! Speak,
I pray you! for much depends upon your
answer.”
“Are you both mad?” she said, looking
from one to the other, as if doubting
our sanity.
“No! no!” I returned, “we are not
mad, but in our sober senses. A weighty
reason, which my friend did not at first,
but now understands, and all important to
you as well as ourselves and others, induces
the inquiry. Come, Sweet Prairie
Flower! will you not grant our request?”
She hung down her head, tapped the
earth with her foot, and seemed confused
and agitated. I approached and gently
took her hand, and again in a soothing
voice entreated her to tell us all she knew,
reiterating my promise, that, if necessary,
it should never pass to other ears.
“Say, sweet being! are you not of our
race?—are you not a pale-face?”
For some time she did not reply, during
which she seemed struggling to master her
emotions. At length a half inaudible “I
am” escaped her lips.
“I thought so — I could almost have
sworn it!” I returned, triumphantly.
“And your parents, Prairie Flower?”
She burst into tears, and hid her face in
her hands.
“Nay, sweet Prairie Flower, be calm!”
I added. “Do not let this affect you so
seriously. I do not seek to pry into you
private affairs, only so far as I fancy the
knowledge imparted may benefit yourself.
Tell me — did you or do you know your
parents?”
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
She shook her head and sobbed aloud.
“Believe me, gentle maiden, nothing is
farther from my design, than to wound
your feelings or recall painful associations.
Do you know how you came among the
Indians?”
“Something I know,” she answered.
“Will you tell us what you know?”
“As you seem so anxious,” she said,
making an effort to dry her tears; “I will
on condition I gain the consent of Chacha-chee-kee-hobah.”
“And what has he to do with it?”
“I have promised to reveal nothing
without his consent. And now I think of
it,” she quickly added, “perhaps I have
done wrong in saying what I have.”
“Give yourself no uneasiness, Prairie
Flower; for even he could attach no blame
to what you have said. But how came
you to promise him this?”
“He exacted it of me as my guardian.”
“Indeed! Then he must know your
history?”
“He knows more of it than I do.”
Then I must see him at once. Pray,
conduct me to him!”
“Nay, sir,” she answered, “it were
useless. He would tell you nothing. He
is old, and singular, and would look upon
you as an intruder. I will see him, and
see what can be done. He loves me, and
I have more influence over him than any
other of the tribe. If he refuses to tell
me, no earthly power can open his lips,
and the secret will go down to the grave
with him. But now let me hear something
of yourself, and how we all came to
meet again in a manner so singular.”
“One question more, Prairie Flower.”
“Nay, no more. I will answer nothing
farther, till I have consulted the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains.”
“Be it so, then,” I answered; and the
conversation changed to matters connected
with my present adventure.
We were still engaged in recalling past
events, when an Indian maiden hurriedly
entered the lodge, and said something in
her own language to Prairie Flower.
“Indeed!” she exclaimed, starting and
turning deadly pale. “Gentlemen, excuse
me!” and she hastened from the cot.
“What can be the meaning of this?”
said Huntly.
“Some startling news, I judge. Perhaps
some one has been taken ill and sent
for her.”
“And so, Frank,” returned Huntly the
next moment, “you really think Prairle
Flower and Eva sisters?”
“There is so strong a resemblance, my
friend, that, until I have proof to the contrary,
I can hardly believe otherwise.”
“Strange!” he rejoined, musingly:
“Strange! very strange! Yet since you
have told me something of the history of
the Mortimers, I must say the matter looks
possible, not to say probable.”
“At all events,” I returned, “there is
mystery somewhere, and I shall not rest
till it be sifted to the bottom. I hope she
may prevail upon the old man to allow her
to tell what she knows, even if he add
nothing himself.”
“And should it turn out as we suspect,
Frank!” said Huntly with great energy,
grasping my arm as he spoke.
“Well?”
“You know I—that is—”
“I understand. You would have her
the closest of kin—eh! Charles?”
“Say no more. I see you understand
me. But then, I —”
“Well, say on.”
“I—that is—you—perhaps she—she
does not fancy me!”
“What! do you doubt?”
“Why, no — yes—I—I cannot say I
doubt—but—but she is so strange, Frank
I would give the world to have her talk to
me with the freedom she does to you.”
“And if you really love her, Charles,
you should give the world to have everything
exactly the reverse; in other words,
exactly as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, simply, that she does not love
me.”
“Are you sure of this, Frank?” and
Huntly fastened his eyes intently upon
mine, as if to read my soul.
“As sure as that the sun shines at noon-day.”
“And you think she—she —”
“Loves another.”
Huntly turned deadly pale.
“Who, Frank? — who?”
“Charles Huntly.”
“Indeed!” he exclaimed, with a rapid
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
change of countenance. “You think
this?”
“I know it.”
He took a step backward and looked at
me hard a moment—during which his color
came and went rapidly, and his breathing
became audible — and then said, impressively:
“Frank, do not jest with me! To me
this matter is of the gravest importance.”
“I do not jest, Charles; I know your
feelings, and you may rest assured I
would be the last to jest with them.”
“And you say she loves me?”
“I do.”
He grasped my hand, the tears sprang
into his eyes, and his voice trembled as he
rejoined:
“Frank, I thank you for these words.
I am suffering under deep affliction — my
life is clouded—but, if this be true, there
is still sunshine—still an oasis in the desert—
still something to look forward to.”
“My words are true, my friend, if that
is any consolation.”
“And how have you discovered this so
suddenly?”
“I have not. I have known it all
along.”
“Indeed! you never told it me before.”
“True, and for good reasons.”
“What reasons, I pray?”
“I did not wish to encourage an attachment
which may even yet prove hopeless.”
“What mean you?”
“As I told you once before: Prairie
Flower may love — nay, does love, mark
that! — but may never marry — nay even
reject the suit of him she idolizes.”
“For what cause?”
“That she is already wedded to her
tribe.”
“But should she prove to be what we
suspect?”
“That may alter the case with her; and
on the strength of that supposition, and
that you have been so mysteriously bought
together, and that I find your affections so
firmly placed upon her — have I ventured
to tell you what I have long known. But
remember, Charles, I warn you not to be
too sanguine in your expectations!”
“Well,” answered my friend, “I will
hope for the best. It is all very singu
lar!” he added, relapsing into a musing
mood.
“I suppose we had better not start for
Oregon to-day?” said I, playfully.
“No, not to-day!” he replied; “not
to-day! To-morrow, perhaps.”
“Or peradventure the day following?”
“Ay, peradventure.”
At this moment Teddy, Pierre and Black
George appeared at the door to pay their
respects to my friend, and I quitted the
lodge, bidding them pass in.
CHAPTER XIII.
JOIN AN INDIAN CROWD — SILENT RECOGNITION—
GREAT MEDICINE ILL—ANXIETY TO
SEE HIM — REAPPEARANCE OF PRAIRIE
FLOWER—DEVOTION—URGE HER TO QUESTION
THE INVALID—SUSPENSE—PRESENT
FAILURE — SUBSEQUENT SUCCESS — PRAIRIE
FLOWER RESOLVES TO VISIT OREGON—
AN EVENING STROLL — THE DEATH WAIL.
As yet I had not exchanged a word with
any of the tribe but Prairie Flower; and
as I left the cot, I turned toward a crowd,
which was huddled together near the center
of the temporary village, their eyes all
fixed in a certain direction. I knew by
this, and the abrupt departure of Prairie
Flower, that something unusual had occurred;
and hastening forward, I soon
reached them, and, to my surprise, found
most of them in tears, and the others looking
very solemn.
“What has happened, my friends?”
inquired I.
On hearing my voice, those nearest me
turned round and extended their hands in
silence. They then separated, so as to
allow me a passage through; and as I
moved along, I shook a hand of each on
either side. They appeared glad to see
me, but, at the same time, very sad, from
some untoward circumstance, of which I
felt anxious to be informed.
When I had concluded, I turned to an
intelligent youth, and inquired the cause
of each and all looking so serious.
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
He silently pointed his finger to the
center lodge, and after a solemn pause,
uttered:
“Great Medicine.”
“Sick?”
He nodded his head.
This, then, accounted for the agitation
of Prairie Flower; and after what had
passed between us regarding her history,
it may readily be inferred I felt no little
anxiety to ascertain to what extent the
old man was indisposed, and whether his
case was, or was not, considered immediately
dangerous. He was very old I
knew, and in all probability would not
long survive. Should he die without revealing
to Prairie Flower her history, all
dependence of proof from her would be
cut off, and it would doubtless be a very
difficult, if not an impossible endeavor, to
indentify her with the lost daughter of
Madame Mortimer. On this account, as
well as for old acquaintance-sake, I was
very anxious to enter the lodge — at the
door, or just outside of which, were standing
several females, weeping. I made a
step forward for this purpose, when an Indian
touched me on the shoulder and
shook his head, as a sign that I must go
no nearer.
“I have most important business with
the invalid,” I said. “Can I not be permitted
to see him?”
He again shook his head.
“But this matter is urgent.”
“No one must see him,” he answered,
“but such as he desires to see.”
“Then let me see Prairie Flower.”
“She must not now be called. We wait
her appearance.”
“Will she soon be here?”
“Cannot say.”
There was nothing to do, therefore, but
wait as patiently as I could. What troubled
me the most, was the fear that the
old man might die suddenly, and Prairie
Flower, in her agitation, neglect to question
him till too late. For an hour I paced
to and fro, in a very uneasy mood, revolving
these things in my mind, when the
latter made her appearance outside the
lodge, where she was instantly surrounded
by those nearest in waiting, all eager for
her intelligence. Having spoken a few
words with them, they all moved slowly
away with sorrowful looks, and Prairie
Flower approached to where I was standing.
The Indians, though as anxious as
myself to gain her tidings, moved not from
their places, but waited in respectful silence
for her to open the conversation. I,
however, not being bred in the same school
with them, could not exercise the same
patience; and taking a few steps forward,
I said:
“Great Medicine is ill, Prairie Flower?”
“He is,” she answered in a tremulous
voice.
“Very ill? dangerously ill?” I inquired.
“I fear he is.”
The Indians behind me, on hearing this,
uttered several deep groans, but said not
a word.
“Can he survive, Prairie Flower?”
“I think not,” she answered, mournfully
shaking her head.
“Any particular disease?”
“Old age and debility. He is very
old, and has not been well for some time.
A few minutes before I was called, he was
taken very ill. I fear his time to go is at
hand. Friends,” she added, addressing
her tribe, “you are about to lose one you
love and reverence. Let us commend his
soul to the Great Spirit;” thereupon each
and all kneeled upon the earth in prayer.
When this was over, I turned to Prairie
Flower again.
“Pardon me, fair being!” I said, “at
this solemn time, for intruding worldly
thoughts upon your attention. But the
Old-man-of-the-Mountains is about to depart,
in all probability, to join his fathers
and friends in another state. You think
he holds the key to your history. If you
have not already, would it not be well for
you to bid him unlock the memories of the
past, so far as relates to yourself?”
“True,” she answered, with a start; “I
had forgotten that. I fear it is too late;
for already his voice falters, and he seems
standing midway between time and eternity,
and slowly receding toward the
shadowy land of spirits.”
“Fly!” I urged: “Fly, Prairie Flower!
and do your best, ere all is over!”
“I will,” she said; and at once hastened
back to the lodge.
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
For another hour I paced to and fro
impatiently, ever and anon turning my
eyes upon the hut where the old man was
breathing his last. At length Prairie
Flower reappeared, and with her three Indian
maidens, all weeping and seeming
very much dejected. On leaving the
lodge, each went separate ways through
the village, Prairie Flower approaching me
direct.
“To prayer!” she said, addressing her
friends, who still remained as she had left
them.
All again kneeled as before. When
they rose to their feet, I addressed her:
“What news, Prairie Flower?”
“He is sinking very fast,” she answered,
sadly.
“Did you gain any information?”
“No! I addressed him on the subject,
but he only looked at me vaguely, and did
not seem to comprehend what I said.”
“Alas! I fear it is too late, Prairie
Flower!”
“I fear so,” she rejoined. “But he
may revive a little; and if he do, I will
question him again.”
With this she returned to the lodge of
the invalid, while I proceeded to join my
friend, and inform him what had occurred.
I found Huntly as I had left him, in company
with my compagnons d'voyage, all
engaged in an animated conversation.
“Well,” he said, as I entered, “what
news, Frank? Something has happened,
I know by your sober looks.”
I proceeded to detail what had transpired,
and the fears I entertained.
“This is unfortunate,” he said, when I
had done; “most unfortunate.”
The sun was some half an hour above
the hills, when Prairie Flower again joined
us in haste. Pierre, Teddy and Black
George had left some time before, so that
no one was in the cot but myself and
friend, and we were so deeply engaged in
discussing the various matters which had
transpired, as not to be aware of her close
proximity till she spoke:
“Where is this person,” she asked,
`whom I resemble?”
“I left her in Oregon City,” I replied.
“That is far away,” she rejoined, musingly.
“But what success, Prairie Flower?”
“Better than I expected.”
“Indeed! You give us joy.”
“As I observed he might do, when I
quitted you,” she answered, “the old man
again revived, when I immediately put the
question as to what he knew of my history.
He seemed much surprised, and inquired
my reasons for asking. I hurriedly
informed him of your conjectures. He
listened attentively, and seemed ill at ease.
He had promised, he said, in reply, never
to divulge, during his natural life, who I
was, nor anything connected with my
earliest years.”
“Ha! then he knows your history
himself?”
“Nay, do not interrupt me.”
“I crave pardon! Go on.”
“Yes,” continued Prairie Flower, “he
said he knew much concerning me, but
did not know all; that something had
whispered him this information might
be valuable to me at some future time;
and that he had recorded it on a roll of
parchment, which he had purchased of a
trader for the purpose. This parchment,
he said, was concealed under a stone in a
certain place, which none but such as to
whom he might reveal the secret, would
ever be able to find. He farther said, that
if in truth I had a sister and mother living,
I had better perhaps seek them out, and
should they recognize and claim me, I
could then do as I saw proper, either cling
to them or my tribe; that although I had
been reared for the most part among Indians,
and had adopted their habits and
customs, still I was not of their race—not
of their blood—and he could therefore
see nothing unnatural or improper in my
desiring to form acquaintance with my own
kin. But, he added, lest I should meet
with disappointment—in my kin, or those
I supposed to be such, not claiming me on
what I and they might know—he thought
it better I should remain ignorant of myself,
until I had seen them face to face,
when, should all turn out as I desired, it
would be time enough to produce proof;
and that if I would promise to go in quest
of them before perusing, or allowing another
to peruse, the parchment in question,
he would make its locality known.”
“What a singular request!” said I.
“True,” replied Prairie Flower; “but
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
as I have said before, Great Medicine is
a very singular being, and an enigma to
all.”
“And did you agree to his proposition?”
“I did, though somewhat reluctantly.
But I knew if I did not, that the secret
would die with him, and of this I could not
bear to think.”
“And so he told you all?”
“He did.”
“And where is the parchment concealed?”
“Nay,” she answered, shaking her
head, “I do not know as I am at liberty
to tell.”
“I beg your pardon, Prairie Flower!
I certainly had no right to question. But
you will accompany us to Oregon City?”
“That is what I came to speak about,”
she replied, timidly. “You really think
your conjectures are right?”
“We do,” answered Huntly. “Everything
tends to convince us so. At first,
what was only a vague suspicion with us,
has since grown almost to a certainty.
Come, go with us, sweet Prairie Flower!
Say you will go, and I shall be happy.”
Prairie Flower changed color as Huntly
spoke, and turned aside her head.
“And you will allow me a few companions?”
she timidly inquired.
“As many as you please,” returned
Huntly, “so you will consent to go.”
“But when do you start?”
“We will wait your time.”
“My duty,” she said, solemnly, “is
henceforth by the side of Cha-cha-cheekee-hobah,
till he take his departure to the
land of eternal rest—then to follow his remains
to the grave—which done, I shall
soon be ready to join you. Adieu, for the
present! I must return to him now.”
Saying which, she quitted the lodge.
“At last,” said Huntly, turning to me:
“At last, Frank, I have hope. Let us
forth and take the evening air—for strange
thoughts are crowding my breast.”
Arm in arm we strolled through the little
village, where the solemn faces of all
we met bespoke the gloom of mourning
for one universally beloved, and took our
way down to the little streamlet, which,
all unconscious of mortal change, ran
murmuring on as it had done perchance
for ages. All nature reposed in her most
charming beauty of quietude. The sun
was just beginning to sink behind the lofty
mountains to the westward, and the last
flood-light of day made golden the tiny
waves of the water, and began to hasten
the long shadows, precursors of diurnal
night, and that night of death which knows
no waking. The very air seemed solemn,
it was so still. Scarce a breath moved;
and the leaflets hung down their heads as
if in sorrow. The feathered warblers,
which had made music all day, were winding
up their tunes with what seemed a
melancholy cadence. A few night-watchers
had just began to give each other calls
in timid tones, as if half afraid their voices
were trespassing upon a scene too sacred.
It was just calm enough, and mild enough,
and lovely enough, and solemn enough, to
awaken meditative thought—that thought
in which all the unutterable poetry of our
nature becomes infused. When the outward
sense bids the inner tongue speak to
us in language which the enraptured soul
only comprehends. When we feel a melancholy
happiness, and a desire to steal
away from everything living, and in solitude
commune with ourselves and our God.
When the natural voice jars discordantly
with the finer and more elevated tones of
our being, proceeding from the spirit-harp,
touched by the unseen hand of the All
pervading Deity. When, in short, we
feel drawn by an unexplainable sympathy
to a lonely meditation on things high and
holy, beyond the matter-of-fact events of
every day experience. Did you never feel
thus, reader? Did you never steal away
from your daily cares, your business, your
friends — from everything common and
evanescent—to hold a quiet communion
with your nobler thoughts?—and then trace
those thoughts, as it were, to their primeval
source—the eternal fount of the Great
All-Good? And are not such sweet
thoughts, and sweet moments of happy
rest, in a life more or less filled with turmoil
and pain? For myself, I answer yes;
for I look upon them as foretastings of a
state of blissful and eternal beatitude,
when the changing circumstances of this
life shall trouble us no more forever.
Thus I felt, and thus my friend, on the
present occasion. Deep thought with
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
both was too busy for words, and we
gained the rivulet in silence. Some fifty
yards above us was a large, flat rock,
overhanging the gurgling waters. Toward
this Huntly silently pointed; and obeying
the gesture, I accompanied him thither.
Seated at length upon it, our eyes simultaneously
fixed upon the rapid current
laving its base, and our ears drank in its
music, while the sunlight gradually departed
the stream, the deepening shadows
of night stretched over us, growing more
and more somber, and the stars here and
there began to peep out in the heavens,
and shine brighter and more bright, till the
firmament above appeared blazoned with
thousands on thousands of shining worlds,
the armorial bearings of the Great Omnipotent.
Still we sat in silence—now soaring
in thought to another existence—now
dwelling upon the wonders of nature as a
complicated whole, or equally complicated,
inexplicable part—and anon reviewing the
past, touching upon the present, and leaping
forward in imagination to the future--
that future, to the young, of golden hopes
and bright anticipations, destined for the
most part never to be realized. Thus we
mutely sat, for an hour or more, when
Huntly broke the silence.
“Frank,” he said, “what a charm, what
a solemn charm there seems in everthing
to-night! I have been musing, as it were,
upon everything. I have been back to
my boyhood days, when I was wild, giddy,
reckless, and frolicsome. When I had no
thought beyond the sport of the hour, and
no ambition but to make a jest of my fellow
beings. I have traced up our youthful
sports (for you and I were almost one,
you know,) to that sudden resolve which
parted me for the last time from my
beloved father.”
Here his voice faltered to a pause, and
for some moments he remained silent, with
his face bowed upon his hands. Then
raising his head, he dashed away a few
tears and resumed:
“I have recalled event after event to
the present time, and find, in my reckless
career, that I have much, too much, to regret.
But I believe in an overruling,
mysterious Power, and that there has been
a purpose in all beyond my own simple
inclinations. Adversity, I feel, has been
for the best, by working in me a great
change. Yes, Frank, I am a changed
being. From boyhood I have passed to
manhood, and from the idle follies of
youth, to the wiser and more sober
thoughts of maturer age.
“Once I was all for adventure and
change—but now the case is different. I
have seen enough, and am satisfied. Let
me once more be comfortably situated,
with a home and friends, means to gain
an honest living, and, Frank, one, one
sweet being to cheer me with her smiles
over the otherwise toilsome path of life—
and I shall rest content.”
“A great change this, in Charles Huntly,
most certainly,” I said; “a great
change indeed! But perhaps no more
than in myself; for I, too, am tired of adventure,
and ardently long for those very
joys, (joys now, Charles, though once it
was not so,) of which you speak.”
“Hark!” exclaimed my friend at this
moment. “What sound is that?”
A long, loud, mournful wail came borne
upon the air.
“Alas!” said I, “it speaks a soul
departed!”
“Let us return,” said Huntly, with
a sigh; and forthwith we set out for the
village.
“On our way thither, we several times
heard the same melancholy sound; and
as we entered the precincts of the little
settlement, we beheld somber figures moving
to and fro, bearing lighted torches.
As we drew near the center lodge, I discovered
Prairie Flower, in company with
several of her own sex, moaning with grief.
She espied us as we came up, and, separating
from her companions, approached
and extended a hand to each.
“Alas! my friends,” she sighed, “I
need your sympathy. He who has been
to me a guardian — a father — is now no
more.”
Her voice faltered as she spoke, and
withdrawing her hands from ours, she
covered her eyes and wept aloud.
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
CHAPTER XIV.
BURIAL OF GREAT MEDICINE—PREPARATIONS
TO DEPART — AFFECTIONATE LEAVE-TAKING—
ROUTE NORTHWARD—PRAIRIE FLOWER
IN A NEW LIGHT — THE DESERTED
VILLAGE—THE DESIGNATED SPOT—HOPES
AND FEARS—DISAPPOINTMENT—TREASURE
FOUND — STRANGE DEPOSIT OF GOLD —
SPECULATIONS—ON THE MOVE—IN SIGHT
OF OREGON CITY.
As I have, in “Prairie Flower,” described
the solemn ceremony by which the
Mysterious Tribe consign to dust the mortal
remains of such of their number as are
called hence by death, I shall not here repeat
it—presuming that all who read the
present tale, will have perused the other.
The second day from his death, was the
one set apart for the burial of the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains.
Each of my party,
and every one of the tribe was present,
and the funeral rite was conducted in the
most solemn manner. As it had been the
province of the deceased to enact a peculiar
part on all similar occasions, and as
this constituted one of their forms of worship,
it became necessary for the tribe to
select one of their number to fill his place.
The one chosen for the office, which he
was to hold till death, was an old whitehaired
Indian, of benevolent aspect, who
at once entered upon his duties, and thenceforth
took the title of “Great Medicine.”
A grave was dug in the valley by the
little stream, and here the deceased was
buried, with all the mournful honors befitting
his station. Great were the lamentations,
and many the tears shed, as his
body was lowered to his last, long, narrow
home—the house appointed for all
living! When his remains had been covered
from the sight of all, and the “Last
Dirge” had been chanted, several Indian
maidens brought and strewed flowers over
the damp earth, and then repeating,
“Sleep in peace, beloved!” each of the
tribe took a solemn leave of the spot, and
slowly and sadly retraced their steps to
the village.
An hour or two later, Prairie Flower
sought me out and said:
“I suppose, my friend, you are anxious
to be on your way?”
“At your earliest convenience,” I replied.
“I do not wish to detain you,” she rejoined;
“but if you can delay another
day, it will greatly oblige me, as I have
much to attend to ere I depart.”
“A day, either way, will make but little
difference,” said I; “and moreover, we
could not expect you to leave sooner, after
what has occurred.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “I will
hasten all my arrangements, and at sunrise
to-morrow will be yours to command;”
and she left me to begin her preparations.
In the course of the day, Prairie Flower
informed the tribe what had transpired
relative to herself, and also her present
design. The younger members, who had
always looked upon her as one of themselves,
were much surprised, and all were
very sad at the thought of parting with
one so dear to them. They could not but
admit, under the circumstances, it was her
duty to go; but they made her promise, in
case events should turn up inducing her
to withdraw from them altogether, she
would at least pay them one more visit, ere
she said the final farewell. She then
made choice of three young men and two
maidens to be her companions, and selected
five noble steeds for them to ride,
reserving the little pony to herself.
At daylight on the following morning
the whole village was astir; and having
broken our fast, the horses were caught
and saddled, and ere the sun was half an
hour above the hills, all were in readiness
to start. The parting scene between
Prairie Flower and her friends was very
affecting. She embraced all of her own
sex—kissed the children over and over
again—shook the young men and aged by
the hand—and amid tears at losing her,
and earnest prayers for her safety and happiness,
sprang on her pony and dashed
away, too much affected to witness the
separation between those who remained
and those selected to accompany her. The
latter now took leave one by one; and
though much feeling was displayed on both
sides, yet it was very different from the
farewell of Prairie Flower.
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
“My friends,” said Huntly, when it
came our turn to depart, “for your kindness
to me, I feel very, very grateful—but
at present, the only return in my power to
make is thanks. Should I ever have an
opportunity to do more, you shall find that
your labors in my behalf have not been
unworthily bestowed. Farewell. If we
meet not again on earth, I trust we may
in a better state.”
Each of our party next proceeded to
shake hands with each of the tribe; and
as soon as this was over, we sprang upon
our horses, and, dashing away, soon joined
those in advance.
I must now pass rapidly over our journey,
as but little occurred on the way of
interest to the general reader. Our provisions
were supplied by our trusty rifles—
we sometimes killing a bear, a deer,
and once or twice a buffalo. Entering the
beautiful South Park—a kind of second
Eden—we pushed forward, and on the second
day reached the head waters of the
South Fork of Platte, down which stream
we continued to St. Vrain's Fort, where
we all arrived without accident. Here I
took leave of Pierre and Black George,
paying them liberally for their assistance,
and pursued our journey toward the Black
Hills, to the very spot where I had first
been introduced to the Mysterious Tribe,
and where, as I learned from Prairie
Flower, they intended making their winter
quarters.
On our way thither, Prairie Flower
threw off much of that reserve which she
had hitherto exercised toward Huntly;
and not unfrequently they rode on together
for miles, engaged in earnest conversation.
The effect of this upon my
friend was very gratifying to me; it seemed
to divert his thoughts from more painful
subjects; and I saw with pleasure that
his pale, careworn features gradually resumed
their wonted appearance, and his
eye, especially, its former luster. Still he
was sad at times—very sad—and then I
knew his thoughts were dwelling upon the
loss of his father, and the afflictions of
his mother and sister. He was naturally
but little given to despondency; and when
in company with myself or another, ever
strove to be cheerful, that he might not
cause us the pain of sympathy.
Sometimes I held long, private conversations
with Prairie Flower; and then she
would ask me over and over again about
her supposed sister and mother--whether
I thought they would be glad to own her--
and more than once made me recount what
little I knew of their history. This was
a theme of which she seemed never to
tire, and oftentimes would be affected to
tears. Then she would tell me how she
had mused over herself, and wondered who
she was—whether she had a mother living—
and if so, whether that mother ever
thought of her. Sometimes she had fancied
herself ignobly born — that she had
been cast off in infancy — and then she
had gone away by herself and wept bitter
tears, and had prayed ardently that she
might be resigned to her fate. She loved
the Indians — among whom, at an early
age, her lot had been cast — to her they
were as brothers and sisters; but still the
knowledge that she was not of their race—
a secret yearning for the fond look and
tender tone of a mother—had troubled her
sorely; and nothing but the consolation of
religion, and the hope of at least meeting
her relatives in a better world, had supported
her through her lonely trials.
Until I heard this from the lips of Prairie
Flower, I had no idea such was the
case, and had believed her contented and
happy in the position where Providence
had placed her, as had all who knew her.
But they, as well as I, had overlooked,
that where mystery clouds the birth of an
individual, the thought of this to a sensitive,
intelligent mind—his or her speculations
upon it—the want of, the yearning
for, more knowledge—must at times render
such, no matter what the outward
seeming, very unhappy. It was this very
thing, perhaps, which had made Prairie
Flower so distant toward my friend, whom
she loved, as I knew, with a passion pure
and holy. She had thought herself unfit
to be his companion, and had nobly struggled
to undo what nature had done — and
oh! what a hopeless and painful struggle
it had been! — what an iron resolution it
had required to carry it out! — and how
many sleepless nights and miserable days
it must have cost her!
At last we reached the village, whereto,
some three years before, I had been borne
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
from the field of battle in an unconscious
state. What singular associations the
sight of it revived! and how mournful its
present aspect! It was deserted, and silent;
and though most of its rude tenements
were still standing, yet their half
dilapidated appearance, and the general
air of long desertion and decay everywhere
visible, brought to mind Goldsmith's
unrivaled and beautiful poem of the “Deserted
Village.” We rode through the
little town in silence, noting each thing
as we passed—and when we had got beyond
it, Prairie Flower turned, gazed back,
sighed deeply, wiped a few tears from her
eyes, and then urged her little pony forward
at a rapid pace.
A ride of half a mile brought us to a
huge old tree, with a hollow trunk, when
Prairie Flower came to a halt and said:
“My friends, this is the spot designated
by Great Medicine, as the one where I
should find a treasure to me more valuable
than a mine of gold. Beneath that stone
lies all or nothing. Oh! how I tremble,
lest it prove the latter. Heaven grant I
find what I seek!”
“Amen to that!” responded I; and the
whole party dismounted.
Leading the way, Prairie Flower passed
the tree a few feet, and rested her delicate
foot upon a stone of singular appearance.
“Here!” she almost gasped, while her
features grew deadly pale with excitement,
and her frame shook nervously: “Here!”
and she pointed down with her finger, but
could say no more.
Forming a circle around the stone, we
all gazed upon it a moment in silence, and
then addressing Huntly:
“Come, my friend,” I said, “let us
raise it.”
Stooping down, we applied all our
strength to it in vain.
“It seems bedded in the earth by
nature,” said Huntly.
“Oh, no! say not that!” cried Prairie
Flower in alarm. “Say not that, I beg
of you! This is the spot described to me
by the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains. I have
thought of it by day—dreamed of it by
night. I here have rested hopes of which
you little think. Hopes, whose realization
may render me the most happy, as
disappointment would the most miserable
being on earth. If I have made a mistake,
it is a fatal one. A mistake—
But no! no! it must not—must not be!
Help, here, some of you!” she added, addressing
the others. “Be quick! and do
not keep me in this torturing suspense!”
She spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently,
and her manner was very wild. As
she concluded, she clasped her hands and
gazed down upon the rock with a look I
shall never forget. It was the agonized
concentration of hope and fear. As if, in
truth, she feared herself about to lose the
only friend she had on earth. Instantly
Teddy and one of the Indians laid hold
with us, and our united efforts moved the
stone from its foundation. All pressed
forward, and eagerly gazed into the aperture.
Nothing was there, apparently, but
smooth, solid earth. For a moment, Prairie
Flower stood stupefied with amazement
and despair. Then burying her face in
her hands, she sank down upon the earth,
without uttering a syllable.
“Do not despair!” cried I; and bending
down, I felt the earth with my hand.
It was soft, as if it had once been removed.
I hastily dug down a few inches,
and my hand touched a solid substance.
Brushing away the dirt rapidly, I discovered
to my unspeakable delight, a small
wooden box.
“'Tis here!” shouted I, “'tis here!”
and the next moment I had torn it from
the ground, and stood triumphantly holding
it aloft.
My words roused Prairie Flower, who
started to her feet with a scream, caught
the box from my hand, pressed it eagerly
to her lips and heart, and then paced to
and fro, in an indescribable delirium of delight.
At length she became more calm,
and turning to the rest of us, who stood
looking on in silence, she said, in one of
her sweetest tones:
“My friends, you must excuse me!—
but oh! you know not, cannot know, my
feelings for the last five minutes.”
“We can at least imagine them,” returned
I; “and certainly there is no apology
needed. We are only too happy in
discovering the treasure.”
“Ay, treasure indeed!” she exclaimed,
holding the box from her, and gazing upon
it with a singular expression. “Ha!”
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
she added, “here is something written on
the outside;” and examining it a moment,
she added: “It is the language of the
Mysterious Tribe, and translated, reads,
`Seek lower!”'
“That implies something still below,”
observed Huntly; and stooping down, he
thrust his hand into the loose earth, and
presently drew forth a lump of pure gold,
weighing some three or four pounds.
Great was our astonishment on beholding
this; but it was increased the next
moment by my friend bringing up two
more of nearly equal size and value.
These lumps had no particular shape, and
had the appearance of being broken off
from a larger substance.
“This is strange!” remarked Prairie
Flower, as we all stood examining them;
“and where could Great Medicine have
procured them? There is no gold in these
mountains, that I am aware of—and yet
this seems fresh taken from a mine. And,
by-the-way, this reminds me that Great
Medicine was always well supplied with
gold, though where it came from was always
a mystery to the rest of the tribe.
And see!” she added, giving one of the
pieces a close scrutiny: “See! here is my
Indian name, Leni Leoti, scratched upon
it with some sharp instrument.”
“And on this,” said Huntly, holding
up another.
“And on this,” repeated I, turning over
the third.
“They were intended for you, Prairie
Flower,” observed Huntly, addressing her;
“and together form no mean gift.”
“He was always kind to me, and I loved
him,” rejoined Prairie Flower, artlessly,
her eyes filling with tears.
“But where could so much gold, in this
rough state, have been obtained?” asked
Huntly, turning to me.
A sudden thought flashed through my
mind, and I turned to Prairie Flower.
“Was Great Medicine ever much
abroad?”
“Never far from the tribe, since I first
knew him,” was her answer.
“But the tribe has been roving?”
“Yes, we have seldom spent a year at
a time in one place.”
“Were you ever in California?”
“One season we quartered on a beau
tiful oasis in the Great Desert, as we
termed it.”
“Ha! then there is some grounds for
my conjecture;” and taking Huntly aside,
I recalled to his mind the shiny sand we
had there gathered, and added: “I think
we were right in our surmises of its being
gold!”
“True,” he answered, with a start; “I
remember now, though I had completely
forgotten the circumstance.”
“And so had I, till this revived it.”
“Have you any of that sand with you,
Frank?”
“I have not. Our subsequent perils
drove the matter from my mind; and if
any remained on my person when we arrived
at Sutter's, it was thrown away
with the tattered garments that contained
it.”
“Well, let it go!” rejoined Huntly,
musingly; “let it go! There is gold
there, without doubt — and some day it
will doubtless be the means of great
speculation.”
“This being the case, my friend, suppose
we make another tour, and ascertain
for a certainty? If true, our fortune is
made.”
Huntly looked at me seriously for a
moment, with a very peculiar expression
of countenance, and then rejoined, in a
decisive tone:
“No, Frank! not even a mine of gold
would tempt me to encounter the perils of
such a journey again. Suppose I prove
successful and make a fortune — what
then? What is wealth, after all, that man
should make himself a slave? 'Tis here—
'tis there —'tis gone. Look at my lamented
father, for example! One day he
could count his thousands — the next he
was a beggar; and the grave soon followed
to cover a broken heart. Fortune is not
happiness — therefore I'll pay no court to
the truant jade. Let those have wealth
who crave it; let them worship the golden
Mammon; for myself, let me be happy
with little, and I ask no more. But, come!
I see Prairie Flower and the rest are waiting
us, and we must be on the move.”
Joining the others, we made further
search, but finding nothing new, we all
mounted our horses and set forward —
Prairie Flower in better spirits than I had
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
ever seen her. Though in possession of
the box supposed to contain all she desired,
yet she absolutely refused to open it, lest
she might be tempted to an examination of
its contents, and thus break her promise to
the dying old man.
Summer had already passed, and the
mortal stroke of old Autumn was even
now beginning to be felt on the mountains.
The trees, which had waved their green
leaves as an accompaniment to the music
of the forest choir, were already changing
color, as if in dread of the steady, onward
strides of their annual, but ever-conquering
foe. The first process of decay had begun—
but so beautiful, that one as he gazed
upon it, though it awakened a solemn, almost
melancholy train of thought, could
hardly wish it otherwise. As we ascended
the mountains higher and more high, the
scene below us became enchanting in its
variety. Far, far away, for miles upon
miles, the eye roved over hill and plain,
while the soul, as it were, drank in the
very essence of nature's beauty. The
atmosphere was cool and clear, and the
sun brilliant, but not warm. In every
direction there was something new for the
eye to rest upon — something new for the
mind to ponder. I beheld distant mountains
rising to the very skies — isolated,
glistening and cold in their lonely grandeur—
as one who has ventured to the topmost
round of Ambition's ladder, and scorns
in his elevation all meaner objects grovelling
in the dust below. I beheld lovely
valleys, as yet untouched by the destroyer,
still bright in their summer garments,
through which purled silvery streams —
the former doomed ere long to put on the
withered shreds of mourning, and the
latter to cease their murmurs in the icy
fetters of the advancing Winter-King. In
short, I beheld hills, and dales, and forests,
and rolling prairies, and rivers, and
rivulets -- all spread before me in picturesque
succession — and all more or less
variegated with the many-hued mantle of
autumn. The scene was enchanting; and,
as Prairie Flower, who with my friend had
also been silently surveying it, observed
with a sigh:
“Most melancholy beautiful.”
But lovely as was the view, I had but
little time for contemplation; for the long
journey before us, and the lateness of the
season, required us to hasten forward, that
we might pass the mountains before the
snowstorms and ice of winter should completely
bar our way. We had yet some
thirteen hundred miles to travel, and, with
everything favorable, could not hope to
reach our destination in less than five or
six weeks. Fortunately our animals were
in good order -- lightly laden — with no
troublesome vehicles creaking and rumbling
after, to delay us with bad roads and
breaking accidents.
Leaving Laramie Peak to our right, we
struck across the Laramie Plains to the
Sweet Water Mountains, and thence descended
to the great Oregon trail, crossing
the Rocky Mountains at the well-known
South Pass. For the rest of the distance,
our road was to some extent a traveled
one, and our progress, with some little
delays very rapid. As nothing of unusual
interest occurred on the route, I shall pass
it over without a record.
On the evening of the first day of November,
1843, we came in sight of the
lights of Oregon City, which we hailed
with three deafening cheers.
CHAPTER XV.
ARRIVE AT MRS. HUNTLY'S — PAINFUL SURMISES—
THE WELCOME VOICE — MEETING
OF LOVERS — OF BROTHER AND SISTER —
OF MOTHER AND SON -- TIDINGS OF MY
FRIEND'S CAPTIVITY — ITS EFFECT UPON
THE HEARERS -- TALE OF MY ADVENTURES--
PRAIRIE FLOWER DESCRIBED — AFFECTIONATE
CURIOSITY — LILIAN'S ENTHUSIASM
FOR EVA -- VARIOUS MATTERS
DISCUSSED -- A HAPPY NIGHT.
To describe my feelings and those of
Huntly, when we halted within view of
the dwellings containing those around the
very tendrils of whose hearts our own
were entwined — on whose happiness or
misery our own were depending — would
be impossible; and therefore I shall not
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
attempt it. The day's journey had been
very severe — for we had all ridden hard,
in order if possible to reach the village
before nightfall. In this we had not succeeded;
but knowing we were near, we
still pressed forward after night set in, and
by nine o'clock in the evening, had come
in sight of the glimmering lights, as shown
in the last chapter.
We now held a short consultation, which
resulted in Huntly, Teddy and myself resolving
to go forward, while Prairie Flower
and her companions should encamp and
remain where they were through the night.
Our object in this was to see our friends
alone, and prepare them to receive our
fair benefactress, whom we intended to
introduce as an Indian maiden, and then
leave matters to take their own course.
Having at length arranged everything
to our satisfaction, we rode forward, and
in less than half an hour drew rein near
the humble cottage of Mrs. Huntly.
“And is it here,” said Charles, as he
gazed with a sigh upon the rude edifice:
“And is it here I again meet my dear
mother and sister? Alas! Frank, there
is a change indeed in our fortune! and
now I feel it.”
“Repine not,” returned I; “but rather
thank God you are safe, and look forward
to better days!”
“I will not repine,” he said. “But,
Frank, there is such an air of poverty
here, I could not avoid giving vent to my
thoughts.”
As we spoke we dismounted, and giving
our horses in charge of Teddy—with orders
to take good care of them, and seek
another place of rest for himself, — we
approached the door with trembling steps,
and with conflicting feelings of hope and
fear. What if something had happened,
and we should find a stranger in place
of those we sought! But no! no! we
would not harbor such a thought—would
look to clasp our friends to our beating
hearts!
The house was tightly closed, but not
uninhabited, as we could see by the light
which here and there shone through a
crevice.
“Go forward!” whispered Huntly; and
I advanced and rapped timidly on the
rough door with my knuckles.
To this there came no answer, and I
repeated it, but harder and louder.
“Who is there?” said a soft voice from
within.
Gracious heavens! how its tones thrilled
me! I knew it! I would have known it
among a million! It was the voice of my
own beloved Lilian!
“A friend,” answered I, as with one
hand I grasped the arm of Charles, who
was now trembling with agitation.
“Pardon me!” answered Lilian; “but
will you give me your name—as it is already
somewhat late, and there is no one
within but mother and myself.”
“And do you not know me, Lilian?”
“That voice!” I heard her exclaim;
“that voice!” and the next moment there
was an agitated rattling at the door, which
instantly swung open, and revealed the idol
of my thoughts standing before me, pale
and trembling.
“Lilian!” I exclaimed, “thank God
we meet again!” and in an instant she
was folded in my embrace and weeping
with joy.
“O,” she ejaculated, looking up affectionately
into my face: “O, Francis, this
is more than I have prayed for — more
than I expected: I did not look for you
this season. But, ha!” she exclaimed, as
the shadow of her brother, who had stolen
in behind her unperceived, fell upon her
vision — “we are not alone — who have
we here?”
She turned suddenly round, and her
eyes met the tearful ones of Charles, as,
with outstretched arms, he stood ready to
receive her, too much affected to utter a
syllable.
For a brief moment she remained speechless
and motionless, as if fearing to believe
her senses; and then gasping “My brother!”
she staggered forward and sank
fainting upon his breast.
At this moment Mrs. Huntly, who had
been on the point of retiring, but had been
deterred by the sound of voices, entered
the room from an adjoining apartment.
“Who have we here?” she said, as she
advanced toward us, looking from one to
the other inquiringly, but unable from the
position of the light to see our features.
“Francis!” she exclaimed joyfully, as I
took a step forward; “Francis, my son!
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
do I indeed see thee again!” and ere the
words were concluded, I found myself
closed in a motherly embrace. “This
is indeed a happy surprise!” she added,
warmly.
“But there,” returned I, pointing to
Charles, who, still straining Lilian to his
breast, was now gazing upon his mother
with that singular expression of intense
joy, which the imprisoned soul, struggling
as it were for release, and choking all utterance,
stamps upon every feature: “There,”
said I, “a more happy surprise awaits
you;” and springing forward, I took the
half unconscious form of Lilian from the
arms of my friend.
For a moment mother and son stood face
to face, gazing upon each other, completely
overpowered by their feelings.
“Mother!” at length burst from the
lips of Charles.
“My son!” and staggering forward,
they fell upon each other's neck, and gave
their overcharged souls vent in tears and
sighs.
For sometime no one spoke; then raising
her tearful eyes to Heaven, and in a
voice of deep solemnity, Mrs. Huntly ejaculated:
“Almighty God! I thank thee for this
moment of unclouded happiness — for restoring
the wanderer safe to the only parent
he has on earth!”
“Ay, the only parent,” added Charles,
with a fresh burst of emotion; “the only
one, dear mother. My father—alas! my
father!”
He paused, overcome by his feelings.
But I will not prolong the affecting
scene. Suffice, that for more than an
hour very little was said, except in the
way of thanks to the Supreme Ruler for
bringing us all safely together once more.
And well might we be thankful to that
watchful Providence, which had slumbered
not in the hours of grief and danger,
and had brought us all out, as it were,
from the very “Valley of the Shadow of
Death.”
The first transports of joy over, we
gradually grew calm; and having formed
a small circle before the cheerful fire:
“Now,” said Mrs. Huntly, “let me
hear something of my friends in Boston.”
“Alas!” sighed I, my mind reverting
at once to my own parents, “I can give
you no news in that quarter.”
“And have you not been home?” she
asked in surprise.
I shook my head.
“Then you met Charles on the way,
and he perhaps can tell me?” and she
turned to him inquiringly.
“Nay, mother,” he answered sadly, “I
have not seen the land of my nativity
since I there parted from you.”
“Why, what means this?” she asked,
turning to me.
“Pardon me,” I said in some embarrassment,
“if I once deceived you both!—
but I did it for the best.”
“Deceived us!” exclaimed both Lilian
and her mother in a breath. “Pray explain
yourself, Francis!” added the latter.
“You remember I told you that when
I parted with Charles, he was going eastward?”
“Well! well!”
“But I did not add, it was only intended
as a parting of a few minutes, and that
when I met you on the mountains, I
believed him lost to us all forever.”
“Lost?” screamed Mrs. Huntly.
“Lost?” echoed Lilian.
“Lost!” rejoined I. “Ay, lost indeed—
for I believed him dead.”
“O, speak, Francis!” exclaimed Mrs.
Huntly, greatly agitated, and looking from
me to Charles, and from Charles to me:
“Speak, Francis, and tell us what you
mean!”
“Charles,” I returned, in a trembling
voice, “was taken prisoner by a band of
guerrillas; but I — I — believed him dead—
for no trace of him could be found.”
“A prisoner! You, Charles, my son,
a prisoner?” cried his mother; and again
throwing herself upon his neck, she burst
into tears; while Lilian, gliding up to his
side, took his hand in silence, and gazed
mournfully upon him with swimming eyes.
“Is it so, Charles?” asked his mother.
“Is it so? Have you indeed been in
captivity?”
“I have, dear mother, I have!” he
answered in a voice choked with emotion.
Drawing back, Mrs. Huntly gazed upon
him with a look of unutterable fondness
and affection, and then turning to me, said
somewhat coldly:
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
“Francis, how could you deceive me!
I did not think this of you.”
I was about to reply, when Lilian turned
quickly round and confronted her mother:
“Mother,” she said, “do not speak in
that manner. If Francis did not tell us
all, it was because he feared to wound our
feelings — to give us unnecessary pain.
Was it not so?” she asked, appealing to
me with her soft blue eyes.
“It was!” I exclaimed, struggling to
command my feelings. “It was, dear Lilian—
God bless you for an angel--it was!”
“I crave pardon!” said Mrs. Huntly,
taking my hand. “I did not intend to
wound your feelings, Francis, and sincerely
believe you did all for the best. But the
suddenness of the news — the shock --
surprised and alarmed me, and I did not
heed what I said. I now know it was all
for the best; for had I known Charles
was lost, I fear the result might have been
fatal. Thank God,” she continued, turning
again to her son: “Thank God, you
are safe before me now! O, Charles, my
son,” she added, covering her eyes with
her hands to conceal her emotion, “you
must never, never leave me again.”
“Never, mother,” he answered solemnly,
“till we are parted by death.”
“And this,” said Lilian, turning fondly
to me, “is why you became so agitated
whenever I mentioned my brother. I understand
all now. And this, too, is the
cause of your abrupt departure, which has
ever appeared so singular to me, and over
which Eva and I have speculated many an
hour, without solving the problem.”
“And did my departure indeed appear
so singular, sweet Lilian?” I inquired in
surprise. “Did I not tell you I was going
to seek your brother?”
“Ay! but you forget you did not tell
me he was lost—and we, you know, supposed
him in Boston, There was nothing
so remarkable in your going to meet him,
as in the hurried manner which you departed,
without any previous notice, as if
you had heard bad tidings. It was this
that put us to conjecture.”
“True, I did overlook that.”
“Well, well, dear Francis, never mind;
you are here again; and now we must
hear the tale of your adventures, and how
you found Charles.”
“Yes,” rejoined Mrs. Huntly, “I am
all anxiety to hear the story.”
“Who shall tell it?” asked I.
“You, Frank,” answered Charles. “You
can tell it better than I.”
The tale I told: beginning with the
loss of my friend at Pueblo de los Angelos,
and its subsequent effect upon me, up
to the time when I met with his mother
and sister near the South Pass of the Rocky
Mountains. I then narrated my last adventure,
and gave a brief description of
the scenes already laid before the reader,
and how I had, little by little, traced
Charles to the very spot of his captivity,
only to find that another had released him.
This led me to Prairie Flower, whom I described
as a beautiful being, and as good
as she was beautiful. I described our first
meeting with her and her tribe, and something
of their manners and customs, and
recalled to mind how she had, at the risk
of her life, appeared to warn the emigrants,
on that memorable night before they
crossed the Rocky Mountains. I then reverted
to Charles, and how I had found
him in company with the tribe. In fact,
I gave an outline of all the principal incidents
of interest, carefully avoiding any allusion
to the attachment existing between my
friend and Prairie Flower, as also that we
had any suspicions as to who the latter
might be, or that she had accompanied us
on our last journey.
During the recital, both Mrs. Huntly
and Lilian listened eagerly, occasionally
interrupting me with some question or exclamation,
when the incidents detailed
were unusually exciting. In fact, whenever
I described a scene of danger to myself,
Lilian would press close to my side,
and gaze up into my face, pale and breathless,
sometimes shuddering at the picture
called up in her mind, and seem to hang
upon my words as intensely as though
they were actually imparting life or death
to him she loved. Nay, more than this:
On several occasions did she become so
lost in the thrilling tale, as to utter exclamations
of horror; and then, remembering
where she was, she would clasp my
hand with a hearty pressure, and in a low
voice thank God for my deliverance and
present safety.
“And where is this beautiful Indian
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
maiden?” she asked when I had done.
“What a singular being! O, I should
love her so! for her goodness, and her
kindness to those so dear to me.”
“Ay, Lilian, you would indeed love
her,” I answered; “for she is one of the
sweetest beings you ever knew.”
“Always excepting Eva,” she rejoined,
playfully.
“Nay, Lilian, I will except no one but
your own sweet self.”
She blushed, and smiled, and added:
“You are too complimentary.”
“But what has become of this Prairie
Flower?” inquired Mrs. Huntly. “You
did not tell us where you had left her.”
“And what if I should say she is near
at hand?”
“Near at hand!” repeated Lilian.
“Explain, Francis!” added Mrs. Huntly.
“She crossed the mountains with us.”
“Indeed! and where is she now?”
“Within sight of the lights, of this
great city.”
“Is is possible! And why did you not
bring her here at once?”
“Why, it was already late; and as she
has several companions with her, we
thought it better for the party to encamp
and remain till morning, while we went
forward and prepared you to receive
them.”
“O, I am so anxious to see her!” rejoined
Lilian; “and so will Eva be, when
she hears of her. While she remains with
us, we will treat her as a sister.”
“I believe you,” returned I, pointedly,
and fixing my eye upon Huntly, who
blushed and turned his head aside, but
made no remark.
“O, what a surprise awaits Eva on the
morrow!” pursued Lilian. “She does
not dream you are here; and yet she has
been praying for your return with brother
Charles, every day since you left.”
“I thank her, from my heart, for her
interest in our welfare. She is a noble
girl.”
“She is indeed!” rejoined Lilian, enthusiastic
in praise of her friend; “and I
love her as a sister—which I hope she
may be ere long,” she added, playfully,
turning to Huntly with a smile, who appeared
not a little embarrassed. “O,
Charles,” continued Lilian, pursuing her
train of thought, “If ever one being loved
another without seeing him, dear Eva loves
you—for your name is ever on her tongue.”
“I am very grateful for it, certainly,”
replied Charles, evasively, feeling himself
pressed for an answer.
“And well you may be—for her equal
does not live!” persisted Lilian with spirit,
loth to quit the subject.
“Do not assert that!” returned I, with
a smile. “You forget that Eva had a
sister.”
“But who knows anything of her sister,
Francis?”
“Ay, who knows!” answered I, reflecting
on what I suspected, and on what
the morrow might reveal. “But come,
Lilian, since Eva has so much place in
your thoughts, tell me how it has fared
with you since last we met.”
“O, as well as could be expected, and
you away,” she answered, naively. “We
have walked, and rode, and played, and
sung, and read, and talked, and wondered
fifty times a day where you were, and
when you would return, and if Charles
would come with you, and so on. To
sum up, the spring, summer and most of
the autumn have passed—but somehow
the time has been more tedious than I
could have wished. There is not the society
here to please us, and on the whole
we have not been very well contented.
There has been quite an addition of settlers
here during the past season, and the
village has much improved since you saw
it. In fact, it begins to assume the aspect
of a civilized town; but still I feel I could
never be happy here.”
“And would you like to return to the
east?”
“O, dearly!”
“You shall start in the spring, then,”
I rejoined.
“O, that is joyful news. And Eva
shall go also?”
“All that desire to accompany us,
Lilian.”
“Eva will be so rejoiced at this. But
mother has invested what little means she
had in the purchase of land.”
“Well, that can be sold again; and it
will have lost nothing in value, since the
town has begun to flourish.”
“And will you go, mother?” asked
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
Lilian, addressing the good old lady, who,
meantime, had been conversing with
Charles in an under tone.
“As my children desire,” answered
Mrs. Huntly. “I shall leave all to you,
my children. But, come, Charles is about
to tell us of his captivity; and although it
is late, I am anxious to hear his tale.”
Thus ended my conversation for the
time with Lilian; and forming a half circle
around her brother, we all attentively
listened to his thrilling narrative. By the
time he had concluded, the night was far
advanced; and though I had a thousand
things to say to Lilian, I deferred them all
to another opportunity, and retired to rest
with a lighter heart than I had known for
many a long year.
CHAPTER XVI.
MORNING SALUTATIONS—MY FRIEND GLOOMY—
OLD FRIENDS — CORDIAL GREETINGS —
MEETING OF CHARLES AND EVA — EMBARRASSMENT
OF BOTH — REASSURANCE —
PRAIRIE FLOWER DISCUSSED — NATURAL
SURMISES — SLIGHT JEALOUSY — GOOD
TIDINGS.
When I awoke on the following morning,
the bright sun was already streaming
through the half closed shutter of my
room. Huntly was up and dressed, and
standing by my bed.
“Come!” he said, as I partially aroused
myself to look around: “Come, Frank,
the sun is up before you, and breakfast is
waiting!”
At first I felt a little bewildered, as a
person sometimes will in a strange place.
But it was only momentary; and remembering
where I was, I sprang to the floor,
hurried my rude toilet, and accompanied
my friend to the larger apartment, where I
found the table smoking with hot viands,
and Lilian and her mother ready to welcome
me with sweet smiles and cordial
salutations.”
“And how did you rest?” inquired
Mrs. Huntly.
“Well!” I answered. “I slept soundly,
I assure you, or I should have made
my appearance ere this.”
“I am glad to hear it, my son, for you
needed rest. Lilian and I were not so fortunate;
for the unusual events of last
night drove all slumber from our eyelids,
and we could do nothing but talk of you
and Charles.”
“I fear our presence, then,” said I, smiling,
“has robbed you of a sweet night's
rest?”
“Do not be alarmed,” returned Lilian,
archly. “Your presence has been more
beneficial than sleep, I assure you — and
never did I behold daylight with more
joy.”
“That you might escape from your reflections,
eh! Lilian?”
“That I might see you again,” she rejoined,
with one of her sweetest smiles.
“A kiss for that!” cried I gaily.
And I took it.
The morning meal passed off cheerfully
with all save Charles, who appeared somewhat
gloomy, at times abstracted, and
rarely spoke.
“What is the matter, my friend?” inquired
I. “One would look to see you
cheerful, if not gay; and yet you are silent
and thoughtful.”
“I feel a little depressed in spirits,” he
answered. “But never mind me. I shall
be myself in time. At present I am soberly
inclined.”
“Fatigue, perhaps?” suggested his
mother.
“My father!” he answered, solemnly.
Instantly a dead silence prevailed, and
the tears sprang to the eyes of both Mrs.
Huntly and Lilian.
“But, come,” added Charles, after a
pause, “do not let me make you sad, my
friends! You mourned my father bitterly,
long ere I heard of his death. You must
remember my cause for grief is recent.”
“Alas!” sighed Mrs. Huntly, “we all
mourn him still, and ever must.”
Another gloomy silence succeeded.
“I saw Teddy this morning,” at length
pursued Charles, anxious to divert our
thoughts from the painful channel into
which his remarks had drawn them, “and
I dispatched him to Prairie Plower, requesting
the presence of herself and
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
friends. She and they will soon be
here.”
“And I,” added Lilian, “have seen
Eva. It would have done you good to
have witnessed her surprise and delight,
on hearing the joyful tidings I imparted.
I expect her here every moment. Ha!
she is here now!” she added, rising; “I
know her step;” and hastening to the
door, she conducted the object of her remarks
and Madame Mortimer into the
apartment.
I hurriedly arose and advanced to meet
them.
“O, I am so rejoiced to see you, Francis!”
cried Eva, springing forward and
extending both hands, which I shook warmly.
“This is a joyful surprise indeed!”
“And I,” said Madame Mortimer, coming
up, “I, too, believe me, am most happy
to welcome you back, as it were, to the
land of the living! We have felt your
loss severely — most severely, sir!” and
the pressure of her hands, as she said this,
convinced me her words were not idly
said.
“I feel myself most fortunate and happy
in having such friends,” I replied, emphasizing
the last word; “And, I assure
you, I am as rejoiced to meet them as they
can be to see me. But, come! let me present
you to my long lost friend!” and
turning to Huntly, who had risen from his
seat, I introduced both mother and daughter
together.
Huntly bowed low to each, and, with
unusual embarrassment for him, said it
gave him extreme pleasure to meet with
those whom he had seen years before, in
a moment of peril, and of whom he had
since heard so much from me.
I particularly noted the countenance of
Eva, who now beheld Charles Huntly for
the first time. As I presented her, she
turned pale, then crimsoned to the eyes,
then took a faltering step forward, as if to
meet him, but finally paused and let her
eyes sink to the floor, seemingly greatly
embarrassed. Not so with Madame Mortimer.
With a quick step she instantly
advanced toward Charles, who met her
half way, seized his proffered hand, and
frankly said, in a voice tremulous with
emotion:
“God bless you, Charles Huntly! I
am most happy to behold you. You, sir,
a stranger, saved the life of my daughter,
at the risk of your own. You have had a
fond mother's prayers for your safety and
happiness ever since; but until now, I
have never had an opportunity of expressing
to you my most lasting obligations;”
and she turned away her face to conceal
the springing tears.
“You owe me no obligations,” returned
my friend, frankly. “If there were any
due, they have long since been canceled
in your kindness to those I love. I did
but my duty; and if the adventure was
perilous at the time, it certainly brought
its own reward afterward, in a satisfied
conscience.”
Here he rested his eyes upon Eva, with
an expression as of uncertainty whether
to advance to her side or remain where he
was. At the same time Eva looked up,
their eyes met, and with a simultaneous
movement, each approached and took the
other by the hand.
“O, sir!” began Eva, in a timid voice,
and then paused, while her snowy hand
trembled with agitation. Then making
a struggle to appear calm, she added: “I—
I—am very—very grateful;” and the
last word died away in an almost inaudible
murmur.
What a perplexing predicament for my
friend! Before him stood the first being
he had ever loved, beyond the love filial
and fraternal. She stood before him, face
to face, her hand trembling in his, and her
voice sounding the sweet words of a grateful
heart in his ear. That voice and those
words which once would have made him
frantic with rapture. Which once would
have sent the hot blood to his heart, only
that it might again leap in burning streams
through his swollen veins. Which once,
in short, would have made him the happiest
of mortals. How was it now? Time
and circumstances work great changes in
the human heart, and my friend was changed—
at least changed in that impassioned
sentiment he had once felt for the object
before him. He was not cold and indifferent—
not insensible to her lovely charms
and noble virtues. No! he was affected—
deeply affected—affected to tears by her
look and language. He loved her still—
but with a modified love. The love of a
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
brother for a sister. The love which is
founded on esteem, for the high and noble
qualities possessed by another, without regard
to mere personalities. There was no
ardency — no passion. No! all this was
gone — transferred to another. Prairie
Flower alone held the heart of Charles
Huntly.
“Miss Mortimer,” replied my friend —
“or rather let me call you Eva — I am
most happy to meet you, and feel it is I,
rather than you, who ought to be grateful,
for having been permitted to do an act
which has already repaid me ten-fold. I
am one who hold that every virtuous deed
bears with it its own reward. Pray, be
seated, and we will talk farther!”
“Ay,” chimed in Madame Mortimer,
“and you shall give us, Charles, some of
your own adventures. Since you came to
the Far West, you have, if I am rightly
informed, experienced much of the romantic.”
“I have seen a little of romance, I believe,”
replied Huntly, as, pointing his
friends to seats, he took another between
them.
“Lilian,” pursued Madame Mortimer,
“has already told me something, and I
am anxious to hear more. She says you
are indebted to a beautiful Indian maiden
for both life and liberty—certainly a heavy
obligation on your part.”
“I feel it such,” rejoined Huntly,
changing color.
“And who is this Indian girl? and to
what tribe does she belong? The daughter
of some great chief, I suppose?—for in all
novels, you know, the heroine must be
some great personage, either acknowledged
or incog.”
“But you forget, madam,” returned
Huntly smiling, “that the heroine in this
case, as you are pleased to term Prairie
Flower, is an individual in real life; whereas
in novels, the heroine alone exists in
the imagination of the author, and can be
whatever he may see proper to make her.
Therefore you should not be surprised,
should she turn out some humble individual.”
“Well,” answered Madame Mortimer,
all romance is much alike, whether imaginary
or real; for the novelist, if true to
his calling, must draw his scenes from real
life; and hence I may be permitted to suppose
the heroine, in this case, a person of
some consequence.”
“And so she may be for what we know
to the contrary,” said I, joining in.
“And do you not know who she is,
then?” asked Madame Mortimer.
“We know nothing positive.”
“Is she not the daughter of a chief?”
“No.”
“Is she beautiful?” asked Eva, giving
me a peculiar look.
“Very beautiful,” replied I, glancing at
my friend, who colored and seemed a little
confused.
Both Eva and her mother caught the
expression of Huntly's countenance, and
the latter said:
“Then perhaps Charles has lost his
heart with her?”
Eva turned to him quickly, with a searching
glance, and immediately added:
“I believe he has — for he changes
color at the mere mention of her name;”
and her own features, as she spoke, grew
a shade paler.
“One has his heart that is nearer at
hand,” observed Lilian, who with her
mother, had been standing a silent spectator
of what had passed.
“I pray you drop this jesting!” said
Huntly, with an effort to appear careless
and unconcerned.
“Nay, but I must know more of this
singular personage,” pursued Madame
Mortimer; “for I feel deeply interested in
her. A girl that could and would do what
she has done, can be no ordinary being.”
“So think I,” added Mrs. Huntly.
“And so you will find her,” I rejoined.
“I am dying to see her,” said Lilian.
“She must have taken great interest in
the fate of Charles, to seek him out in captivity,”
observed Madame Mortimer. “Is
it not so, Francis?”
“Her motto of life is to do all the good
she can,” I answered rather evasively.
“She would take an interest in any one
who chanced to be in trouble.”
“God bless her, then, for a true heart!”
was the response.
“But how came she to think of visiting
Oregon?” asked Eva.
“We persuaded her to accompany us
home,” I replied. “As she once saved
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
both our lives, and afterward ransomed
Charles from slavery, not forgetting that
night, which you all remember, when she
gave us timely warning of danger, whereby
much bloodshed was averted, I thought
you would like to see and thank her.”
“And you were right,” said Lilian, “O,
Eva, we will love her as a sister, will we
not?”
“Certainly,” answered Eva, rather abstractedly,
and evidently not so well pleased
with the idea of her being present as
the other. “Certainly, we will love her
as a sister.”
Could a faint, a very faint spark of jealousy
have begun to blaze in her breast? I
observed her closely, and drew my own
conclusions. Let the reader draw his.
Meantime Huntly had remained seated,
apparently indifferent to everything said.
Was he indifferent? Again let the reader,
who knows something of the state of his
heart, be his own judge. We who are in
the secret can think what we please. And
why did Eva suddenly become so thoughtful
and abstracted? Was she thinking of
Prairie Flower? and did she fear a rival
in an Indian maiden? — for I had never
intimated she was other than an Indian.
Again let the reader decide. My design,
as previously stated, was to bring all parties
together, and leave matters to take
their own course; and I now felt anxious
for all the actors to be on the stage, that I
might witness the denouement.
For some time the conversation went on,
gradually changing from Prairie Flower to
my friend, who was called upon to narrate
some of his adventures.
Anxious to entertain those present, and
divert his thoughts from other subjects, he
began the recital of a thrilling scene, in
which he was an inactive, though not
unconcerned spectator, and had already
reached the most exciting part, holding
his listeners breathless with interest, when
Teddy entered the apartment in haste,
exclaiming:
“Your honor—” Then pausing as he
saw who were present, and making a low
bow — “Beg pardon, ladies! My most
obedient respicts to all o' yees, by token
I've saan yees afore.”
“Well, well, Teddy—have they come?”
inquired I impatiently.
“Troth, and they has, your honor! and
that's jist what I's a-going to say whin
the likes o' so many beauthiful females put
me out a bit.”
“And where are they now, Teddy?”
“Jist round the corner, as ye may
say.”
“Remain here, and I will soon set Prairie
Flower before you,” said I, addressing
the others, who were now all excitement
to behold my fair friend.
And I hurried from the cot, followed by
Teddy.
CHAPTER XVII.
PRAIRIE FLOWER—HER APPEARANCE — EMOTIONS—
INTRODUCTION—THE SURPRISE —
THE LIKENESS — A THRILLING SCENE — A
MOTHER'S FEELINGS — WILD INTERROGATIONS—
STARTLING DENOUEMENT.
I found Prairie Flower seated upon her
little pony, in company with her Indian
friends, pale and agitated, but looking, if
anything, more beautiful than ever. She
wore a plain, neat dress without ornament,
which fitted her person well, and displayed
her airy, symmetrical figure to the best
advantage. Her dark, glossy hair was
braided and arranged, if not a la mode, at
least in most exquisite taste; and altogether
her appearance was such as could not offend
the searching gaze of the most fastidious
critic. All trace of the Indian was
gone; and gazing upon her sweet, modest
countenance, one could hardly realize her
life, for the most part, had been spent in
the wilderness, among the red children of
the forest.
“And how fares my fair friend this
morning?” I said, with a smile, as I came
up.
“But indifferently well,” she answered,
dismounting.
“I fear you did not rest well last night.”
“I did not rest at all,” she replied.
“How could I rest, sir, with such momentous
thoughts as kept me company? O,
sir,” she added vehemently, placing her
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
hand upon her heart; “here, here were
strange feelings, strange emotions, strange
yearnings — but all powerful as strange —
and they kept my senses from slumber.
Every nerve was then strained, and I felt
strong. But now — I am weak — very
weak;” and as she spoke, she rested her
hand on the neck of her little pony for
support.
“Come!” said I, advancing to her side,
“take my arm, and I will conduct you
bence. It is intense excitement which so
unnerves you; but you must not give way
to it. It is necessary, for the present, that
you be calm, and do not lose your wonted
presence of mind.”
“And whither would you conduct me?”
she timidly inquired.
“Within this humble cottage.”
“And—and—are—they there—of—of
whom you spoke?” she fairly gasped.
“Ay! they await your presence to
thank you for all your kindness.”
“And do—do—they know?” she said,
emphasizing the last word, clasping my
hand, and fixing her dark eyes, with a
singular expression, upon mine.
“They know nothing, Prairie Flower,
but that you are the author of many noble
deeds, for which they are your debtors,
and for which they are anxious to return
you heart-felt thanks. My friend and I
thought it best to bring you together,
without even hinting our surmises.”
“It was a happy thought in you,” she
replied, with some reassurance; “I am
glad you did so; I am glad they know
nothing; and I will try to be calm and
appear indifferent. But, sir, believe me!
this is a great trial. I have been used to
danger all my life. I—though you may
think it strange, for I have never told it
you before — have even stood upon the
field of carnage, where the fierce battle
raged, and the deadly missiles were whirling
past me, fairly hissing in my ear, and
there have striven to succor the wounded.
I have had my life in danger many times,
when I believed every moment would be
my last. I have, for my years, seen
much hardship and peril—but never, sir,
a moment like the present—never a time
when I felt my soul shrink within me,
and refuse to do my bidding as now—
never a time when I had less self-com
mand and felt I needed it more. I am
about to enter the presence of those whose
blood, perchance, runs in my veins; and
the doubts—the uncertainty—the hopes
and fears which are based upon this bare
possibility, are mighty in their strength.
O, sir! such feelings—such wild, strange
feelings as rush over me at the thought,
are beyond the utterance of mortal tongue—
words could not express them. But I
will say no more. I keep them waiting.
I will nerve myself. I am ready.”
“But perhaps your friends here had
better wait till this first interview is over.”
“True,” she added, “they must not
witness it;” and turning, she addressed
a few words to them, and signified that
she was ready.
At this moment my eye fell upon
several of the villagers, who were sauntering
toward us, attracted, some of them
perhaps by curiosity, and others by the
news of my arrival. As I did not care
to see any at present, I said a word to
Prairie Flower, and we hastened our steps
to the threshold of the cottage.
“Courage,” I whispered, and led her
in with a faltering step.
All eyes were instantly fastened upon
her; and the involuntary exclamation from
more than one was, “How beautiful!”
Prairie Flower, pale, and trembling, could
not return their gaze, but sank her own
to the ground.
“My friends,” I said, I herewith present
you our fair benefactress, to whom
two of us at least, if not all present, are
indebted for our lives. This is the Prairie
Flower, of whom I spoke; and taking
slight liberty with her name, I may be
permitted to term her the Flower of the
Wilderness.”
As I spoke, each of the ladies rose and
advanced to meet her, but Lilian was the
first to gain her side. With a quick step
she came forward, and taking the inactive
hands of Prairie Flower in her own, said
in a bland, frank, affectionate tone:
“Welcome, sweet maiden, to the home
of those who already love you for your
many virtues. I have—”
At this moment Prairie Flower raised
her eyes to those of the speaker, whose
countenance suddenly changed to a look
of bewildered surprise, and taking a
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
step backward, she clasped her hands
and ejaculated:
“Good heavens! how remarkable!”
“The charm works,” whispered I to
my friend, who had silently joined me.
He pressed my hand nervously, but
said nothing.
“Yes, welcome to our humble abode,
Prairie Flower,” said Mrs. Huntly, in a
kindly tone, who, her gaze riveted upon
the fair maiden, had not as yet noticed the
surprise and agitation of her daughter.
“Eh! what! how!” she added the next
moment, as the dark eyes of Prairie Flower
in turn rested upon hers; and she glanced
quickly toward Eva, Madame Mortimer
and Lilian, and then back again upon
Prairie Flower, as if uncertain what to
think or how to act.
“I thank you — for — for — your kindness!”
faltered Prairie Flower, again
dropping her eyes to the ground, and evidently
scarcely able to support herself from
sinking.
At the moment Mrs. Huntly spoke, Eva
had extended her hand within a step of
Prairie Flower, and her lips were just
parted to utter a welcome, when the same
look which had surprised the former, arrested
her motions and held her spellbound,
as if suddenly transformed to a
statue of marble. But it was Madame
Mortimer who now fixed my whole attention.
She had come up a little behind
the others, with an expression of patronizing,
benevolent curiosity on her fine, matronly
features. The first glance at Prairie
Flower had changed the idle look of curiosity,
to one of surprise and interest at her
maiden beauty, and the absence of that
distinguishing mark of the Indian which
she had expeated to find. The next moment
she evidently became struck with her
strong resemblance to Eva, which had so
surprised each of the others; and a sudden
vague, wild thought — suspicion—a
something undefinable — rushed over her
half bewildered brain; and her features
grew ashy pale, her bosom heaved, and
her very lips turned white with internal
emotions. But it was when Prairie Flower
spoke, you should have seen her. There
was something in that voice, that seemed
to thrill every nerve, and then take away
all power of motion — suspend every ani
mal function. At the first sound, she
leaned a little forward, one hand, unconsciously
as it were, stretched toward the
speaker, and the other instinctively clasping
her forehead; while the blood rushing
upward, crimsoned her features, and then
retreating to her heart, left them paler
than ever. Her lips parted, her eyes
seemed starting from their sockets, her
heaving breast ceased its throbbing, and
she stood transfixed to the ground, motionless
and mute, apparently without life,
or only that life of surprised and bewildered
inaction, which the master sculptor
of the passions sometimes transfuses into
the otherwise inanimate object of his creation.
It was a strange and impressive
picture, and one that would have made the
fortune and fame of any artist who could
have accurately transferred it to canvas.
A momentary silence prevailed—a deathly
silence—that seemingly had in it the awful
calm preceding the frightful tempest.
For a brief space no one moved—no one
spoke—and, I may add, no one breathed;
for the internal excitement had suspended
respiration. There they stood, as I have
described them, a wonderful group—sweet
Prairie Flower as the central figure and
object of interest, the cynosure of all eyes,
and, if I may be permitted the expression,
the very soul of all thought. Just behind
Prairie Flower stood Huntly, my hand clasped
in his and suffering from its pressure.
Madame Mortimer was the first to move—
the first to break the silence. Suddenly
taking a step forward, between Mrs.
Huntly and Eva, and clasping her hands
before her, her eyes still riveted upon Prairie
Flower, she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper,
that had something sepulchral in its
sound:
“Merciful God! who are you? Speak!
speak! In Heaven's name, who are you?”
Prairie Flower looked up wildly, clasped
her hands, fixed her eyes upon the
other, and trembled violently, but said
nothing.
“Who are you?” cried Madame Mortimer
again. “For God's sake, speak! and
break this terrible spell of painful, bewildering
uncertainty! Speak! I charge
you, speak!”
But the lips of Prairie Flower gave no
answer.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
“Speak you!” continued Madame Mortimer,
wildly, appealing to me: “Speak
any! speak all! but speak somebody!
and tell me I am not in a dream—a dream
from which it would be terrible to wake
and know it but a dream.”
“You do not dream,” said I; “and, I
have every reason to believe, are standing
in the presence of —”
“Who?” she screamed, interrupting
me.
“Your long lost daughter!”
“Ah!” she shrieked: “God of mercy!
I thought so!” and staggering forward,
she threw out her arms, fell heavily upon
the breast of Prairie Flower, and swooned
in her embrace.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONFUSION — MADAME MORTIMER RESTORED—
SECOND INTERVIEW OF MOTHER AND
DAUGHTER — THE GRATEFUL PRAYER —
FEARS OF PRAIRIE FLOWER—DOUBTS REMOVED—
LIGHT CONVERSATION—A STROLL—
OLD ACQUAINTANCES—OREGON CITY —
LOVE'S MISGIVINGS—RETURN TO THE COTTAGE.
To describe minutely what occurred during
the first half hour after this singular
meeting between mother and daughter, is
wholly beyond my power—for I was too
much excited myself to note anything
distinctly. For a time all was uproar and
confusion — persons running to and fro,
calling for this thing and that, and uttering
exclamations of terror, surprise and
bewilderment.
Meantime Madame Mortimer was borne
in an unconscious state to an adjoining
apartment, where such restoratives as could
be had were speedily applied, for a long
time without success; while Prairie Flower,
more dead than alive, was conducted
to a seat, where Eva, the first alarm for
her mother over, flew to embrace her, to
twine her arms around her neck, call her
“Dear, dear sister!” and weep and laugh
alternately as one insane. Lilian and Mrs.
Huntly seemed completely bewildered;
and were now with Madame Mortimer, and
anon with Prairie Flower, aiding the recovery
of the one, wondering over the
other, and continually uttering, “How
strange! how strange!” Charles, pale as
a corpse, had sunk upon a seat, and with
his face buried in his hands, sat in silence;
while I, after running up and down the
room several times, found myself, much to
my surprise, alone in the center of the
apartment and dancing for very joy.
At last everything began to assume a
more tranquil and sane appearance. Prairie
Flower found vent to her feelings in a
flood of tears upon the breast of Eva, who,
as she put in now and then a soothing
word, begging the other to be calm, mingled
her own with her sister's; while Lilian
and her mother wept in sympathy of
joy, and my own eyes, by the spontaneous
action of an overflowing soul, would, in
spite of myself, occasionally grow dim.
Madame Mortimer, too, gradually regained
her senses, and looking hurriedly about
her, anxiously inquired for her long lost
daughter. Prairie Flower was at once
conducted to her side, whither we all followed
to witness the interview.
For something like a minute, Madame
Mortimer gazed upon her daughter without
speaking, during which her features displayed
all the varying expressions of a
mother's tender, yearning love for a long
lost child.
“'Tis she!” at length escaped her lips,
in that deep tone by which the very soul
gives utterance: “'Tis she! the long-lost—
the sadly-wept—the deeply-mourned. Yes,
'tis she — there is no mistaking those features.
The lost is found — the dead restored
to life.” Then pausing, clasping,
her hands and looking upward, she added:
“God! all merciful, all wise, and all just—
for this I thank thee, from the inner depths
of a grateful heart! This day's happiness,
O God! hath canceled long years of suffering
and sorrow; and henceforth the
study of my life shall be to glorify thy
name.”
During this brief, solemn, but heart-felt
offering of gratitude to the Great Author
of the universe, Prairie Flower gradually
sank upon her knees beside the bed whereon
the speaker was lying, and covering her
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
face with her hands, appeared lost in silent
devotion. This over, she arose, and
gazing upon Madame Mortimer a moment,
with a look of unutterable affection, uttered
the single word “Mother!” threw herself
upon the breast of the latter, was
strained to her heart, and the tears of both
mingled.
It was a touching scene, and one that
needs no comment from me.
“And now, my sweet child,” said Madame
Mortimer, pressing her lips warmly
to the other's, “my long lost Evaline Mortimer—
for by that name, which you bore
in infancy, you must henceforth be known—
tell me something of yourself, and how
you came to be found among the Indians!”
Prairie Flower — or Evaline, as I will
hereafter term her — started, turned pale,
and sighed heavily, but did not reply. At
once I comprehended her thoughts and
hastened to relieve her; for I saw in her
look a secret dread, lest the unrevealed
secret in her possession might even now
dash the cup of joy from her lips, by
proving her the child of another.
“She knows but little of her own history,”
I began, and then went on to recount
our first suspicions as to who she
might be, and what followed, up to her
finding the hidden box, which probably
contained a statement of the facts, but
which she, for reasons explained, had not
yet examined.
“Alas!” sighed Evaline, “and that is
what troubles me now. I fear there may
have been some mistake; and if, oh God!
there be —”
“Give yourself no uneasiness, my
child!” interrupted Madame Mortimer;
“for you are my child, I feel and know;
and for my own satisfaction, would never
seek other proof than what I have — your
likeness to Eva, and a mother's yearnings.
But if you have any doubts, examine your
left arm, and you there will find a scar, in
the form of a quarter moon, which was
impressed upon Evaline Mortimer in infancy.”
Evaline started, and hurriedly bared her
arm with a trembling hand. We all pressed
forward to examine it. There, sure
enough! just below the elbow, the identical
scar could be traced -- dim, it is true,
but still the scar of the quarter moon.
Evaline gazed upon it a moment, faint
and pale with joyful emotions, and then
turning her soft, dark eyes above, with the
sublime look of saint, and clasping her
hands, said solemnly:
“God! I thank thee!”
“My sister—my sweet, long lost sister!”
said Eva affectionately, gently twining her
arms around the neck of the other and
gazing upward also — “I, too, thank God
for this!”
Evaline turned, clasped the other in her
arms, and falling upon each other's neck,
the beautiful twin sisters wept in each
other's embrace.
“What a singular meeting is this!” observed
Mrs. Huntly to Madame Mortimer,
who now completely recovered arose from
the bed. “And how remarkable, that
both you and I should have a long lost
child restored to us at the same time!”
“Ay,” answered the other, “God sometimes
works in wonders, and this is one.
But not the least remarkable of all is the
fact, that some years since your son saved
the life of my daughter, and subsequently
my daughter saved the life of your son—
though each at the time wholly unknown
to the other, with no apparent connection
between the two striking events.
The good we do returns to us, as the evil
of our life often falls heavily upon our
heads. I have experienced both;” and she
sighed heavily. “But come, my daughter,”
she added, turning to Evaline, “you
have friends with you whom we have long
kept waiting. We must now entertain
them, or they will think themselves slighted,
and with good reason. When everything
is properly arranged and settled, we
will have those secret documents produced
and hear your tale.”
As she spoke, she led the way to the
larger apartment.
“Charley,” I whispered, “I fear we
have forgotten to congratulate Prairie
Flower on the happy termination of this
interview and change of name!”
He pressed my hand and answered:
“You must be spokesman, then — for
at present I am unable to express my
feelings.”
“Be it so — but you must accompany
me;” and advancing to Prairie Flower, I
took her hand and said:
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
“I give you joy, Evaline Mortimer! —
and so does my friend here, though at
present too bashful to say it.”
Both Huntly and Evaline blushed and
became embarrassed. But quickly recovering
herself, the latter returned:
“I thank you -- thank you both — from
my heart. But for you, this might never
have been;” and her eyes instantly filled
with grateful tears.
“But for you, dear Evaline,” rejoined I,
“we might never have been here. The
obligation is on our side — we are the
debtors.”
“Prairie Flower,” began Huntly, taking
the disengaged hand and making an effort
to command himself—“Or rather, I should
say, Evaline — I — I — Well, you understand!
Imagine all I would say — for
just now I can say nothing.”
“Bravo, Charley!” said I, laughing and
giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Bravo, my dear fellow! Spoken like
yourself!”
“Hush!” he returned, with a gesture
of displeasure; “do not jest with me now,
Frank!”
Meantime I noticed that Eva and Lilian
watched the features of both Evaline and
Charles closely, and then whispered to
each other, and smiled, and again looked
earnestly at each.
The secret is out, thought I.
At this moment Madame Mortimer, observing
us together, approached and addressed
my friend with a bland smile:
“Said I not, Charles, that the heroine
of this life-romance must necessarily be a
personage of consequence?”
“And I am rejoiced your words are
verified,” was the reply.
“Thank you! and thank God, I have
found them verified in a way I little expected!
But all heroines, you know, must
fall in love!” she added, laughing. “How
is it in the present case, eh?”
“It turns out on the most approved
plan,” I answered pointedly, glancing at
both Charles and Evaline, who, judging
from their looks, wished themselves for the
moment, anywhere but where they stood.
“I am rejoiced to hear it,” rejoined the
good dame.
“And how is it with you, Eva?” I
asked, playfully
“Why, I suppose I must resign all pretensions,”
she replied, in her wonted light
tone. “Of course I was anxious to make
a conquest — as what young lady is not?
But I see there is no chance for me,” she
pursued, glancing slyly at my friend; “and
so I will e'en make a virtue of necessity,
pretend I don't care anything about it,
and, heigh-ho! look some where else,
with the old motto, `Better luck next time.'
Ay,” she added, springing to the blushing
Evaline, and imprinting a kiss on her sweet
lips, “I am too happy in finding a sister,
to mourn long for a lover—more especially
if a certain somebody (again glancing at
Charles,) has any design of becoming a
relation.”
“Well said!” I rejoined. “And now,
Charley —”
“Hist!” he exclaimed, interrupting and
dragging me away. “Come,” he added
“let us take a stroll;” and arm-in-arm
we quitted the cottage.
Considerable of a crowd had already
collected around our Indian friends, and
were listening to a story from Teddy, who,
as he privately expressed himself to me,
“Was in all the glory of making the
spalpeens belave himself and us the heroes
of a hundred mighty fights, and
bathels, and scrimmages, and hair-length
escapes, and thim things.”
Among the number present, I recognised
several of my old acquaintances, who
appeared much delighted to see me, and
to whom I introduced my long lost friend.
After the usual commonplace observations
were over, I turned to Teddy, and gave
him instructions to conduct the Indians
into the cottage forthwith, and then see to
having their horses well taken care of.
This done, Huntly and I sauntered down
through the village, to note the improvements,
and talk over the important events
of the last few hours.
As Lilian remarked I would, I found the
village of Oregon City greatly altered for
the better, and that it had already begun
to assume the appearance of a thriving
settlement. During the past season there
had been a large influx of population from
the East, the effects of which were everywhere
visible in new dwellings and workshops.
Some three or four merchants had
come on with goods, opened stores, and
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
were now doing a thriving business, in disposing
of their commodities at the most
extravagant prices. A grist-mill and sawmill
had also been erected on the Williamette,
and were now in active operation—
the former grinding out the staff of life,
and the latter supplying such of the settlers
as desired habitations superior to log
cabins, with the necessary materials for
more finished building. Here and there
were the workshops of the carpenter,
blacksmith, saddler, shoemaker, and tailor—
and, in short, everything necessary apparently
to a business place.
Strolling down to the Williamette, we
halted upon a bluff overlooking the romantic
stream, and, as chance would have it
upon the very spot where I had offered my
hand to Lilian.
“Here, Charley,” said I, “is ground
which to me is sacred. Can you not
guess from what cause?”
He only answered by pressing my arm
and heaving a deep sigh.
“Come,” added I, smiling, “a wager I
can guess your thoughts!”
“Well, say on.”
“You are thinking of Evaline.”
He changed color, and sighed: “Well?”
“And now you begin to have doubts
that all may not terminate as you desire!”
“You are good at guessing,” he rejoined,
gazing solemnly down upon the current
below.
“Courage, man!” rejoined I. “Never
despair on the point of victory!”
“Ah!” he sighed, “if I could be assured
of that.”
“Assured, Charley! What more assurance
would you have? She loves you,
I will vouch for that; and now that the
mystery hanging over her early life is
cleared up, you have nothing to do but be
yourself and ask her hand.”
“Do you think so?” he cried, suddenly
confronting me with an eager look.
“Do you think so, Frank?”
“Do I think so?” I repeated. “Why,
where is your wonted assurance? Do I
think so? No! I do not think—I know!”
“But I—I—somehow—I have my misgivings.”
“Pshaw! my friend—love's misgivings
only. If you had not these, I should put
it down as a solemn fact that you did not
love. She has her misgivings, too—but
they spring from the same source as yours,
and amount to exactly the same thing—
that is, nothing. Why, how you have
changed! You are as timid as a schoolboy
at his first public declamation, and tremble
more in the presence of one beautiful
being, than you did in the clutches of a
fierce banditti. Throw aside this foolish
bashfulness, and act like a sensible fellow.
There is nothing so very alarming in telling
a young maiden you love and adore
her, when you once set yourself about it.
I have tried it, and speak from experience.
Once, I remember, you talked the matter
of matrimony over as deliberately as if
making a bargain and sale—purchasing or
transferring property.”
“Ay,” he answered, musingly, “but it
was merely talk then—now it is quite a
different thing. If—if—she should refuse—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted I, laughing;
and then added, imitating him: “If—if—
you should refuse, why—”
“Cease!” he exclaimed, almost angrily.
“Why will you be ever jesting,
Frank?”
“That I may bring you to sober earnest,
Charley.”
In like conversation we whiled away an
hour or two, and then returned to the cottage—
Huntly in a better flow of spirits
than I had seen him for many a day.
The news of our arrival—the restoration
of a long lost daughter to the arms
of her mother—together with exaggerated
and marvellous reports of the whole affair,
had already made the dwelling of Mrs.
Huntly a place of attraction to the villagers,
whom we here found collected in
goodly numbers of both sexes. In fact,
the house was thronged throughout the
day, and both Huntly and myself were
kept busy in recounting our exploits to
curious and eager listeners.
Night, however, came at last, and with
its approach departed our visiters, much
to our relief and gratification.
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
CHAPTER XIX.
THE TALE OF EVALINE MORTIMER—BRIEF
HISTORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS TRIBE—
THEIR PERSECUTION, MASSACRE, FLIGHT,
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY—MORE MYSTERY—
SPECULATIONS OF MADAME MORTIMER—
EARLY IMPRESSIONS OF EVALINE—
HER EDUCATION—ROVING LIFE, ETC.
It was about an hour after nightfall, that,
everything having become quiet, we formed
a pleasant circle before a bright fire, in
the dwelling of Mrs. Huntly, to hear the
tale of Evaline Mortimer. Throughout
the day, all had been too busy in entertaining
guests to attend to private affairs;
but now the transient visiters had departed,
and none were by to listen save those
most deeply interested. Evaline, in the
course of the day, had managed to steal
away for an hour, during which she had
opened her “treasure-box,” as she termed
it, wherein she had found a parchment in
the hand-writing of Great Medicine, whose
contents she had eagerly devoured, and
the substance of which, together with what
she knew of herself, she was now about
to lay before us.
“Come,” said Madame Mortimer, after
some trifling conversation had passed:
“Come, dear Evaline, now for the romance
of your life! We are all eager for
the story.”
“And when I have told it,” said Evaline
in reply, smiling sweetly, “I shall
have told a tale to which no mortal ear
has ever before listened, and a portion of
which has been unknown to myself till
within the last few hours. I have examined
the record of Great Medicine, and
find much therein I did not know before;
but still, with all the knowledge gained
therefrom, I should have remained ignorant
of the most important period of my
history—important to me at least—but for
this providential meeting with my dear
mother and sister, the former of whom
can perhaps put the connecting link between
what I know and my birth.
“As the scroll of Great Medicine is in
a language to you unintelligible, and as
the narration on the whole is rather disconnected,
I will, with your permission,
omit a translation, and tell the story in my
own way,” and thus in a more direct form
bring to bear all the knowledge I have regarding
myself and those with whom my
fortune has been linked.
“My earliest impressions are of Great
Medicine, and the Indians with whom he
was associated. Of his early history I
could never learn anything authentic. It
was current with the tribe, that he had
come from afar, had formerly been a great
chief, and was now the sole remnant of
his race. Some twelve or fifteen years
prior to the period I speak of—or say a
little more than thirty years ago—he had
appeared among the various tribes then
located in one of the more eastern territories,
and had brought with him three
white missionaries of the Moravian school,
who at once set to work to convert the
savages to the Christian faith. The influence
of the old man—for even then Great
Medicine was well advanced in years—
tended much to allay the vindictive feelings
which the savages were disposed to
manifest toward his white friends, and to
which they were secretly urged on by
British agents—this, as you will bear in
mind, being the period of the commencement
of hostilities between America and
Great Britain. The result of the matter
was, that several of the Indians became
converts to the true faith, renounced the
barbarisms of their ancestors, and threw
down their war implements to take them
up no more. These converts were of various
tribes, and were subsequently by
each tribe denounced as imposters and
coward squaws, and persecuted in many
cases even to the death—so that the survivors
were obliged to abandon their homes
and seek safety in flight. These fugitives,
by an arrangement of Great Medicine, all
gathered together, and in solemn conclave
formed themselves into a tribe, of which
he was appointed chief—or rather Great
Medicine—for the title of chief was by
them abolished. A mode of worship was
then established, of which several songs,
composed by the missionaries, formed a
striking feature, and made the ceremonies
more impressive than they might other
wise have been.”
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
“And these songs,” interrupted I,
“were the same you once translated to
me?”
“The same,” answered the sweet narrator,
“with the exception of what they
may have gained or lost by the peculiar
dialect finally adopted by the new-formed
tribe. The ceremonies of this tribe,” she
continued, “were not all established at
once, and may now differ somewhat from
those of the time in question, though the
same I believe in the main features.
“As the Indian, by nature and association,
is peculiarly fitted to believe in the
marvellous, it is not surprising that some
portion of this reverence for the supernatural
should have clung to those of the new
faith; and in consequence of this, Great
Medicine was supposed to be invested with
powers beyond the mere mortal. Whether
or no he believed this of himself, I am unable
to say; but certain it is, he took care
the rest should think so; and ever excluding
himself from the tribe, except when
his presence was absolutely necessary, he
succeeded by his peculiarities, eccentricities,
strange incantations and the like, in
drawing around himself a vail of mystery
which none ever presumed to penetrate.
On the whole, he was a very strange being;
and though all loved, all feared him;
and none ever knew for a certainty who
he was or whence he came. If one presumed
to question him, it was only for once.
The silent look he received from that small,
dark eye, was enough. It thrilled and
overawed him, and he turned away resolved
never to question again. Even I, whom
he ever treated with affectionate care—
who was constantly admitted to his presence
when all others were excluded—who
had the advantage of being with him in
his most meditative and communicative
moods—even I, was never made wiser
than my companions. As I have said once
before, he ever remained an enigma without
a solution. Like the rest, I loved and
I feared him—with this difference, perhaps—
that the former with me was the
stronger of the two passions. But to return
from this slight digression.
“The tribe organized under the control
of Great Medicine, for a time flourished
well, and constantly increased by new
converts from the neighboring tribes. But
this nearly proved its overthrow. The
savages at last became jealous, and declared
if this state of things continued,
their villages would become depopulated.
They swore revenge, and took it, and most
dire revenge it was. They made a descent
upon their harmless friends, and
with ruthless hands slew their own relatives,
and took the missionaries captives,
whom they afterward put to the tortures.
It was a terrible massacre—a massacre
without resistance on the part of the victims,
whose peculiar tenets of religion
forbade them to fight even in defense of
their lives. At one fell swoop nearly all
were cut off. None, upon whom the bloodthirsty
assailants laid hands, were spared.
Women and children—the infant at the
breast—the promising youth and tender
maiden—the man in the prime of life and
the hoary-headed veteran: all were alike
victims—all shared one common fate—all
found a bloody grave.”
“What a terrible scene!” exclaimed
Madame Mortimer, shuddering.
“Terrible! terrible!” echoed Lilian
and Eva.
“And how many do you suppose perished?”
asked Mrs. Huntly.
“I cannot say,” answered Evaline.
“All I know is, that only a few escaped—
some half a dozen I believe—among whom
was Great Medicine. They fled fast and
far, to another part of the wilderness, but
still firm in that faith by which they had
been so sorely tried. When hundreds of
miles had been placed between them and
their fierce enemies, they paused in their
flight, and selecting a pleasant spot, erected
a few huts, and continued their devotion
as before. Here they were visited by
other tribes, who, knowing nothing of
their history, and struck with their peculiarities
and mode of worship; treated them
with great respect and reverence, and
called them the Wahsochee—equivalent
to the English word Mysterious—by which
name and the title of their founder they
have ever since been known.
“Here Providence again favored them,
and their numbers increased very rapidly.
Their fame spread far and wide over the
vast wilderness, and bold warriors from
distant tribes came to see them, many of
whom remained, converts to their faith
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
In this manner the Wahsochee village
again became populous; and the different
tribes, though at deadly enmity with one
another, all concurred in respecting and
leaving them unmolested. As those who
joined them were among the most intelligent
of their race, and as these were from
a great many nations, the language of each
was gradually introduced, until, besides a
dialect of their own, the tribe had the advantage
of understanding that of almost
every other of note.
“Thus for several years all went on
prosperous, and their number had augmented
from six to an hundred and fifty,
when that fatal malady, the small-pox broke
out and swept off four-fifths of the nation.
From this awful blow they never fully recovered—
at least, never to be what they
were before—for many who were on the
point of joining them, were deterred by
what they declared to be the angry frown
of the Great Spirit; and although other
tribes were scourged in like manner, still
the more superstitious contended that the
Wahsochee religion could not be good, or
the Great Spirit would not have been angry
with them, even though he were with their
neighbors.
“This latter affliction occurred some two
years prior to my being brought among
them, of which mysterious event I shall
now proceed to speak, as I find it recorded
by Great Medicine himself.”
“Permit me a word, Evaline, before
you proceed farther!” said I, interrupting
her. “Since you have briefly given the
history of the Mysterious Tribe, may I inquire
why it was, on our first acquaintance,
you so strongly insisted I should question
you not concerning yourself or companions?”
“In the first place,” she answered,
“Great Medicine had expressly declared
(and his word was law with us) that nothing
of our history must be told to strangers,
whose desire to know, as a general
thing would proceed from idle curiosity,
to gratify which would avail us nothing.
In the second place, of my early history I
was ignorant—at least of that which referred
to my parentage—and to be questioned,
ever caused me the most painful
embarrassment; besides, of what I did
know, I had promised the old man to
reveal nothing. I knew I was not of the
Indian race; but to admit this would lead
to a thousand other inquiries, which could
not be answered, and which I felt a stranger
had no right to make. Are you answered?”
“Fully and satisfactorily. Go on with
your story!”
“The location of the tribe, at the period
of which I now speak,” proceeded Evaline,
“was near the Des Moines river, in
the southern part of that territory since
known as Iowa. While the tribe remained
here, it was customary for Great Medicine
to make a journey to St. Louis, as often as
once a year, to trade his furs, skins, embroidered
moccasins and the like, for powder,
lead, beads, blankets, and whatever else
he fancied the tribe might need. On his
return from one of these excursions, (so he
gives the story,) and when some ten miles
above St. Louis, having fallen behind his
party, he was overtaken by a fierce-looking
horseman, who bore in his arms a little
girl some two or three years of age, and who
at once accosting him in a very gruff manner,
demanded whither he was going. This
horseman, he says, was a very villainouslooking
white man, who wore a long flowing
beard, had a black, fiery eye, was short
in stature, and heavy set.
“On hearing the reply of Great Medicine,
the former drew a pistol and dismounted,
ordering him to do the same.
Once, he writes, he would have shot and
scalped the bold intruder without a word;
but now he had no such thoughts; and he
obeyed him in silence, wondering what
was to come next.
“`Here is a brat,' said the stranger,
pointing to the child now crouching at his
feet, `which I wish out of the way, and
am too much of a coward to effect my desires.
Take her, it is your calling, and
here is gold.'
“`You are mistaken in me,' replied
Great Medicine, `if you suppose I will aid
your base ends. I would not kill that innocent
little creature to own the world.'
“`By—!' replied the other, making
use of an oath; `and you an Indian and
say this! What in the name of—ails
the child, that all fear to harm her? She
must die though; and if you will not undertake
the job, why, then there is no other
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
alternative;' and he placed his pistol to
her head.
“`Stay!' cried the old man, beseechingly;
`I will not harm her myself; but
if you wish to rid yourself of her, I will
consent to place her far from civilization,
and adopt her into my tribe.'
“`But she is a child of consequence,'
pursued the other, `the daughter of one
who is a great chief in his own country, and
stands between me and fortune. Should
she return—'
“`There is no likelihood of that,' interrupted
the other, `as I shall take her some
hundreds of miles into the wilderness.'
“`But her father, who knows nothing
of my design, and to whom I must report
her lost or dead, may institute search.
How do I know she may not be found?'
“`That I think impossible,' rejoined the
old man.
“`But this will make all sure,' continued
the dark stranger again pointing the
pistol at her head.
“`Nay, hold!' cried the other in alarm,
`If you dare to murder her, I will make
her spirit haunt you forever!'
“`You make her spirit haunt me!
Umph! what are you but a deerepid old
Indian? By heavens! I have a mind to
murder you both. But I hate murder;
for in fact one never feels safe afterward.
Do you believe in a God, old man?—for
you talk as one the world denominates
Christian.'
“`I do believe in a God,' answered
Great Medicine; `and if you dare to harm
this child, His just retribution shall follow
you even to the remotest bounds of earth
and time.'
“The other paused, reflected, and then
added:
“`I would not have her blood upon my
soul, for I have sin enough there already.
You think there is no danger of her being
discovered?'
“`Not the least.'
“`And you say you believe in a God?'
“`I do.'
“`You hope for salvation, as men term
it?'
“`I do.'
“`Then swear, by your hopes of salvation,
to keep her among the Indians as
long as you live—to adopt her into your
tribe, and never to mortal ear to reveal a
word concerning this interview, or how
she came in your possession—that you
will never attempt to trace out her parentage,
nor make any inquiries concerning
her—swear this, and she is yours. Refuse,
and her death and yours is the penalty.
'
“`I swear to all,' answered Great Medicine.
“`Enough! take her and speed thee to
the wilderness; while I will away and report
her dead—murdered by the Indians,'
he added, with a grim smile. Then leaping
upon his horse, he muttered as he
turned away: `All is safe, I think, for we
shall soon be over the water;' and the
next moment both horse and rider were
lost in the forest.
“`This child,' writes Great Medicine,
`behold in yourself, Prairie Flower! and
this is all I know of your early history!
“Strange!” said Madam Mortimer, musingly.
“Here is more mystery—I do not
understand it. Who could have been this
horseman? and what the meaning of his
words? As you were stolen away on the
night succeeding my desertion by your father,
I had ever supposed—or hoped,
rather—you had been taken away by him,
and with him, wherever he went; and this
hope proved my only comfort in affliction.
But now I do not know what to think. This
horseman could not have been your father,
for the description is not at all like him.
The latter was tall—dark complexioned, it
is true—but with fine features and handsome
person. And then he referred to
your father, as knowing nothing of this
dark transaction, and termed him a great
chief in his country, and said you were
standing between him and fortune. What
could he have meant by this last? Your
father had no fortune to my knowledge,
and mine was so fixed he could not get it.
Ha! a thought strikes me. He was an
exile from his native land—though for
what he would never tell me—would never
speak of his early history. It is possible
he may have been a personage of consequence,
banished for some state intrigue,
and again restored. It may be he had
news of this when he came to declare his
intention of leaving me. And now I remember,
he once intimated that he would
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
some day be independent of me, though I
did not know what was meant. This must
be it!” she continued, as if soliloquizing;
“this must be it! and this stranger, some
fiend in human form, plotting to succeed
him in wealth and station. Oh! the
wickedness of all mankind! But I forget,
my friends, you do not know of
what I speak, as I have never told you my
history.”
“Nay, madam,” returned I, “we know
more than you think.”
“Indeed! and how?”
Lilian blushed, and I became embarrassed—
for I felt I had, in my heedlessness,
said a word too much.
“Pardon me!” I returned, “and do not
blame my informant! I must own I have
heard the tale before. But you will not
regret it, perhaps, when I say, that to this
very knowledge, you are partially, if not
entirely, indebted for the presence of your
long lost daughter.”
“I blame no one,” she answered solemnly;
“for all, in the hands of God, has
worked for my good. I understand it
all,” she added, glancing at Lilian and
Eva. “These tell-tale blushes reveal the
truth. Eva told Lilian in confidence, and
love wrung from her the secret. I am
glad it is so. You are all my friends, and
the tale by rights belongs to you. I might
never have told it myself, unless on an occasion
like this—for I do not care to have
the cold, idle world speculating and jesting
on the secrets of what has long been an
unhappy, if not wretched heart. In my
younger days, I was headstrong and rash,
and did many a wrong, as I have since felt
to my cost—and might have done more,
perhaps, but for my dear daughter Eva's
sake. Ay! for her, I may say, I lived;
for had she been taken from me, the grave
ere this had covered a broken heart.”
Her last words were said in a trembling
voice and with deep emotion.
“God bless you, mother!” exclaimed
Eva, in a tone which brought tears to the
eyes of all present.
“He has blessed me, my child—blessed
me beyond my deserts. Had I been what
I should have been, perchance your father
had never left me, my daughters. But
enough of this. 'Tis past now—gone beyond
recall—and the result is before us.
But go on, dear Evaline—go on with your
story!”
“Were I to tell the whole,” resumed
the latter, “it would take me hours—nay,
days—but that I shall not attempt to-night,
only so far as relates to my earliest years
and earliest impressions. In future I will
give you more, little by little, until you
get the whole.
“As I have said previously, my earliest
recollections are of Great Medicine and
his tribe. I remember his dark, keen eye,
and of his gazing upon me for hours, when
none were by, and he thought I did not
notice him. But I was older in thought
than he was aware of; and I used to wonder
at this singularity, when he believed
I wondered at nothing. I remember many
and many a time of kneeling down to a
spring of clear water, gazing at my features,
and wondering why I was so different
from my companions. I saw, even
then, that my features were fairer and of
an entirely different cast; and this, to my
young fancy, seemed most strange, as I
believed myself of the same race as those
around me. Great Medicine I then thought
my father—for so he bade me call him,
and so I did. As I grew older, this contrast—
this difference in person—struck
me more and more, and at last I made
bold to interrogate the old man concerning
it.
“Never shall I forget his look, as I, in
childish simplicity, asked the question.
He started, as if stung by a serpent, and
his small black eyes fastened upon mine as
though to read my very soul. Never had
I feared him till then. There was a wild
fascination in that gaze, which thrilled and
overawed me, and made my own seek the
ground. Never shall I forget his words,
as he advanced and took my hand. It
was not so much what he said, as his
impressive manner of saying it.
“`Child,' he replied, `you seek to know
too much, and the knowledge you seek
would render you in future years the most
unhappy of mortals. Something I feel
you must now know—and this it is: You
are not of my race; you are a pale-face;
I am your guardian. Seek to know no
more, for all is dark beyond. Be one of
us, and be happy in ignorance. Breathe
this I have told you to no mortal ear! and
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
never, never question me again. You
promise, girl?” he added.
“`I do.'
“`Enough! Go!'
“I left his presence a changed being,
though he knew it not; for his strange
language and manner had roused that eternal
thirst for knowledge, which he had
thought and sought to allay. I questioned
him no more; but his singular words I
pondered in secret.
“`There is mystery here,' I would repeat
to myself; but I took care to repeat
it to no other human being.
“To detail my strange conjectures from
that time forth, would be to lay bare the
secret workings of an ever active spirit.
I shall not attempt it, but leave it to your
imagination.
“About this period, a few missionaries
set up a temporary station near our locality,
for the double purpose of making converts
to their faith and imparting knowledge
to the unenlightened Indians, by
teaching them to read and write. At the
request of Great Medicine, three of their
number came and took up their abode with
us, for the latter purpose. I was at once
placed under their instruction, as were all
the younger members of the village. On
my first appearance before them, they
seemed surprised, and questioned me regarding
my name and parentage—at the
same time expressing their belief I was
not an Indian—or, at the most, only a half-breed.
I replied, that as to myself they
might conjecture what they pleased, but
that I was not then at liberty to answer
any questions, and there the subject
dropped.
“A year's tuition and close application
made quite a scholar, and I could now
read and write the English language quite
fluently, as could several of the more intelligent
of my companions. At the close
of the period mentioned, our teachers, after
presenting each of their pupils with a
Bible, and distributing among us several
other religious books, departed to another
section of country. Soon after this, Great
Medicine proposed that we should adopt a
more roving life, as in this manner he
thought greater good might be effected.
Accordingly we began moving from one
quarter to another, trying to subdue the
wild passions of the Indians of the different
tribes we met. In this of course we
were not in general successful—though
our exemplary model of life ever appeared
to make a favorable impression on their
savage hearts, and win their respect. In
course of time we became personally
known in every section of the broad West,
and were allowed to come and depart as
we saw proper. Whenever we heard of a
battle about to be fought between two nations,
we would generally follow one party
or the other, that we might be on the
ground to succor the wounded. If we
gained tidings of a strong party about to
assault a weaker, we would manage, if
possible, to warn the latter. Or, in the
event of the forces being equal, if we
knew of a surprise one tribe had planned
for another, it was ever our design to warn
the unwary. Whites as well as Indians
received from us the same warnings—
though how our information was obtained,
generally remained a mystery to those not
in the secret. And moreover, great caution
was required by the informant in these
cases, to avoid exposing himself to the
aggressors, who, in the heat of passion,
would be likely to seek revenge. On
many of these errands of mercy—for I
think I may so term them—have I been
sent, when I knew a single error would
cost me my life. But I believed I was
doing my duty, put my trust in a Power
above, and faltered not in my purpose. I
was never detected but once to my knowledge;
and in this instance, fortunately
for me, I had rendered the tribe aggrieved
the same service as that for which they
brought me to trial before their council.
This being proved, it was finally decided
the obligation on their part canceled the
aggression on mine, and I was allowed to
go free, with a very significant intimation,
however, that if caught in the second
offence, my sentence would be death.
“But as I do not intend to enter into
detail to-night, and as I already feel somewhat
fatigued, I will drop my narrative
here, and, as I said before, give you from
time to time the most striking incidents of
my life, as they occur to my recollection.
I have briefly told you all I know of my
early history, and by your leave will so
end the story.”
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
CHAPTER XX.
EVALINE'S RESOLVE—SOME PLANS FOR THE
FUTURE—RETIRE FOR THE NIGHT—SUBSEQUENT
EXCITEMENT OF MY FRIEND—IMAGINARY
DUEL—A HAPPY MISTAKE—LOVE
TRIUMPHANT—THOUGHTS OF HOME.
“Poor child! my own sweet Evaline,”
said Madame Mortimer, affectionately, as
the former concluded; “what a singular
life has been yours! and how much you
must have suffered!”
“For which she shall be made happy
the rest of her days,” said Eva, springing
to and imprinting a kiss on her lips.
“Ah!” chimed in Lilian, following the
example of Eva; “did I not say we would
love her as a sister?”
“Ay, but I had no idea you spoke so
much truth, and in a double sense,”
rejoined Eva, glancing archly toward
Charles. “I trust we may love her as a
sister both!”
“Indeed you may,” chimed in I, laughing.
“Eh! Charley?”
“Be quiet, I beg of you!” answered
my friend, in some confusion, while Evaline
hung her head with a blush, and a
pleasant smile played over each face of the
rest of the group.
“And now, dear Evaline,” said Madame
Mortimer, “I suppose we may count
on your spending the remainder of your
days with us?”
Evaline seemed to muse seriously, but
did not reply.
“Surely you do not hesitate, my child?”
“Why, to tell the truth,” she answered,
“I love the Indians, and know they will
be loth to part with me.”
“And has a mother no tie stronger than
that of mere association?” rejoined the
other, reproachfully.
Evaline looked up and her eyes filled
with tears.
“Nay, mother,” she said, “do not speak
thus! Yes!” she exclaimed, suddenly
rising, and throwing her arms around the
other's neck: “Yes, dear mother, I will
go with you, even to the ends of the earth—
for I feel I could not part from you
again. From my very childhood, I have
yearned for this happy moment, to hear
the sweet voice of one I could call mother.
It may be wrong to forsake my calling;
but if it be, I feel I must err; for I am
only mortal after all, and cannot withstand
the temptation of being with those I
already love beyond all others I have ever
seen.”
“Bless you, Evaline, for those words!”
“But I must return to them,” she added.
“I have promised that. I must
return and bid them a last farewell.”
“But where are you to find them, my
child?”
“They will winter on the Black Hills,
some sixty or seventy miles from Fort
Laramie.”
“And will they remain through the
spring?” asked I.
“I cannot say. They may remain there
through the summer, for all are particularly
attached to the spot; and if any place
can be called their home, it is the one in
question.”
“Then you can visit them on our way
to the East; and every thing prosperous,
we shall start as early in the spring as
practicable.”
“O, then we are to go East in earnest!”
exclaimed Eva, clapping her hands for joy.
“Yes,” I replied, “I am anxious to see
home, and cannot think of leaving my
friends behind me.”
“Thank you for this welcome news!”
she returned; “for I am already tired of
the forest.”
“But you do not regret having come
here, Eva?” said her mother, inquiringly.
“Why, I have regretted it all along, till
I found my sweet sister. Of course I cannot
regret being made happy by her presence,
which but for this journey had
probably never been. At the same time,
I am not the less anxious to return now,
and take her with me.”
“And I,” said Mrs. Huntly, “now that
I am blessed with my children, begin to
feel anxious to see my native land again,
to there pass the remainder of my days,
and lay my bones with those that have
gone before me.”
“God grant it may be long ere the
latter event!” returned Charles with feeling.
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
“Amen!” added I.
“It seems,” observed Madame Mortimer,
after some reflection, “as if Providence
especially directed our steps hither;
and it is the only way I can account for
my anxiety to visit this part of the world,
and thus expose myself and Eva to hardships
and perils. What need had I to
come westward? I had a handsome competence,
and no ambition to be a pioneer;
and yet something whispered me I must
go. Truly, as I said before, God works
in wonders!”
In like conversation an hour or two flew
by, when the party broke up, and Madame
Mortimer and her daughters were conducted
by Huntly and myself to their own
abode, which was close at hand, and the
fatigue and excitement of the day was
soon by each forgotten in the pleasant
dreams of the night.
Time rolled away pleasantly, and the
third night after this, having retired at the
usual hour and fallen into a sweet sleep,
I was awakened by Huntly, whom I found
pacing up and down the room, apparently
in great excitement.
“Good heavens! what is the matter?”
exclaimed I, rubbing open my eyes and
starting up in bed.
“So, then, you are awake at last!” he
replied, his eyes sparkling with what to me
seemed unnatural fire. “Why, Frank,
I was beginning to think you were taking
your last long sleep, and that I might as
well call to a log of wood. Come! up,
now, and give me joy! It is all settled,
my dear fellow—all settled!”
“Is it?” rejoined I, completely, at a
loss to comprehend what he meant, but
somehow, in my sleepy confusion, mixing
it up with a duel of which I had been
dreaming the night previous. “And so
it is all settled, eh? Well, I am glad to
hear it, Charley.
“I knew you would be,” he replied;
“and I awoke you on purpose to have you
share my happiness. Come, give me your
hand!”
“But how did you settle it, Charley?”
“O, I made bold to take up the matter
at last and press it to a conclusion.”
“And so you settled it?”
“Ay, and it is to come off at the same
time as yours.”
“As mine! But my friend, I have no
such affair on hand, to my knowledge.”
“What!” exclaimed Huntly, looking
at me in astonishment. “Why, you have
given me to understand, all along that you
had.”
“I? No, you must be mistaken.”
“Ha! then you have quarreled?”
“No! exactly the reverse. But you
told me a moment since you had settled
the whole matter, and now you say it is to
come off with mine. Somehow I do not
understand it. Either you or I must have
made a mistake. When you said it was
all settled, I supposed you to mean amicably
settled; but I see now you simply
referred to manner, time, and place. Well,
at all events, I will stand by you to the
last, though I sincerely regret the affair
could not have ended without a meeting.
Pistols or rifles, Charles?”
“Pistols or rifles!” he repeated, gazing
at me with a peculiar expression. “Why,
Frank, what do you mean by this strange
language? or are you still asleep? In
the name of all that is curious, pray tell
me if you know yourself what you are
talking about?”
“Why, fighting, of course.”
“Fighting?”
“Ay, you were speaking of a duel, were
you not?”
For a brief moment Huntly looked at
me seriously, and then broke forth in a
roar of laughter that fairly made the cabin
tremble. It was some time ere he could
command his voice sufficiently to make
himself intelligible.
“Go to bed, Frank!” were his first
words, as, half bent over, his hands clasping
his ribs, he stood gazing at me with a
comical look. “Go to bed, Frank, and
dream yourself into a sensible fellow—for
just now you are as wild as a night-hawk.”
“But if you did not allude to a duel,
Charles, pray tell me to what you did
allude?”
“To matrimony — neither more nor
less,” he answered, laughing.
“Ha! I see it all now. Why, how stupid
I must have been! But I was dreaming
of a duel last night, and being awakened
so suddenly, and seeing you so,
excited, got completely bewildered. And
so you have been tete-a-tete with Evaline,
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
found your tongue at last, and said the
sensible thing, eh?”
“Ay, and am now the happiest fellow
living.”
“You found it all right, did you, just as
I said you would?”
“So far that I found she loved me, and
had from the date of our first meeting;
but that, believing herself a poor, hameless
girl, she had avoided me, and striven
in vain to crush her passion in the bud.
Though she would have loved me, she
said, to the exclusion of all others, even to
the day of her death, yet had matters not
turned out as they have, she would most
assuredly have refused my hand, though
backed by all the eloquent pleadings of
which the human tongue is master.”
“Ay, and indeed would she!” I rejoined,
“for such is her proud, noble nature.
You remember our conversation
years ago respecting her. My remark then
was, if I mistake not, that though she
might love, she would reject you; and
gave, as one reason therefor, that she was
too noble minded to wed above herself.
Strange! what has since transpired, and
for which you may thank your stars! You
and I little dreamed then what the future
had in store—that mighty future, which to
all mortal eyes is a sealed book, on whose
pages are impressed the destinies alike of
worlds, of nations, and of individuals,
which none may read but as its pages are
o'erturned by the wizzard fingers of old
Time. Well, well, thank God all has
turned out for the best!”
“Ay, Frank,” returned my friend, solemnly,
“we may well thank God, and congratulate
each other that we are here
alive, after the thousand dangers to which
we have been exposed.”
“And she accepted your hand?” I said,
after a pause.
“She did, though not without much
urging; for she contended that even now
she was but a simple forest maiden, unused
to the ways of civilization, and far
my inferior in education, and said that I
might aspire higher and be successful. But
she loved—that was enough for me—and
love and my pleadings at last overcame
her scruples, and I left her with a lighter
heart than I have known for many a long
year.”
“Well, my friend, I sincerely congratulate
you on the happy termination. And
so, to speak plainly, your wedding is to
come off with mine?”
“Even so.”
“Mine was to have come off on the day
you returned; such were the conditions;
but the day passed as you know how, and
as we are determined on going East in the
spring, Lilian and I have thought best to
defer it till we arrive at home. Ah!
Charles, how that word thrills me! Home!
Ah, me! how long since I have seen it!
and who knows what disappointment and
sorrow may be there in store for me!
And how must my doting parents have
mourned my long absence! Perchance
they think me dead! Merciful Heaven!
perchance they may be dead themselves!
Oh God! should such be the
case—But, no! I will not, dare not,
think so. I will hope for the best, and
strive not to borrow trouble. It is enough
to bear it when it comes. Come, my
friend, to bed! for the thought of home
has driven all others out of my mind, and
I can talk no more to-night.”
CHAPTER XXI.
HAPPY MOMENTS—WINTER AMUSEMENTS—
PREPARATIONS TO DEPART—THE WAH-SOCHEES—
TEDDY'S IDEA OF DOUBLING OR
QUITTING MY SERVICE—HOMEWARD BOUND—
ARRIVE AT FORT LARAMIE.
How sweetly time passes when with
those we love. Moment then follows moment
in unbroken succession, and commingling
like drops of water, forms the
great stream of Time, which, flowing past
flowery banks and lulling us with its gentle
murmur, glides swiftly and evenly
away, bearing us on its broad bosom to
the boundless and fathomless ocean of
Eternity. It is when in sweet and constant
communion with those we love, we
forget the jars and discords of our past
life, in the enrapturing harmony of the
present. We then lose sight of the world
as it is, and only behold it through that
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
magic glass of inner joy, which shows all
its beauties, but conceals its defects. These
moments of earthly beatitude are most
precious and evanescent. They are as so
many golden sunbeams, streaming upon
the otherwise gloomy path of the traveler,
and showing him a thousand beauties, of
whose existence so near him he had previously
no conception.
Thus it was with myself and friends.
Time rolled away almost unnoted, and ere
we had prepared ourselves to bid old hoary-headed
Winter adieu, we found, to our surprise,
he had gone, and that light-footed
Spring was gaily tripping and smiling in
his place.
Although far in the wilderness, Oregon
City was not without its attractions. Of
the settlers, many were young people, who
had been well brought up in the East, and
had come hither to try their fortunes.
They did not believe in renouncing all
their former amusements; and in consequence,
gay parties, festivities, and balls
succeeded one another in rapid succession.
To these myself and friends were always
invited, and a number of them we attended.
They were rude in comparison to
some in older settlements, it is true; but
being in general conducted with great
propriety, often proved very agreeable pastimes,
and enlivened the otherwise rather
dull monotony of the village.
As spring advanced, we began gradually
to prepare for our journey. The real
estate previously purchased by Mrs. Huntly,
was readily sold for cash, and the receipts
doubled the purchase money. As
we designed taking nothing with us but
what was absolutely necessary, the furniture
of both Mrs. Huntly and Madame
Mortimer was also disposed of—possession
to be given so soon as the premises should
be vacated.
As our party of itself was not strong,
and as there were many here who designed
going East—some to procure goods,
some to remain, and others, who had come
here in advance, to bring on their families—
we decided to join them, and thus
journey in comparative security.
Great was the delight of Lilian and Eva,
as the time drew near for our departure.
In fact, toward the last, they could think
of nothing, talk of nothing, but the plea
sure of quitting their present abode, and
what they would do when they should
safely arrive at their destination.
With Evaline it was different. In this
journey she only saw a change of life and
scene—which, if truth must be told, she
rather regretted than rejoiced at — and a
sad parting from her Indian friends. Where
Lilian and Eva saw welcome faces and a
thousand fascinations in the haunts of civilization,
she beheld nothing but the cold
gaze of strangers and the gossiping speculations
of the worldly-minded. She was
beautiful and fascinating in her personal
appearance—refined, polished, and graceful
in her manners—but withal, so excessively
modest as to underrate her own
powers, and fancy herself an awkward
forest maiden, unfitted for the society in
which she was destined more or less to
mingle. Both Charles and I, as also the
others, ever strove to eradicate this un
pleasant impression, and we in part succeeded.
But still she was diffident, sober
minded, and without a particle of that en
thusiasm so strongly manifested by her
sister and Lilian.
The Indian companions of Evaline had
remained in the village through the winter,
and by their quiet, unobtrusive manners,
their steady, upright mode of life—
so different from the drunken, brawling
natives of the neighboring tribes, who occasionally
visited the village—had won the
respect and regard of the citizens, and, in
fact, become decided favorites with all.
While the former were sought for, the latter
were shunned; and the widest distinction
in all cases was ever drawn between
the Wahsochees and their red brethren of
other nations. But notwithstanding this
partiality, the Wahsochees were evidently
not contented in their present situation.
To them, civilized customs had less attraction
than the more rude and simple ones
of their own tribe; and they were now
anxious to depart and join their friends.
It was arranged that all should proceed in
company as far as Fort Laramie, whence
Evaline could either accompany the Indians
home, or let them go in advance to
herald her approach, as circumstances
might determine.
In enumerating the different personages
who have figured in this narrative, I must
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
not forget Teddy. For the last five or six
months he had been in his glory; and between
taking care of our horses, spinning
long yarns to the villagers, (whom, by the
way, he ever succeeded in astonishing,)
and making love to Molly Stubbs, he had,
as the phrase goes, had “his hands full.”
Of his success in the last, I must let the
reader judge by the following colloquy,
which took place between us a week or
so previous to the time fixed on for our
departure.
Approaching me with a rather timid
step, hat in hand, and making a low
obeisance, he said:
“The top of the morning to your honor.”
“The same to you, Teddy.”
“Sure, your honor — (a pause and a
rapid twirl of the hat) — sure, and is it
thrue ye're after taking yoursilf and frinds
from these diggins (as the spalpeens call
the likes) in a week for that mather?”
“All true, Teddy, nothing unforeseen
preventing.”
“Troth! and ye'll be missed from this
counthry when the likes of that happens.”
“I trust so, Teddy.”
Another pause, another twirl of the hat,
and a scratching of the head. After some
hesitation—
“Sure, and it's me own mother's son,
Teddy O'Lagherty, as 'ud like to be axing
yees a question?”
“Well, Teddy, say on!”
“Faith! and it's mesilf as has been
long in your honor's sarvice, now.”
“Some three or four years, I believe,
off and on.”
“And it's not a bether masther I'd
iver want, no it isn't.”
“Well?”
“But ye's a-going home, now, and
maybe does n't care for the likes of me
inny longer?”
“I see: you wish to be discharged?”
Another twirl of the hat and scratch of
the head.
“Why, now, your honor—no offence at
all — but — but to spaak the thruth, and
make a claan breast of it, it's that same
I'd ayther be axing for, or doubling the
sarvice, jist.”
“Doubling the service, Teddy? I do
not understand you. You mean I must
double your wages, eh?”
“Will, it's not exactly that—but—but
but—ye sae—(Here the hat fell to the
ground, and Teddy made an unsuccessful
effort to recover it,) — “Murther take the
luck, but I'll say it now if I dies for it
betimes! Ye sae, your honor, I've axed
Molly, and it's all settled, and there's
a-going to be the pair of us, barring that
the two counts one Scripter-wise.”
“So, so—I understand now—you are
about to be married to Molly?”
“Why yes, I may say that's the short
way of saying the likes, your honor.”
“Exactly; and unless I wish to employ
you both, you desire to quit my service?”
“Troth! and your honor's a gintleman
at guessing.”
“Well, Teddy, as I have no use for
Molly at this time, I will give you an honorable
discharge, and a handsome wedding
present for your valuable services
besides.”
“God bless ye for a gintleman, ivery
inch of yees! and it's mesilf as'll niver
forgit ye in me prayers,” was the warmhearted
response, as, grasping my hand, he
shook it heartily, while his eyes filled with
joyful tears. “God bless ye for a noble
heart!” he added, as he turned away to
communicate his success to her with whom
his fortune was about to be linked.
Suffice it here, that I kept my word
with Teddy, who had no reason to regret
having entered my service and secured my
esteem.
The long wished for day of our departure
came at last, and being one of the
brightest and most pleasant of the season,
was hailed with delight as an omen of
prosperity. Everything having been previously
arranged, there was little to do but
take leave of those who remained; and
this being soon over, we were on the move
at an early hour, a goodly company of
thirty souls, two-thirds of whom were of
the sterner sex.
As much of importance is yet to be told,
and as the reader has once or twice followed
me over the ground now traversed,
I will not trouble him with a detail of our
journey from Oregon City to Fort Laramie
Suffice, that we reached the latter place in
safety, though much fatigued, about the
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
middle of July, Anno Domini 1844, and
some four years subsequent to my former
visit here, when I first beheld the beautiful
Prairie Flower, otherwise Leni Leoti,
now Evaline Mortimer, and soon to be—
But let me not anticipate.
CHAPTER XXII.
A JOURNEY TO THE BLACK HILLS—CAMP—
SLIGHT ALARM—SLEEPLESS NIGHT—MEETING
WITH THE TRIBE—JOY AND SORROW—
THE FINAL FAREWELL — A BEAUTIFUL
LANDSCAPE — THE PROPOSED RIDE — A
NEW CHARACTER INTRODUCED — UNHEEDED
FOREBODINGS.
To the great delight of Evaline, as well
as those who sympathized with her, it was
ascertained soon after our arrival at the
fort, that some of the Mysterious Tribe
had been seen quite recently in the vicinity;
from which we drew the conclusion, that
they were still at their winter quarters on
the Black Hills. It being Evaline's desire
to see them as soon as possible, it was
finally arranged that her sister, Lilian,
Charles and myself should bear her company,
along with her Indian Friends, while
her mother and Mrs. Huntly should await
our return at the fort. On learning our
determination some five or six of the party
with whom we had crossed the mountains,
volunteered to go with us—a favor which
we gladly accepted, as this would strengthen
our party, and render us less liable to
attack, should we chance upon hostile
savages. The rest of the company, after
remaining over night at the fort, being
anxious to proceed, bade us adieu, and
resumed their journey on the morning
following.
Before starting for the Black Hills, we
procured a couple of tents for the females,
which we packed on mules, and then,
mounting each on a good horse, with all
the necessary equipments for defense, we
set forth on the second day at an early
hour For a number of miles we made
rapid progress, but at length came to a
stream, whose current being swift and
banks precipitous, delayed us some time
in seeking a place to ford. This crossed,
we soon came to another where a similar
delay awaited us. In short, our progress
was so many times checked through the
day, that when night at last began to draw
her sable curtains, we found, to the best
of our judgment, that hardly two-thirds
of our journey had been gone over.
Selecting a pleasant spot, we pitched
our tents, liberated our animals and encamped.
An hour or two was passed in a
very agreeable manner, when the females,
who appeared more fatigued than we of
the sterner sex, withdrew to their quarters,
leaving the rest of us squatted around a
large fire, which we had started, not to
warm ourselves by, for it was a sultry
July night, but to keep off the wild animals,
of whose proximity we were several
times reminded by dismal howls.
A couple of hours preceding midnight,
our animals were driven in and picketed,
and a guard set, more from caution than
apprehension of danger. This done, the
remainder of the party stretched themselves
around the fire, and, with the exception
of my friend and I, were soon in
the enjoyment of that sweetest of all blessings,
a sound and healthful sleep. For
some time I lay musing on the singular
events of my life, and then turned to
Huntly.
“Well, Charley,” said I, “this seems
like old times.”
“So I have been thinking,” he rejoined,
“with one exception, Frank.”
“The ladies, eh?”
“Exactly. I trust nothing may occur
to make us regret their presence,” he added,
seriously. “You and I have faced
danger too often to fear it for our own
sakes — but if anything should happen
now—”
“Surely you do not dream of danger
here?” I interrupted.
“Why, to tell you the truth, Frank,”
he replied, “I have my misgivings that we
shall see trouble ere we again reach the
fort.”
“God forbid! What makes you think
so?”
“I can give no reason. It is simply a
presentiment of evil.”
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
“But from what source do you apprehend
danger?”
“From no particular one, Frank.”
“Merely a fancy of yours, probably,
springing from your intense interest in
those more dear to you than life.”
“God send it be only fancy!” he rejoined,
gloomily.
His words made me sad, and, added to
the restlessness I had previously felt, kept
me awake a long time. At last I fell into
a feverish slumber, and was gradually progressing
toward a state of utter forgetfulness,
when a snorting and stamping of the
animals aroused me, and together with
Huntly I sprang to my feet in alarm.
“What is it?” I cried to the guard,
whom I found standing near me, pale as
death, with his rifle pointed in the direction
whence came the disturbance.
“I do not know,” he answered; “this
is the first I have heard. Shall I give the
alarm?”
“No! remain quiet a moment where
you are, and I will steal in among the
animals and ascertain the cause. I do not
think it proceeds from savages, or we
should have had an onset ere this.”
“What then, Frank?” asked Huntly,
taking his position by the tents, rifle in hand.
“Most likely some wild beast, which,
urged on by hunger, has ventured a little
nearer than usual.”
My conjecture this time proved correct;
for on cautiously approaching the frightened
animals, I discovered a small wolf
in the act of gnawing a tether rope of
buffalo hide. I could have shot him from
where I stood; but this I did not care to
do, as it would only create unnecessary
alarm. Retreating a few paces and selecting
a good sized club, I informed the guard
and Huntly there was no cause for alarm,
and returning with a stealthy pace, got
close to the hungry beast without making
him aware of my presence. His head was
from me, and he was eagerly engaged in
getting a morsel to eke out a half-famished
existence. I believe I could have killed
the poor creature with a single blow, and
raised my club for the purpose; but pity
gained power over my resolution, and I
gave him only a gentle tap, which rather
scared than hurt him, and he ran away
howling.
This little incident, though nothing in
itself, tended so to increase the nervousness
of both Huntly and myself, that we
did not fall soundly asleep till the first sign
of daybreak streamed up golden in the
east. An hour later we were all on our
feet, and having partaken a slight repast,
and laughed over our fears of the departed
night, we mounted our horses and again
proceeded on our journey.
No more delays occurred, and ere the
sun gained the meridian, we came in sight
of the village, when our Indian companions,
unable to restrain themselves longer,
uttered shouts of delight, and darted away
in advance of us. I turned to Evaline,
and beheld her seated quietly on her little
pony, her gaze rivetted upon the village,
but apparently laboring under no excitement.
A closer scrutiny convinced me I
was mistaken. There was little outward
display of her feelings; but I perceived in
her ashen cheeks and absent stare, that
thoughts, mighty in their power, were
stirring the soul within. For a short time
she seemed unconscious of anything around
her, and it was not until Eva had addressed
her thrice that she received an answer
to her question:
“Is this the spot, sister?”
On the second repetition, Evaline started,
turned to the fair querist and sighed:
“This is the spot.”
Then covering her face with her hands,
she remained silent until addressed again.
“Why are you so sad, Evaline?”
inquired Lilian.
“Ay, sister, tell us!” added Eva.
“I am thinking of the past and the future,”
was the answer, in a low, tremulous
tone. “Oh, my friends!” she continued,
“you cannot know my feelings. I am
about to bid farewell to those who have
been to me as brothers and sisters. I am
about to leave—to see them no more—to
go far away to the land of the stranger.
True, you will say, I go not alone; I shall
have with me a kind mother and sister, and
other dear friends; but still you know not
what it is to suddenly and utterly tear
yourself away from old ties and old associations.
You know not the fascinations
of the wilderness, to one who, like myself,
has never known aught else. Even danger
has a charm to those who are bred to
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
it; and it is hard, with all the inducements
before me, to break the spell of unlimited
freedom with which I have roamed over
thousands of miles of uncultivated territory.
But I feel it my duty to go with
you. I cannot think of parting from my
dear mother again in life. As she has
suggested, the tie binding me to her I acknowledge
to be stronger than that of
mere association.
“And have you no other inducement to
part from the Mysterious Tribe?” asked
Huntly, a little reproachfully.
Evaline looked up, her eye met his, a
slight flush colored her pale features, and
frankly taking his hand, she replied, in a
sweet, timid voice:
“Yes, dear Charles, there is more than
one.”
“God bless you, Evaline!” was the
hearty response. “We will all strive to
make you happy; and in the joy of the
future, you will ere long forget the past.”
“Forget, say you?” she repeated,
looking earnestly in his face. “Forget
the past?” — forget my old friends?
Nay,” she continued, “you know not yet
the heart of Prairie Flower, if you think
she can ever forget.”
“No, no, not exactly forget,” returned
Huntly, endeavoring to recover
from his mistake: “Not exactly forget:
I do not mean that, Evaline—but rather
that you will cease to regret this change
of life.”
“Perhaps so,” she sighed.
“See!” I exclaimed, “the Indians
have nearly gained the village, and the inhabitants
are already flocking down the
hill to meet them. Let us quicken our
pace;” and galloping forward, we soon
drew rein in the center of the crowd.
“Leni Leoti!” “Prairie Flower!” was
the universal cry on every hand, as Evaline
leaped from her saddle and sprang to
the embrace of her Indian friends, who
pressed around her as children around a
parent—old and young—men, women and
children—each eager to be first to greet
her with a hearty welcome. For some
time the rest of us remained wholly unnoticed.
At length, the first joyful excitement
over, Evaline pointed to us, and bade
the Indians give us welcome, which they
did in a hearty manner.
Approaching Eva, Evaline took her by
the hand and said:
“In this lady, my friends, you behold
the sister of Prairie Flower.”
“Another Prairie Flower!” “Another
Leni Leoti!” was the almost simultaneous
exclamation; and instantly collecting
around, they gazed upon her in surprise,
and began talking to each other in their
own dialect. Then, one after another,
they approached and took her hand, and
said, in broken English, that they were
most happy to see her, and that she was
welcome, as the sister of Prairie Flower,
to a share in all they possessed. This reception
over, they invited us to the village,
where everything in their power was done
to make us comfortable and contented.
Our animals were taken in charge and
liberated, and three or four lodges assigned
us during our stay among them.
On learning that Evaline had only returned
to bid them a final farewell, the
Wahsochees one and all became very sad,
and a gloom pervaded the village, as on
the funeral day of one universally beloved.
The women and children wept at the
thought, and some of them begged of her
in piteous tones not to leave them. Evaline
could not witness these sincere manifestations
of lasting affection unmoved, and
in consequence her eyes were continually
filled with tears. As it had been arranged
that we should leave on the following morning,
she was kept busy through the day in
making preparations therefor. Her costume
for different occasions, which had
been procured for her by Great Medicine,
and which she had preserved with great
care, together with sundry other articles
and trinkets, some of which she had purchased
in Oregon City and brought with
her, she now proceeded to distribute one
by one, giving something to each as a remembrance.
This occupied her time and
attention till night, when a conference of
the nation was called, to which none of
our party save Evaline was admitted. This
conference lasted till midnight, and long
before it broke up, I, as well as most of
my companions, was sound asleep.
At an early hour in the morning, our
horses were caught and saddled, our two
mules packed, and everything prepared
for our immediate departure. Evaline was
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
silent and sad, and her features showed
traces of having passed a feverish, restless
night. Thinking she might feel a diffidence
in having us present at her last interview,
I approached her and said:
“Evaline, the time has come to take our
final leave.”
“I know it,” she faltered.
“As there are some strangers in our
party, perhaps it were better, all things
considered, that we should go on before,
and await your coming at a proper distance?”
“Thank you!” she replied; “the very
favor I would have asked, had I dared.”
“It shall be so. There is a little hill
you see yonder, somewhat out of the direct
course to the fort, whither we will ride,
merely for the view it affords of the prairie
beyond, and there remain till you join us.”
She again expressed her thanks, and I
returned to the others and informed them
of the new arrangement. We then proceeded
to shake hands with each of the
wibe, which occupied us some ten minutes,
and mounting our horses, rode slowly away
down the mountain, crossed the little
streamlet, and galloped over a short level
to the hill in question, on whose summit
we came to a halt as preconcerted.
It was a warm day, and the sun, about
an hour above the horizon, streamed down
his golden, mellow rays, beautifying each
object, by giving it that soft and dreamy
appearance, which, in the poetic mind,
awakens those sweet fancies that fill the
soul with holy meditation and make earth
seem a paradise. A heavy dew had fallen
during the night, and its crystalline drops,
still hanging on leaf, blade, and flower,
sparkled in the morning sunbeams like so
many diamonds. Above us gay plumaged
birds flittered from branch to branch, and
poured forth their morning carols in a variety
of strains, or flapping their wings,
darted up and away through the deep blue
ether. Around and about us bees, beetles
and insects of divers kinds were buzzing
or basking in the sunlight, now dipping
into the flower to sip its sweets, now alighting
on the leaf to take a dainty morsel,
now plunging to the ground with no apparent
design, and then each and all up
and away, filling the air with a drowsy,
pleasing hum.
Not the least enchanting of all was the
beautiful landscape that here lay spread to
our view. Behind us was the little valley
we had just crossed over, carpeted with
green and variegated with bright flowers,
through which wound a silvery streamlet,
and beyond which, like some mighty barrier,
the Black Hills lifted their heads far
heavenward. To the right and left, at
some little distance, was a wood, over the
top of which loomed hills one above another,
but gradually retreating, till the last
one, far, far in the distance, either showed
the fleecy-like palace of eternal snow, or
gently blended with the cerulean blue.
But before us was the scene which fixed
our whole attention. Here, for miles upon
miles, stretched away a vast prairie, whose
tail, rank grass, gently touched by a light
breeze, undulated like the swelling of the
sea in a calm, over which fluttered and
hovered myriads of birds and insects, now
dipping down, skimming along the surface
and disappearing altogether, or soaring upward,
cleaving the balmy air, and displaying
their little bodies as mere specks upon
the blue background. To relieve the monotony
otherwise attendant, here and there,
at long intervals, rose little knolls, clustered
with trees, resembling islands pushing
up from the glassy surface of a tranquil
ocean. And away, and away, and away to
the dim distance stretched this same sealike
prairie, till the eye, unable to trace it
farther, saw nothing but the soft blending
of earth and sky.
For some moments we all remained silent,
gazing upon the scene with feelings
peculiar to each. Lilian was the first to
speak:
“O, how beautiful!” she exclaimed, rapturously.
“How beautiful and how sublime
is this great ocean of earth!”
“Ay, sublime indeed!” rejoined Eva.
“It is just such a scene as ever fills me
with rapture—inspires me with the sacred
feeling of poesy. O, that like one of those
gay birds, I could wing my way above it!
Would it not be delightful, Lilian?”
“Charming!” answered the other.
“But can we not skim its surface on our
fleet steeds? Come! for a ride! a ride!
What say you, gentleman?” she added,
appealing to us.
“So pleasant a request, from so fair a
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
petitioner, must needs be complied with,”
returned one of the party, gallantly, bowing
gracefully to Eva.
The speaker was a young man, some
twenty-five years of age, of fine person
and good address, with a handsome and
prepossessing countenance, whereon was
legibly stamped frankness, generosity and
nobleness of soul. There was an eloquence
in his soft, dark eye, and a loftiness of
purpose on his clear, open brow, which
would have ranked him far above the herd,
had even a finished education, of which he
was-possessed, been wanting. To be brief
in my remarks, he was the only son of one
of the merchants who had emigrated from
the State of New York to Oregon City during
the previous summer, and one of the
party who had so far been our companions
of the long journey. He was now on his
way East, to arrange some unsettled affairs
and purchase more goods for his father,
with the design of returning to Oregon the
following season. During the past winter,
Elmer Fitzgerald (so he was named) had
once or twice met with Eva Mortimer; but
no acquaintance had been formed with each
other previous to both parties setting forth
on the present journey, where, being daily
and hourly thrown together, sharing alike
the hardships and perils of the wilderness,
it was but natural, that between two such
individuals of refined manners and cultivated
tastes, there should gradually spring
up an intimacy, which time and circumstances
might ripen to something more.
But, as I have said before, let me not anticipate.
As Elmer spoke, I noted that both his
own and the countenance of Eva slightly
flushed, and quickly turning to me, the latter
said:
“And what say you, Francis?”
“I shall echo the words of Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Then we will go!” said Lilian, joyfully.
“But brother,” she added, turning
to Charles, “you appear gloomy, and dejected.
Do you object to this arrangement?”
“Why, to speak candidly,” he answered
seriously, “I do.”
“For what reason?” I inquired.
“I can give you no other than what I told
you last night—a presentiment of danger.”
“Pshaw! Charley,” I rejoined, “there
is no danger here. The sadness of Evaline
has made you gloomy, and a brisk
ride over this prairie will set you right
again.”
“And it will be beneficial to dear sister
Evaline also,” chimed in Eva, “by diverting
her thoughts from her present cause of
grief.”
“Suit yourselves in the matter,” rejoined
Huntly. “I shall of course do as the
rest. I merely spoke my apprehensions,
which, after all, may only be foolish fancies.”
“Lo! yonder Evaline comes!” cried
Lilian; and looking toward the village, a
part of which was visible from where we
stood, we beheld her rapidly descending
the mountain on her little pony.
Charles instantly wheeled his horse and
rode away to meet her, and presently returned
in her company. She was sad and
silent, and her eyes were red with weeping,
while her features generally, showed
traces of having recently passed through
a very trying scene.
On being informed of our present design,
she silently acquiesced; and liberating
our mules, that they might not suffer
in our absence, we rode slowly down to the
prairie, and set off at a gallop, most of us
in gay spirits, with the understanding that,
in case we became separated, we should
all meet again at the starting point.
Man plans and God performs. That
meeting, for some of the party, was destined
never to take place.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A MERRY RIDE — ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL VIEW—
AN EXCITING RACE—SEPARATION—THE
CONTEST DECIDED—ALARM—THE PRAIRIE
ON FIRE — FLIGHT — TERRIBLE CONFLAGRATION—
APPALLING STRUGGLE — HORRIBLE
SCENE — LIFE AND DEATH.
For an hour or two we spurred on to
the eastward, in company, through the tall
grass, which brushed our feet at every step,
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
and made our horses labor exceedingly,
when we came to one of the small hills or
knolls previously mentioned, where we
halted to give our panting and foaming
steeds a few minutes' rest. This knoll
was clustered with beautiful trees, under
whose refreshing shade bubbled up a spring
of clear, cold water, wherewith we first
refreshed ourselves and then our horses.
From the brow of this, the view of everything
was more delightful than from that
of the one we had left behind us. Then
we were looking on the prairie only in one
or two directions — now we stood above
and surveyed it on all sides. To the north
of us was a small ridge, in shape resembling
an ox-bow, the southern bend of
which was about five miles distant. This,
after running due north for a considerable
distance, appeared to take a zig-zag course
and unite with the Black Hills, which,
sublime in their grandeur, bounded the
view to the west. To the south and east,
as far as the eye could penetrate, stretched
away and away the beautiful prairie,
with nothing to relieve its monotony but
an occasional knoll like the one whereon
we stood, and which forcibly reminded
me of the oases I had seen in the great
desert.
“O, this is delightful — enchanting!”
exclaimed Eva, with a flush of animation.
“This is what I love. It expands the soul,
and bears one above the groveling thoughts
of every day life. Nature!” she added,
apostrophizing, “I love thee in thy grandeur
and thy simplicity! and know, as I
gaze upon thee, that I behold the handi-work
of that Great Power above, which
regulates alike the mighty systems of ten
thousand times ten thousand worlds, and
the most trifling event that takes place
upon them. All alike move by a universal
and immutable law; and each, as it
were, complete in itself, is but a minor
branch of that great machine which works
for one almighty and incomprehensible design.
Were I a poet that could pen my
thoughts, I would seek such a place as this,
and alone, away from the discords of my
fellow beings, write such inspiring words,
that ages yet to come should read and
wonder over my pages, and call them the
result of a holy inspiration.”
“Ay, sister,” cried Evaline, “thus have
I felt a thousand times; and thus it is it
comes so hard for me to part from these
enrapturing scenes. Now can you blame
me for my regrets?”
“No, sweet sister,” answered the other,
“I do not blame you—far from it. I only
feel you are a gem too rare to part with.”
“And so think we all,” I rejoined; “and
one of us at least, if I may be permitted
the expression, thinks doubly so;” and I
glanced at my friend.
“Ay, Frank,” he answered, “treble that
if you like. But come, my friends, the
day is advancing — had we not better return?
They will look anxiously for us at
the fort.”
“One ride more first,” said Eva, quickly.
“I cannot bear to quit this scene forever,
without one more glorious ride.”
“Whither shall it be, then?” asked
Lilian.
“To yonder knoll;” and she pointed
away to the eastward.
“That is far,” rejoined Huntly, “and I
fear we shall not get back till night, and
the day will be lost.”
“Lost?” echoed Eva, her eyes sparkling
with animation. “Call you such a day as
this lost? Come, gentlemen,” she added,
turning to the rest of us, “you do not think
so, I'll wager! On! let us on! I dare
you to a race! and my glove to him who
first puts foot on yonder hill in advance of
me.”
So saying, she gracefully waved her
hand, and tightening her rein, pressed her
fiery steed down the declivity and over the
prairie at headlong speed.
“A race! a race! The glove! the
glove!” cried some half a dozen voices,
and instantly the whole party was in commotion.
Those who chanced to be dismounted,
at once sprang to their saddles, and all
dashed away after their fair champion,
who, sitting erect, with the air of a queen,
was now urging her gallant beast to do his
utmost.
Next behind Eva rode Elmer Fitzgerald,
striving hard to evertake her, followed by
Lilian, myself, and the rest of the party,
some in couples and others alone, each
and all contending to be first at the far off
goal. I say all, but I must except Charles
and Evaline, who brought up the rear at a
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
tardy pace, and seemed rather deliberately
following us without excitement and interest,
than taking any part in the race.
With the balance of us, for the first five
minutes, the contest appeared equal —
neither gaining ground on the party, nor
falling away from the position he had taken
at the setting-out. All was life and
excitement; and merry shouts and gay
jests rang out, as on we pressed our panting
steeds through the tall grass, startling
thousands of small animals from their quiet
retreats, and scaring up flocks of birds,
which, as they soared away, twittered their
discontent, and looked down upon us with
wonder and fear. On, on we rushed, completely
lost in the enlivening chase, and
heeding nought but the still distant goal
we were striving to gain. On, on! still
on! with the fire of youthful ambition
urging us to renewed exertions.
At length the difference in the speed of
our horses began to be seen. Eva yet
kept her position in advance, but was gradually
losing ground before the fleeter
steed of Elmer Fitzgerald. Lilian and I,
side by side, still managed to hold our own,
and were gaining on all the others, who
were now strung out in a long single line
behind.
Half an hour passed, and the change in
our previous positions became more distinctly
marked. Elmer now rode head-to-head
with our fair leader, but both had
increased the distance between themselves
and us materially. I looked back, and
beheld the line stretched out for more than
a mile, far beyond which I could dimly
discern my friend and Evaline slowly
bringing up the rear. Most of the party
had by this time despaired of winning the
race, had even withdrawn from the contest,
and were now following at a leisure
pace. A few yet held on, but only for a
few minutes, when they took pattern by
the others, and we were left masters of the
field.
For another quarter of an hour we pushed
on with vigor, when the panting of our
foaming steeds warned us to check them.
Elmer and Eva were the first to take this
precaution, and on our coming up to them,
the latter said:
“I suppose as we have distanced all the
others, there will not be much strife be
tween us. At all events, we must not kill
our horses, and they are already pretty
well blown. How much was I deceived
in the distance! When I proposed this
race, I had no idea there were more than
five miles between point and point; and
yet some eight or ten miles, if I greatly err
not in judgment, have been gone over, and
yonder hill is still miles ahead.”
“Distance on level ground, from an elevated
point, is always deceiving,” I answered.
“But come! I do not see the
necessity of going farther. Give your
companion the glove, for I acknowledge
him winner, and let us return.”
“Pray, take Mr. Leighton's advice, Miss
Mortimer!” urged Fitzgerald; “for it is
a long distance to where we left our
mules, and our horses will suffer enough
at the best.”
“Ay, ay, modest sir!” exclaimed Eva,
with a ringing laugh. “I understand.
You wish to be acknowledged victor, before
you have won. By my faith, sir, I
had thought you possessed of more spirit
than that. I am willing to return for that
matter; but I cannot yield the glove until
the conditions on which it was offered are
complied with.”
“Then the glove shall be mine, if I
have to make the remainder of the journey
alone!” cried Elmer. “Do not flatter
yourself, Miss Mortimer, that I have exerted
myself thus far for nothing. The
prize I must have; I insist upon it; and
it remains for you to say —”
“Good heavens! what is that?” exclaimed
Lilian, interrupting the other, and
pointing toward the south.
We all turned our eyes in the direction
indicated, and beheld, stretching along the
horizon, what appeared to be a dense,
black, rolling cloud.
“A heavy thunder storm is approaching,”
said Fitzgerald in reply, “and we
stand a fair chance of being thoroughly
drenched.”
“I think you are mistaken,” rejoined
I; “for I have never seen a cloud of
such singular appearance. See! how it
gradually creeps away to the right and
left?”
“And there are bright flashes, too!”
exclaimed Eva, breathless with intense
excitement.
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“What is it? what is it?” cried Lilian,
grasping my arm with a trembling hand,
and gazing upon the scene with a pale,
terrified look. “It is not a cloud—it cannot
be a cloud—it is something more awful.
See! see! how fast it spreads! And
there! there! mark you those flashes?”
Suddenly the whole horrible truth flashed
upon me, and for the moment held me
dumb with terror.
“You are pale with alarm!” pursued
Lilian, turning to me and noting the agonized
expression of my countenance.
“Speak, Francis! what is it?” screamed
Eva.
“Merciful God!” I gasped, “the prairie
is on fire! We are lost!—our doom is
sealed!”
“Lost!” shrieked Lilian and Eva.
“Oh, God! is there no escape?” added
the latter, wildly. “We must—we
must escape!”
“Flight — flight alone can save us!”
shouted Fitzgerald. “Perchance we may
reach yonder hill. It is our only hope.”
As he spoke, he spurred his steed, struck
Eva's with his bridle rein, and away
bounded both with all the speed in their
power.
“Follow!” cried I to Lilian, imitating
the example of the other, and in the wild
excitement of the moment, completely
losing all my wonted presence of mind.
“Follow hard — strain every nerve — and
God vouchsafe us victory!”
It was no longer a race of pleasure, but
one of fearful agony—our lives the stake,
and heavy odds against us. Can I describe
it, reader?—describe our feelings in those
awful moments of horrible suspense? No!
it is beyond the strength of the pen—the
power of language—and must be left to
your imagination.
Four miles, at the least—four long and
seemingly interminable miles — intervene
between us and our destination. Can we
reach it? We have but little hope. On,
on we urge, with whip and spur, our already
drooping horses—and on, on comes
the mighty destroyer, as if sent to execute
the long pent up vengeance of an offended
God.
Away to the east, and away to the west,
and rushing toward the north, with the
fury of a devastating tornado, comes this
terrific Avenger, sweeping all in his course,
making all black and desolate which a few
minutes since had seemed so lovely, rolling
up to the very dome of Heaven his
huge volumes of smoke, of gigantic and
hideous shapes, with red sheets of flame
issuing from its appalling blackness, as
they were the burning tongues and eyes
of hell's unchained demons, so shaped by
our wild and distorted imaginations. On,
on!—how our horses snort, and foam, and
tremble! They have caught our fears,
and are doing their utmost to save us and
themselves. On, on, on!—two miles,
thank God! are passed—but, alas! there
are two more before us, and our gallant
beasts are already beginning to falter with
fatigue. On, on!—behold our terrible foe
advance! his fiery banners streaming up
brighter, redder and more bright as he
nears us—his ten thousand scorching and
blasting tongues, hissing, roaring and destroying
every living thing that comes
within their reach.
Oh! how sublime—how awfully sublime
this spectacle! on which we rivet our
fascinated eyes, while our hearts leap to
our throats, and our lips are compressed
with an indescribable fear.
Now listen to those apparently unearthly
sounds! The prairie is alive with millions
of voices, which fancy would give to
the fiery tongues of this rushing Monster,
as the cheering song of his death-dealing
advance—but which stern reality tells us
are the frantic cries of droves and herds
of wild animals, of all species, mad with
affright, all pressing forward together, pellmell,
to escape one common, but ever
conquering enemy.
Look yonder! There goes a stampede
of buffalo. Yonder! Another of wild
horses. How they tear ahead, with foaming
mouths, expanded nostrils, dilated
eyes, and a tread that makes the very
earth tremble beneath them!
Look closer—nearer! Here—here they
come!—above us, before us, behind us,
beneath us—on all and every side—birds,
beasts, reptiles and insects. How they dart
past us now with lolling tongues, and fiery
eyes half starting from their sockets, entangling
the very legs of our horses, and
causing them to rear, and plunge, and
snort, and shriek with appalling terror!
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
Here are wolves, and wolverines, and
rabbits, and boars, and serpents — each
and all howling, shrieking, and hissing
their fears.
God of heavens! what a scene!
On, on, for our only hope! Another
mile is passed: oh! that it were another—
the last! We near the haven of our
safety. Can we—shall we ever reach it?
Behold the Destroyer, where he comes!
Up, up to the mid heaven now rolls the
smoke of his conquest! and the sun grows
dark behind it, as he were mourning for
the destruction he is forced to look upon.
Hark! what sound is that!—that roaring
sound! It is the voice of the Fire-Spirit,
as he were mocking our hopes.
Must we die now, with safety almost within
our grasp? Why do our horses stagger
and reel? Have they not strength for
this last effort! See! we are almost
saved. Yon hill looms up invitingly before
us. Oh! for strength of another five
minute's duration! Five minutes—only
five—an eternity to us!
Ha! the dense smoke is lowering upon
us, and we shall be suffocated! No!
that breeze drives it back. All thanks to
God for that! There is still hope.
On, on! still on! How swift is the
flame, and how tardy our horses! They
have no spirit, seemingly. They only
creep and crawl like snails. My fortune
all, to hold out another two minutes.
Ha! God help us now! Lilian's steed
reels—totters—stumbles — falls! She is
down. I hear her shriek for help. How
strangely that shriek mingles with the
roaring and crackling of this great prairie
fire! Now on my feet I seize her hand.
Now my horse staggers under a double
weight. But he is a gallant beast; and
plunging forward, with a dying effort, falls
at the base of the knoll, which Elmer and
Eva had gained in advance of us. One
desperate effort more, and Lilian, all unconscious
of fear and danger, is borne in
my arms into a dense thicket, where I sink
upon the earth, and, half stifled with
smoke, amid the roaring of a mighty conflagration,
thank God its flames can neither
reach me nor the being I love.
THE MEETING — ALARM FOR OUR FRIENDS —
A SCENE OF DESOLATION — TERRIBLE SUSPENSE—
REGRETS — PROSIONERS FOR A DAY—
A NIGHT OF HORROR—A GOLDEN MORN—
OUR STEPS RETRACED—HIDEOUS SPECTACLES—
OUR WORST FEARS SEEMINGLY
CONFIRMED — JOY AT LAST.
No tongue can portray my feelings, my
deep emotions of gratitude to the All-wise
Preserver, as, with the still unconscious
Lilian reposing in my arms, I remained
motionless a minute, enveloped in a pall
of smoky darkness, listening to the roar of
the awful flames, that surged around and
onward, scorching the green leaves and
grass within a few feet, but leaving me
unharmed. Once, for a moment, when
the smoke settled in so thick that day became
night, and the air too much heated
for respiration, I fancied we might die of
suffocation. But it was only for a moment.
A draught of wind revived me,
and lifted the smoke, which rolled away in
mighty masses after its master spirit, the
devouring element; while day-light again
streaming in through the interwoven
branches of this beautiful retreat, made
my heart bound with rapture at our safe
deliverance.
Lilian now opened her eyes, and for an
instant gazed upon me with a bewildered
expression. I strained her to my heart,
pressed my lips to hers, and whispered:
“We are saved, dearest.”
“Saved?” she echoed: “Saved? Then
it was not a horrible dream, but a frightfully-hideous
reality, at the thought of which
the soul sickens and grows faint?”
“All that language has power to depict
of the awful, it was, and ten times more.”
“Lilian! Francis!” now called the
voice of Eva; and springing through the
bushes, accompanied by Elmer, she rushed
up to the former, threw her arms around
her neck, and each wept tears of joy in
the other's embrace.
“But Evaline and Charles — what of
them?” cried Eva, looking up, pale with
alarm.
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“Gracious God!” shouted I, “what of
them indeed!” for in the frantic bewilderment
of the last few minutes, all thought
of everything but escape from death, had
been driven from my mind. “Perchance
they have perished! Great God! what a
thought! To the brow of the hill let us
speed at once!”
As I spoke, we all rushed up the acclivity,
and soon gained a point whence
we could gaze upon the desolated scene.
What a fearful change a few minutes had
wrought! Where, a short time since, all
was life and beauty—the tall grass softly
undulating to the light-winged zephyr—
we now beheld only a black, smoking, dismal
waste, without a sign of living thing
so relieve its gloom. The fire had passed
us entirely; but away to the east, to the
north, and the west, spread a dense cloud
of rolling smoke, amid which we could
perceive the lurid flashes of the death-dealing
victor, as on, on he sped, seeking
new victims to feed his insatiable maw.
Here and there, in every direction on his
smoking trail, were strewn the blackened
carcasses of such animals as had been
overtaken in their flight. At the foot of
the hill whereon we stood, in the exact
spot where he had fallen, lay the remains
of the gallant beast which had borne me
through so many perils, and which, at the
very last, had saved my life at the expense
of his own. A few rods farther on was
the one Lilian had ridden, now an ungainly
mass of charred flesh. Altogether, it was
an appalling scene of desolation, that made
the heart sick to look upon.
All these things I took in at a glance,
but without dwelling upon them for a moment.
One wild, maddening thought alone
occupied my brain. My friend and Evaline—
were they lost or saved? What a
torturing uncertainty, where nothing could
be known! I strained my eyes, and vainly
strove to penetrate the sable vail which
curtained the view to the west. All there
was wrapped in the frightful gloom of
impenetrable darkness. Perchance they
might be living, but even now in the agonies
of a most terrible death! — and I
groaned, and shuddered, and felt my brain
grow dizzy and my heart sicken at the
bare possibility.
For some minutes we all stood and stared
as if rooted to the spot, pale and speechless
with the agony of suspense. At length
the smoke began to clear away between
us and the point from whence we had set
out for the race. Alas! it brought no
hope, but rather despair. All, as elsewhere,
was black and lifeless, and we felt
our doubts removed by the worst of certainties.
“Oh, fatal day!” cried Eva, wringing
her hands; “and most fatal adventure!
Oh, God! my sister and friend lost! and
all through my rashness. Strong-headed
and giddy, I would not heed his foreboding
counsels, but madly rushed away,
dragging him to his own death. May God
in his mercy forgive me! for I can never
forgive myself. Never—no, never—shall
I be happy again.”
“Nay, dearest Eva,” said Lilian, consolingly,
twining her arms around the other's
neck; “Nay, my dear sister—for a sister
to me you seem—do not reproach yourself
thus! You were to blame in this no
more than I, or the rest. You knew not,
dreamed not, there was danger—neither
did any of us — and the forebodings of
Charles were merely vague fancies without
even a foundation. Had he warned
us of certain danger known to himself,
then we might have been considered rash
in disregarding his counsel. As it is, I
feel we have been only the blind instruments
in the hands of the Almighty, for
working out one of his mysterious designs.
But do not let us despair. I still have
hope that Charles and Evaline are safe.
They were far behind us, and it is possible
may have turned back and gained
yonder hill in safety.”
“God send it be so!” ejaculated I—
“though I have my fears. But, Eva,”
I added, “I insist you do not blame yourself.
If any one is to blame, it is I.”
“You, Francis? But you merely say
this to console me.”
“Nay, I will prove it. But for my plan,
we had all ere this been far on our way to
Fort Laramie. It was I proposed to Evaline
we should leave her alone with her
friends, and designated the spot whither
we would ride and await her. It was I
that made light of the presentiment of
Huntly, and scoffed at his idea of danger.
So blame not yourself Eva! Heaven
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
knows, the blow falls heavy enough upon
us all, without the additional weight of
either one thinking it the result of his or
her individual misdoing.”
“Ay,” rejoined Elmer, “so think I. If
one is to blame, all are—but in my opinion,
none are at fault; and certainly not
you, Miss Mortimer.”
But I will not follow in detail our gloomy
conversation, nor longer dwell upon our
feelings. Suffice, that for something like
an hour, we stood watching the fire, as on
it rushed, away and away to the dim distance,
until it became lost to our vision,
leaving behind it the most dismal scene I
had ever beheld.
Another hour passed, and still we stood
in the self-same spot, uncertain what course
to pursue. We had eagerly scanned every
object, and strained our eyes in every direction,
in the hope of being rejoiced by
the sight of one living thing. But the
hope proved fallacious. All was silent,
and black, and motionless, on this great
field of death and desolation.
But what should be done, was now the
all important question. The earth was
still smoking with heat, and the sun, in
mid-heaven, pouring down his scorching
rays, with scarcely a reviving breath of
air; so that we could not venture from
our shady retreat with any safety. Besides,
but two of our horses had been
spared, and these were so exhausted as to
be of no service to us for the day at least.
How long the earth would remain heated,
we could not tell; but in all probability
till the day should become too far advanced
for us to gain another safe point ere
nightfall—in which event, we would again
be in imminent danger from the ravenous
beasts, that would come with the darkness
to prey upon the half-burnt carcasses
of their fellows. In view of all this, there
appeared no alternative but to remain
where we were over night, and make the
best of the circumstances we could not
alter.
This, after the proposal, discussion and
final rejection of several plans, was at last
reluctantly consented to, when Elmer and
myself immediately set about constructing
a rude lodge for Lilian and Eva, who, to
their praise be it said, bore their misfortunes
with a firm, patient and heroic
resignation, that would have won our admiration,
even had we, in every other respect,
been wholly indifferent to their many noble
charms.
Our present asylum was a beautiful and
romantic spot, of some half a dozen acres
in extent, watered by a fine spring, shaded
with trees, and carpeted with a velvet-like
sward of sweet, green grass, interspersed
with white, red, purple, yellow and gold
colored flowers. In short, it seemed &
Garden of Eden on an arid waste; and
had our friends been with us, or even had
we been assured of their safety, we could
have spent the night here with pleasure.
With our hunting-knives we cut several
withes, and bending over a few saplings,
bound them together so as to form a regular
arbor, which we roofed with bushes,
leaves and turf, sufficiently to keep off the
dew at least. With our rifles, which we
fortunately had with us, we next ransacked
the bushes, and were successful in scaring
up and shooting some two or three hares,
which we dressed and cooked, and found
very palatable—the more so, perhaps, that
we had eaten nothing since morning—our
provisions for the journey having been left
with our mules.
During the day we saw nothing of our
companions, and as night slowly shut in
the scene, we gradually began to lose the
faint hope that had thus far been our consolation.
True, if saved, the same cause
which prevented us, might also them, from
venturing forth upon what seemed almost
certain destruction. But there was no
certainty—no, scarcely a possibility—they
had escaped, and this torturing thought,
added to our lonely situation and the surrounding
gloom, made us wretched with
despair.
Oh! what an awful night was this we
passed in the wilderness! One which,
were we to live a thousand years, would
ever be a yesterday to us, so deeply and
painfully was it engraven upon the outer
tablets of our memories. To add gloom,
as it were, to accumulated horrors, a dark,
angry cloud began to spread along the
western horizon, from which shot vivid
flashes of lightning, followed by the booming
roar of heavy thunder, as if the spirits
of the air, bent on making “assurance
doubly sure,” were now marshaling their
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
grand reserve-forces to triumph over a
vanquished foe.
On, on came the Storm-King, flinging
out his black banners in advance, and vailing
the light of Heaven's starry host, as
if unwilling one single thing should be
left undone to make his triumph most dismally,
impressively terrible. On, on he
came, amid the almost incessant flashes
and thunders of his mighty artillery!
Huddled together in our rude arbor, before
which blazed a lurid, flickering flame,
that gave our pale features an unearthly
appearance, and made our grim shadows
dance fantastically behind us, like dark
spirits in a hellish revel, we sat and gazed
upon vacancy, silent with emotions too
deep for utterance.
Now the storm was at its hight. Sheet
upon sheet of the hot lightning, flashing
in our faces, blinded our eyes; peal upon
peal of crashing thunder, shaking the
earth beneath, almost deafened us with its
roar; while the rain, pouring down in torrents,
thoroughly drenched and stiffened
our cramped up bodies and limbs.
For two hours thus we remained in
breathless awe, motionless and silent, ere
the storm abated its fury; and then only,
as it were, that we might hear the howlings
of surrounding wolves, which, to our
distorted fancies, seemed the loud wailings
of the damned over the final wreck of
Nature.
Serenely the morning broke upon the
night, and the sun again rose as bright
and golden as if nothing had happened.
Never was a day hailed with more joy.
With the first streak of light, we caught
our two overridden horses, and found, to
our great delight, that they were still capable
of performing a heavy task. Mounting
two on each, we set out over the
blackened plain to retrace our steps, and,
if possible, gain some tidings of our friends.
For an hour or more we saw nothing to
attract particular attention, when suddenly
Eva uttered a fearful shriek, and pointing
to an object before us, cried:
“My God! look on that!”
We did look, with dilated eyes, and felt
our blood freeze with horror. It was the
blackened and mangled corse of a human
being — probably the remains of one of
our companions of the previous day. A
few feet from it lay the half-eaten carcass
of a horse, too fatally confirming our suspicions.
Elmer and I dismounted and examined
the body of the unfortunate young man;
but all trace by which we might identify
it was lost; and with a sicken shudder and
trembling steps we passed on, with such
feelings as none can ever more than faintly
imagine.
About a mile from this, we came upon
the carcass of a horse, beside which lay
the stirrups of a saddle, several scraps of
burnt leather, and, oh God! another human
body!
“Another victim!” groaned Fitzgerald,
covering his eyes to shut out the hideous
spectacle. “Who next?”
“Great God!” gasped I, “should the
next be Charles and Evaline! But come,
Fitzgerald! this is a trial unfitted for ladies.
See! both Lilian and Eva seem
ready to fall from their horses! Let us
mount and away, and take them from this
awful scene. If we gain no tidings of our
friends when we reach the Wahsochees, we
will at least get some of them to assist
us in the painful task of searching for their
remains.”
Shaping our course more to the right,
we rode away over the plain, fearful to
look beneath our feet, lest our eyes might
chance upon another revolting spectacle.
In the course of a couple of hours, we had
passed the first hill, leaving it away to our
left, and were fast nearing the second, the
point from whence we had first viewed the
beautiful prairie, in all the enchantment
of its loveliness only the morning previous,
and which we had fixed on for our
rendezvous, in case we became separated,
little dreaming, in our merry thoughtlessness,
of the mighty calamity hanging over
us, and that grim Death was even then
invisibly stalking in our midst to select his
victims. Suddenly Lilian exclaimed:
“God be thanked! they live!” and
overcome with joyful emotions, she could
only point her finger and faintly add:
“See! see!”
“Ay, thank God!' cried I, “they are
saved!” and I pointed to Charles and Evaline,
whom we now descried rushing down
the hill before us, followed by some fifteen
or twenty of the Mysterious Tribe.
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
Five minutes later, we stood clasping
each other, weeping and speechless with
joy.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE ESCAPE—RETURN TO THE FORT—JOY—
THE DEAD ALIVE — HOMEWARD BOUND—
THE ROUTE—REFLECTIONS—DESTINATION
GAINED—HAPPY MEETING.
It is unnecessary for me to dwell upon
this rapturous meeting, one of the most
joyful I had ever experienced. No one
can conceive our feelings, but such as have
been placed in like situations. Each party
had looked upon the other as dead, and
mourned their loss accordingly; and it
was with tears of gratitude for our deliverance
from an awful fate, that we narrated
to each other the manner of escape.
That of Charles and Evaline was briefly
as follows:
At the time they discovered the fire, they
were some four miles in our rear, and at
least two behind the hindmost of the party.
Made aware of their danger, they
sought to avert it by flight; and as the hill
behind them was the nearest elevated
point, they had striven to gain it in advance
of the flames. In this they had
been disappointed. The fire, driven by a
strong breeze of its own creating, rushed
forward with such frightful velocity, that
when within a mile or so of the desirable
point, they found, to their dismay and horror,
all hope of escape in that quarter cut
off.
“Imagine my feelings,” said Huntly, as
he told me the tale, “when, all hope of
escape over, I threw my arm around the
waist of Evaline, and pointing to the
flames, which, driven forward by a strong
breeze, had already passed the hill to the
westward and were fast sweeping around
to enclose it with a fiery wall—when, I
say, viewing all this, with the calmness of
utter despair, I whispered:
“`At least, dear Evaline, we will die
together.'
“`Rather say live together,' she exclaimed,
`if you have any means of striking
fire.'
“`Only a pistol,' I replied.
“`That will do,' she answered. `Quick!
let us dismount, tear up the grass around
us, and fire it.'
“In an instant,” pursued Huntly, “I
comprehended all; and springing from my
horse, with hope renewed, labored as a
man may, when his own life and that of
another more valuable are depending on
his exertions. In two minutes a small
spot was cleared, and placing my pistol
within a bunch of torn up grass, I fired.
The flash ignited it, and a bright flame
shooting upward, caught on all sides, and
sped away on its work of death, leaving a
blackened circle, within which we stepped
and remained unharmed, As soon as the
fire had passed, we remounted and dashed
over the heated earth to the hill before us,
where, like yourselves, we passed a terrible
night of agonized suspense. Not having
seen any signs of you or the rest of the
party during the day, we finally came to
the melancholy conclusion that all were
lost, and at daybreak this morning set off
for the Indian village with the heart-rending
intelligence. Some twenty of the tribe
at once volunteered to go back with us,
and on this sad journey we had already
set out, when, to our unspeakable joy, we
espied you galloping over the plain, and
hastened to meet you.”
“Strange!” said I, in reply, “that I
should have overlooked a means of escape
so simple as firing the prairie! It would
have saved a world of trouble; but from
the first I lost my presence of mind, and
thought of nothing but escape by flight.
Alas! for our companions! Have you
seen any of them, Charles?”
“Not one,” he answered with a sigh.
“Then I fear all have perished!”
“What are we to do under the circumstances?”
he inquired.
“Why, I think we had better set out
for Fort Laramie at once; for our friends
there, even now, are doubtless becoming
exceedingly uneasy at our long absence.”
“And leave the bones of our late companions
to bleach on the open prairie,
Frank?”
“No! We must get the Indians to
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
hunt up their bodies and give them decent
burial.”
This plan was finally adopted; and in
the course of a couple of hours we had again
parted with the Wahsochees, and were on
our return to the fort.
The journey proved a tedious one, for
all were sad and silent with gloomy
thoughts. Traveling some thirty miles
we encamped, and resuming our route the
next morning, reached the fort in the afternoon
of the same day.
As we rode into the area, the inmates
all rushed out to greet and welcome us,
and among them came Mrs. Huntly and
Madame Mortimer, almost frantic with
joy. At first we were at a loss to comprehend
the cause of this strong ebulition of
feeling; but did not long remain in ignorance;
for the next moment descrying two
of our late companions in the crowd, the
whole truth flashed upon us.
“Oh, my children! my children!” exclaimed
Mrs. Huntly; and overcome with
her feelings, she could only first clasp one
and then the other to her heart in silence.
“My daughters! and do I indeed see
you alive again?” cried Madame Mortimer,
pressing Eva and Evaline to her
panting breast. “Oh! could you but know
a mother's agony for the last twenty-four
hours, during which she has mourned you
as dead, you would never leave her again.”
But not to dwell upon this affectionate
meeting, it will only be necessary to state,
that two of the party whom we supposed
dead, had escaped, by flying from the field
and taking refuge on the ridge to the north.
Here they had paused for a few minutes,
to gaze upon the sublime scene of the
burning plain; and then, believing all save
themselves had perished, had made the
best of their way back to the fort and so
reported. No wonder, then, there was
surprise, and joy, and unusual commotion,
on beholding in us the dead alive, the lost
ones found.
The second day following our return,
we again set out on our homeward journey,
in company with a small party of
emigrants who had recently crossed over
the mountains from California. For several
days my friends and myself were unusually
thoughtful and serious; but as we
neared the confines of civilization, and felt
we were about to quit the wilderness,
with all its hardships and perils, to mingle
with scenes more suited to our tastes, our
spirits gradually grew buoyant with the
seemingly unalloyed happiness of youthful
days.
Never shall I forget the singular feelings
we experienced—I speak of Huntly
and myself—as we rode into the small
town of Independence, Missouri, and recalled
the many striking events of the long
period which had intervened since last we
beheld the place. Then giddy with the
wildness of youth—alone—free from restraint—
with no tie stronger than the filial,
binding us to any one particular spot—we
were just setting forth upon a new world
of adventure! Now, sobered by painful
experience, and in company with those we
loved, we were retracing our steps, perfectly
satisfied there was “no place like
home,” and no scenes so dear to us as
those of our native land. We had seen
danger in every form, suffered all that we
could suffer and live, had had our souls
tried by the sternest tests, been miraculously
preserved through all, blessed beyond
our deserts, and now felt contented
to leave the field forever, to such as might
fancy it, and retire to the sweet seclusion
of domestic life.
The countenance of Evaline, as day by
day we progressed toward the East, gradually
brightened with a sweeter happiness
than she had ever known—the happiness
of being with her mother and sister—of
knowing she was not a nameless being,
cast astray by some untoward freak of fortune—
of feeling she loved and was in turn
beloved. She was now entering a world
where everything, opening up new and
strange, filled her with wonder, excited her
curiosity, and kept her in a continual state
of pleased excitement. Eva was happy
in the company of one who could appreciate
her noble qualities, and lend her those
affectionate and tender sympathies which
the ardent soul ever craves, and without
which it languishes, and droops, and feels
there is a mighty void within. Lilian was
happy, and my vanity sometimes whispered
me a reason therefor. In sooth, by
the time we reached St. Louis, there was
not a sad heart in the party—unless, in a
reflective mood, a dark shadow from the
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
past might chance to sweep across it for a
moment—only, as it were, to make it seem
more bright in the glorious sunshine of the
present.
With what emotions of wonder and joy
did Evaline view those mighty leviathans,
that, by the genius and mechanism of man,
are made to play upon the mighty rivers
of the Great West, and bear him on his
journey as he passes to and fro to all portions
of the habitable globe! And then
the delight we all felt, as we glided down
the turbid waters of the great Mississippi,
and steered up the beautiful Ohio, past
villages, and towns, and cities, where the
pleasing hum of civilization, in every breast
save one, awoke sweet memories of former
days, and made our hearts bound with
pleasing anticipations of what was yet to
come.
On, on we swept up the Ohio, past the
flourishing cities of Louisville and Cincinnati,
(making only a short stay at each) to
that of Pittsburgh, where our steamer was
exchanged for another, that for the stage,
to bear us over the romantic Alleghanies,
and that in turn for the rushing car, to
land us in Baltimore, again in Philadelphia,
and lastly in that great emporium of
the western continent, New York. And
so on, on—ever changing, continually progressing—
toward the golden haven of our
desires—which, Heaven be praised! we at
last reached in safety.
During the latter part of the journey,
my feelings became very sad. I was nearing
the home of my youth—the abode of
my dearly-loved parents—after many long
years of painful and eventful separation.
What changes might not have occurred
in the interval! Changes, peradventure,
to rend my heart with anguish. My parents—
my affectionate mother—my kind
and indulgent father—how I trembled to
think of them! What if, as in the case
of my friends, one or both had been called
from the scenes of earth, and were now
sleeping their last sleep in the moldering
church-yard—never to bless me more with
the soft light of their benign eyes! Oh!
what a heart-sickening feeling, of almost
utter desoiation, the very thought of it
produced! until I forced myself to think
no more, lest I should lack physical strength
to bear me on to the knowledge I longed
yet dreaded to gain.
Pressing invitations from us, and I
scarcely need add a more eloquent persuasion
from the soft, dark eyes of another,
had induced Elmer Fitzgerald to extend
his journey a few hundred miles beyond
his original intention. Arrived in the city,
we all took rooms at a hotel, until such
time as we could notify our friends of our
presence—or rather, until I could see my
parents, if living, in advance of the others.
With a heart palpitating with hope and
fear, I hurried into a carriage, and ordering
the driver not to spare his horses,
leaned back on my seat, and gave myself
up to the most intense and painful meditations—
occasionally listening to the rumbling
of the swift whirling wheels, and
wondering when they would cease their
motion at their present destination — or
gazing from the window at the thousand
objects flitting past me, with that vague
look of the occupied mind, which takes in
each thing distinctly, and yet seems to see
nothing whatever.
“Crack went the whip, round went the
wheels,” and on we sped at the same rapid
pace. At length my attention was arrested
by objects familiar from my boyhood,
and my heart seemed to creep to my
throat, for I knew I was close upon the
mansion of my father. A few moments
of breathless suspense, and the carriage
stopped suddenly, the door swung open,
and, leaping out, I rushed up the steps
and into the dwelling of my parents.
Two minutes later, unannounced, I
stood in the presence of both, but saw I
was not recognized.
“Mother! father!” I cried, “have you
forgotten your long absent son?”
There was a brief moment of speechless,
joyful amazement, and the next I was
in my mother's arms, while my father
stood by, pressing my hand and weeping
as a child.
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
CHAPTER XXVI.
A GORGEOUS SCENE—THE MYSTERY SOLVED—
FORTUNE PROPITIOUS — HAPPINESS — THE
FINALE.
Reader! I am about to close—about to
present to you the last scene of scenes I
shall ever give of this my drama of life.
I am about to bid you farewell, perchance
forever. May I not trust we part as
friends?—as boon companions, who have
together made a long pilgrimage, with an
ever cordial attachment and friendly understanding?
From the land of my nativity,
you have followed me through a
period of years, over the wilderness of the
far, Far West, back again to my native
land. You have seen me in prosperity
and adversity—in sickness and health—in
moments of ease and safety—in moments
of hardship and peril—in the calmness
of quiet meditation, and amid the turmoil,
and strife, and din of battle. From first
to last, I have been ever present to you—
made you my confident—laid bare to your
gaze the secret workings of my ardent
spirit. May I not trust I have had your
sympathy? that you have felt an interest
in my fate, and also in the fate of those
with whom my fortune has been so closely
connected? Yes! I will trust we part
as friends—that when you have perused
the last page of this, my humble scroll,
you will not cast it aside, as altogether
worthless—that you will long after spare
me and my friends a single thought of
pleasing remembrance. I cannot see you—
cannot hear your answer—and yet something
whispers me it is as I desire — that
we shall not separate but with mutual regrets.
Be this as it may, the farewell
must be said—the solemn farewell—
“That word which must be and hath been—
That sound which makes us linger.”
It was a brilliant scene. In a large saloon,
made gorgeous with all the luxuries
wealth could procure from all parts of the
habitable globe—with soft carpets from
Turkey, antique vases from China, old
paintings from Germany, and statues from
Florence—with long hanging mirrors, that
doubled the splendors of the scene—with
chairs, and sofas, and ottomans, cushioned
with the softest and most costly of velvets—
with everything, in short, to please,
dazzle, and fascinate the eye—over which
streamed a soft, bewitching, alabaster
light—where strains of melodious music
stole sweetly upon the enraptured sense
of the hearer; in such a gorgeous apart
ment as this, I say, were collected bright
faces, sparkling eyes, snowy arms, and
lovely forms—set off with vestures of
broadcloths, and silks, and satins, and ornamented
with chains of gold, and jewels
of diamond, and ruby, and pearl, and sap
phire. Ay! in such a place as this—in
the mansion of my father—were assembled
the elite of Boston, to witness the
nuptials of Evaline and Charles, Eva and
Elmer, Lilian and myself.
Need I dwell upon the scene? Need I
say it was as happy as gorgeous? Need
I add, that the fair maidens, led to the
altar, looked more sweet and lovely than
any had ever before seen them? No! it
is unnecessary for me to enter into detail
here, for the quick perception of the reader
will divine all I would say. Enough,
that the rough scenes of the wilderness,
through which we had passed, could not
be more strongly contrasted than on this
never-to-be-forgotten occasion of unalloyed
happiness.
The solemn nuptial rite was followed
with congratulations — with music, and
dancing, and festivities—and it was long
past the noon of night, ere the well pleased
guests departed, and a small circle of
happy friends were left to themselves.
When all had at last become quiet, and
none were present but the newly married
and their nearest and dearest relatives:
“Now,” said Madame Mortimer, with a
bland smile, “to add pleasure to pleasure—
to make the happy happier — I have a
joyful surprise for you all.”
“Permit me to doubt,” said I, “if aught
any one can say, can in any degree add to
the happiness of those here present. I
look upon the thing as impossible. However,
I may be too confident; but, at least,
I speak for myself.”
“And yet,” pursued the other, smiling
archly, “would it not add pleasure even to
you, Francis, were I to tell you a dark
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
mystery has been cleared up, and a wrong
matter set right?”
“What mean you?” asked I, while the
rest turned to her with eager curiosity.
“What would you think, should I now
proceed to prove to you, my friends, that
the person you have long known as Madame
Mortimer, is from this time forth to
be known as Marchioness of Lombardy?”
“How? what? speak!” exclaimed one
and all in a breath.
“Ay, such is the fact. Since my return,
I have received letters from England
and France, stating that my late husband—
for he is now dead — was none other
than the Marquis of Lombardy, who was
banished from France for some state intrigue,
and afterward restored to favor.
Fearing, before his death, that some future
revolution might again endanger his property,
he managed to dispose of sufficient
to purchase a large estate in England,
which he has generously bequeathed to
me and my heirs forever. Accompanying
his will, which I have now in my possession,
is a long letter, in which he asks forgiveness
for the wrong he had formerly
done me in separation, and wherein he
states as a reason for never mentioning his
title, that at some future time he had designed
taking me by surprise; but that
the news of the restoration of himself and
fortune, coming at a moment when his
worst passions were excited, he had left
me in an abrupt manner, taking Evaline
with him, whom, he sorrowfully adds, was
afterward lost or murdered: that of this
foul deed he had always suspected a near
relation of his — a villain who brought
him the intelligence of his fortune being
restored — and that in consequence he had
taken what precautions he could, to put
his property, in case of his sudden decease,
entirely beyond the other's reach. This,
my friends, is all I will tell you to-night;
but to-morrow you shall have proofs of all
I have said. And now, my daughters,
that you are happily wedded, I give you
this estate as a marriage portion.”
I will not dwell upon the emotions of
joyful surprise which this revelation excited
in the hearts of those who heard it. Suffice,
that it did add pleasure to pleasure,
and made the happy happier.
A sentence more, and I have done.
The words of the Marchioness of Lombardy
were subsequently verified in every
particular, and Charles Huntly, and Elmer
Fitzgerald, have had no cause, thus far,
even in a pecuniary point of view, to regret
the choice they made in the wilderness
of the Far West. Propitious fortune
now smiles upon all, and all are happy.
Thus is it ever. To-day we rise—to-morrow
fall — to rise again perchance the
next. Prosperity and adversity are ever
so closely linked, that the most trivial event
may make or mar our happiness. The
Past we know — the Present we see — but
who shall say aught of the Future.
So ends the scene.
THE END.
|
