CHAPTER II. THE OLD TRAPPER.
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Years have glided down the stream of time into
the great ocean of the past, since I first bade adieu to
friends and home—years teeming with events that
stand out in my memory like mountains from a plain—
and yet vivid, as if they were of yesterday, is the
recollection of the sensations I experienced when first
rejoicing in the liberty for which my imprisoned
spirit had so ardently longed. The first keen mental
pangs of parting over, and I felt as if I had entered
upon a new existence. My soul seemed to soar into
boundless regions of eternal sunlight, and every nerve
thrilled with a rapture indescribable. With what
emotions did I view the scene below me from some
lofty summit of the Alleghanies! With what enchantment
did the picture of hill and vale and silver stream,
mellowed by distance, and reposing in a dreamy
atmosphere of blue, present itself to my vision! while
green leaves waved above me, bright flowers bloomed
beside me, and forest minstrels all around me filled
my ear with music! It was the spring of the year,
and the spring of my soul; and I looked up at the
bright sun, and inhaled the pure air, and thanked
God I had a conscious being among the beauties of
His creation.
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My journey to St. Louis was marked with no incidents
worthy of record. I formed no acquaintance
with any of my fellow travellers, and took no part nor
interest in the amusements with which many of them
whiled away a goodly portion of their time, as we
steamed down the beautiful Ohio and up the turbid
waters of the Mississippi. The time unoccupied by
sleep, I mostly spent on the upper deck, filled with a
delight that sought no vent in words, at the constant
change presented to my view. It seemed as if I could
never weary of the green lawns, the shady groves,
the gentle undulations, made picturesque by thriving
villages and solitary dwellings, which margined La
Belle Riviere for hundreds of miles; and even when
these charming scenes were lost, by entering upon
the Father of Rivers, I found a new source of delight
in the contemplation of that mighty body of water,
rolling on in stern, gloomy grandeur, year after year,
and age after age, unceasing, eternal, to mingle its
collected thousands of fresh water streams with the
briny waves of the Gulf.
I arrived at St. Louis much improved in health and
spirits. I felt that my journey, with change of clime
and scene, had infused a new life into my whole
being; and I only seemed to need the consent of my
parents to prolong that journey into the great wilderness
of the West, to render my happiness complete.
But could that consent be obtained? And if not,
should I venture to go without it? On leaving home,
as the reader knows, I had partially resolved not to
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return until I had in reality, as I often had in fancy,
visited the great prairies; and now I began to fear
lest the combined sin of filial disobedience and deception
should meet with a just retribution, and for
several days my mind was much troubled concerning
my future course. I could not bear the thought of
returning to the toil of a business unsuited to the
bent of my mind, and for which I felt a strong repugnance;
I did not believe my father would yield his
consent to the project I had in view, and which would
necessarily destroy his long-cherished hope; and to
act in disobedience to his wishes and commands,
seemed little short of a crime.
Under the circumstances, what was I to do? True,
I should soon be of age; a few more weeks, and I
should have a right, according to the laws of man, to
prosecute my desire; but should I have any more
right, according to the laws of God, to strain, if not
sever, the ties of parental affection, and add a heavy
weight of sorrow to the weight of years of those I
loved? No! I could not set forth into the wilderness
with a painful feeling of self-condemnation. Honor,
duty, gratitude and love demanded a sacrifice of my
selfish purpose—and I would make it. I would return—
I would relinquish my brightest hope, or
reserve my design for a more fitting period.
With this decision my mind became tranquil, and
I sought and found enjoyment in everything around
me. Now that I had removed the cloud from my
spirit, nature seemed to wear a more cheerful aspect.
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The sun shone brighter, the air grew purer, and the
breeze blew softer. I turned my eyes longingly
toward the west, sighed a farewell to my desire, and
believed I had conquered myself. Alas! how little
do we know ourselves! If it be true that we know
not our friends till we have tried them, it is equally
true that we know not the strength of our own resolves
till we have put them to the test.
My business with Willard & Brothers occupied a
portion of my time for a couple of weeks. During
that period, however, I had leisure to ramble about
the city and its environs; and when the ostensible
purpose for which I had left home was accomplished,
I found myself ready to set out upon my return.
With this view I one day repaired to the steamboat
landing, intending to select a boat to my liking, and
engaged a passage to Louisville or Cincinnati. As
chance, or fate, or Providence would have it—for by
some one of these terms we are wont to designate
whatever happens unexpectedly, or with that coincidence
which seems to tend to a mysterious design
and bears upon the supremacy of our present or
future good or ill—as chance would have it, I say, in
strolling along the landing, I espied a steamer about
to start on its periodical voyage up the Missouri, its
final destination being Fort Leavenworth. Without
the remotest intention of engaging a passage, and
only prompted by an idle curiosity, I stepped on
board. I found the firemen busy in engendering
steam, and learned that in the course of an hour the
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boat would be under way. Several passengers were
lounging about the decks and cabin, and among them
a few whose dress and appearance indicated a long
familiarity with the prairie and the wilderness.
Here then came temptation in another guise. Why
not extend my journey to the borders of that region
I so longed to explore? I could return with the boat,
and have plenty of time to reach home before my
birth-day. And besides, I fancied I could derive
much gratification, and increase my knowledge of
wild western life, by a conversation with men who
had spent years beyond the limits of civilization and
law, and who had perhaps seen the fierce savage on
his native soil and the wild beasts in their very lairs.
In short, I was resolved to go; and a few minutes sufficed
to put my baggage on the steamer, and within
an hour I was gliding up the great river on a still
westward journey.
It was natural, under the circumstances, that I
should seek an early occasion to form something of
an acquaintance with these daring and hardy borderers;
and for this purpose, as soon as the boat was
fairly under way, I descended to the lower deck,
where I found a single party, with a pack of greasy
cards, already deeply absorded in the popular game
of euchre, a small amount of money being staked, just
to make it interesting. They had drawn up some
salt bags for seats, around a box of goods, which
served them for a table, and were as intently engaged
as if life and death depended on the result—therefore
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it was out of the question for me to think of interrogating
them. A little further on was a small party
of soldiers, on their way out to the Fort, under the
charge of a very pompous little sergeant, who
seemed determined to keep them apart from all persons
not in the line military, and allow them as little
liberty as if on a regular drill. It was amusing to me—
though probably not to those to whom his word
was law—to see this little officer strutting about, and
occasionally giving orders to this one and that, with
the air of a general directing the movements of an
army. I could not avoid smiling at his peacock
attitudes; and chancing to observe me, he frowned as
heavily as his little forehead and thin eyebrows would
permit, and putting on some extra dignity, and crossing
his arms a la Napoleon, he remarked, in a general
way, though looking fiercely at me the while:
“It is a — pity that ignorant civilians have not
been under that system of discipline which teaches
every man to mind his own business!”
At this I laughed aloud, and attracted the attention
of the whole military corps. Some of the men smiled,
and gave me a mischievous wink, unseen by the pompous little sergeant, who immediately turned his
back upon me with an air of supreme contempt.
Near the stern of the boat was a party of German
emigrants, some forty in number—men, women and
children—on their way to take possession of a government
purchase, which in their hands would doubtless
become a thriving settlement in a few years. There
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were a few other rough specimens of the frontier,
lounging about in various attitudes; but none, save
the card-playing party, that seemed by their peculiar
dress and appearance to be familiar with that life in
the remote wilderness which for me had all the attractions
of genuine romance, and concerning which I was
so eager to obtain further information.
After sauntering up and down the after deck some
two or three times, to the no small annoyance of my
particular friend, the little sergeant—who, in seamen's
phrase, took care to give me a wide berth—I finally
seated myself near the players, and carefully scanned
their dress and equipments—in which, for reasons
already stated, I found myself far more deeply interested
than in the fluctuations of a game I did not
understand.
These mountaineers, as I will term them—for under
this term are generally classed all those who live a
free, roving life beyond the settlements, whether professional
hunters, trappers, traders, or guides—these
mountaineers, I say, were four in number, and were
all distinguished by that costume which has become
a peculiarity of these wilderness-wanderers, who
oftener see the moving villages of the savages, than
the stationary villages of those of their own blood and
race. As many of them are, in fact, only so many
connecting links between the white man and the red, so
their dress partakes something of the character of
both civilization and barbarism; and one description,
with perhaps a trifling variation, the result of some
whim of the owner, will answer for the whole class.
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A hunting shirt of dressed buckskin, ornamented
with long fringes, covers the breast and arms, and
descends to about half way between the hip and
knee. This is left full and loose about the breast and
shoulders, but tightened around the waist by a strong
belt, either of the same material, black leather, or
wampum, as the taste of the wearer may decide. This
belt generally supports a sheath of buffalo hide, into
which is thrust a large hunting-knife, with the haft
most convenient to the hand; and a little buckskin
case, containing a whetstone, is also considered an
indispensable attachment. His powder-horn and bulletpouch—
in which latter he carries his balls, flint, steel,
et cetera—are supported under his right arm, by a
belt passing transversely across his breast and back
and over his left shoulder; and around his neck is
suspended his pipe-holder, not unfrequently the
wampum-worked keepsake of some love-stricken Indian
maid. His pantaloons, also of dressed buckskin,
are ornamented, down the outside of the legs, with
porcupine quills and long fringes, and a flexible felt
hat and moccasins complete his singular attire. A
long, heavy rifle is his never-failing accompaniment;
and sometimes a brace of pistols and a tomahawk are
added for defence.
For some half an hour, I sat and watched the four
hardy and weather-browned mountaineers, as they
continued to play at what an old gentleman, who had
been fleeced by some gamblers, once very truthfully
described to his son, as “a most infernal game, in
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which the jack takes the ace.” It was interesting to
watch the expressions which made joyous or doleful
the faces of the players, as the game continually alternated
in favor of an opponent; and the eagerness with
which success was hailed by the different parties,
showed clearly that each considered his reputation at
stake as well as his money. They said little, but they
looked volumes.
Two of the party were comparatively young men,
their ages ranging from twenty-five to thirty; but the
other two were verging upon fifty, and had evidently
seen hard service; for their well-tanned skins showed
more than one broad scar, to which evidently belonged
a thrilling tale of desperate encounter with
man or beast. Oh! how impatient was I to get these
old mountaineers into conversation! for to my natural
desire for a description of the wild life beyond the
borders, was added a very troublesome curiosity to
know something of their personal history. But as it
was folly to expect them to quit a game of such exciting
interest, to gratify the whim of a stranger they
had not yet noticed in any way, and as others, some
boat hands and some passengers, began to collect
around them, actuated by an entirely different
curiosity than mine, I concluded to withdraw and
abide an auspicious opportunity.
I therefore strolled to the forward deck, intending
to amuse myself by looking up the broad river; but
what was my surprise and delight, to find here another
mountaineer, sitting cross-legged upon the floor,
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and busily engaged in repairing a half worn-out
moccasin!
Here was the very opportunity for a private conversation
which I had so much desired, and it may
readily be believed I lost no time in addressing him.
Gently dropping down by his side, in a careless attitude,
I said, in a very bland tone:
“Pardon me, sir, if I intrude upon you; but really,
I have a great curiosity concerning all that pertains
to one of your profession.”
The old trapper, for such he was—old at least in
experience, and his age could not have been less than
fifty—the old trapper, I say, raised his head slowly,
and presented to my view a face, which, had I never
seen it again, I should never have forgotten. Its
color was a dark, dingy red; and over the lower
part were patches of coarse, grizzly beard, which
seemed to be making desperate efforts to keep neighborly,
and overshadow several very frightful-looking
scars. One corner of his mouth was drawn down in
a very comical way; and two round white spots, one
on either cheek, showed where a bullet had passed
through, performing a very sudden, but none the less
disagreeable, dental operation. The tip of his nose
had been chipped off, one eye gouged out, and a long
scar, across the base of the forehead, made a very
ugly substitute for eyebrows. His one eye was small,
shrewd, black and keen; and this took a very careful
survey of my features and person, before its owner
deigned to honor me with a reply. Meantime, I
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glanced from his face to his hands, which were dingy,
rough and scarred—and I further noticed that he was
lank, bony, and muscular—being altogether, as I
thought, a pretty hard specimen of an Indian fighter,
but certainly no Apollo.
“Stranger,” he said at length, in a very queer tone—
for the accidents of his life had evidently injured his
voice, which seemed to be pitched upon a key between
a squeal and a grunt—“Stranger, whar do you hail?”
“You wish to know my native place?” I said, inquiringly.
“Rayther.”
“I was born in Philadelphia.”
He gave a grunt and resumed his work.
“I see you are repairing your moccasins, probably
for another long journey into the wilderness?” I
resumed, determined to draw him into conversation.
This time he did not even grunt, but continued his
work, without taking any further notice of me. Well,
thought I, this is a very interesting beginning, and if
I keep on, I shall perhaps be as wise as when I left
home. I felt a little nettled, and made my next
remark rather pointed.
“Is it a fact, that a life in the wilderness transforms
a gentleman into a boor?” I inquired.
His one eye slowly left his work, and, beginning at
my feet, continued its survey upward, till it reached
my face, where it seemed to fasten, while the lips
articulated:
“Stranger, what's the sign?”
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“I don't understand you,” I replied.
“A draw-game, then, by —!” he rejoined, again
resuming his occupation.
Determined not to be baffled in this way, I said,
rather sharply:
“Will you, or will you not, answer a few civil
questions?”
“What for?”
“For my gratification.”
“Your what?”
“For my gratification. I have a strong desire to
hear something about the wilderness, from one who,
like yourself, has evidently spent much of his life there.”
“Kin you wet?” he inquired, with a sly look from
his one eye.
“Can I wet.”
“Expect.”
“Please explain your singular expression.”
“A dry mouth wets. Augh!”
“Oh, you wish me to stand treat?”
“Rayther.”
“By all means; what will you drink?”
“Half a pint.”
“Of what?”
“Red-eye.”
“What is that?”
“Whiskey.”
“Certainly,” said I; and hurrying to the bar in
the saloon, I procured a tumbler full of his favorite
beverage, and returned to my eccentric friend.
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His eye glistened as he received it; and putting
the glass to his lips, one half of the contents suddenly
disappeared. With a satisfied grunt, he placed the
tumbler on the deck; and then turning to me, with a
half-sympathetic, half-quizzical expression, he said:
“Stranger, you're decent, but powerful green.”
I hardly knew whether to get angry or not; but
finally forced out a laugh, though I did not see the
joke.
“I trust, with the aid of the liquor,” I said, “you
will be able to overlook my imperfections.”
“Right, thar, stranger—your decency shall kiver
your greenness to old One-Eyed. Blaze away!”
“To begin, then, what is your profession?”
“What this hyer old nigger does to fill his meattrap,
d'ye mean?”
“Yes.”
“I cotch beaver, and raise ha'r.”
“What kind of hair—beaver's?”
“No, Injin's. You'll spile, stranger, you will—
chaw me.”
“Never mind me,” I said, rather testily; “I may
be green in your eye, but I flatter myself I am not a
fool for all that.”
“Some'at to punks in your natyve village, hey?”
he replied, with a quizzical grin.
“I think so, at all events.”
“Expect.”
“Can you not tell me something about the prairies—
their grandeur and beauty?” I continued.
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“I goes under thar, stranger—haint the needful. I
kin throw a red-nigger, or a bull buffler, at long
range, and set a beaver trap to the next; but hyer's a
coon as al'ays gins in when it kims to the fancy.
Augh!”
“That is your green spot then,” I said, mischievously.
“Wall, it mought be,” he replied, with a goodnatured
laugh, taking up the tumbler; “but this
hyer old one-eyed nigger won't spile—nary once—
chaw me!”
“Not if whiskey can save you,” I rejoined, as he set
down an empty glass. “I must tell you,” I proceeded,
“I have for years felt a strong desire to visit the
great wilderness of the West; and everything that
pertains to that vast region has for me a romantic
fascination.”
“Stranger, you're right thar,” returned the old
trapper, with something like enthusiasm. “You're
right thar, younker, and old One-Eyed Sam'll gamble
on to that. The perrairie and mountains is the only
spots whar a feller kin git fresh air; and him as haint
lived thar, haint lived no whar—but has jest smoked
it out in the settlements. Augh! how I hate them
brick and mortar fixings—cramping a feller up so's
he has to grow crooked, and can't lay straight to
nights. Stranger, I never seed St. Louey, that I
didn't wonder how sich a heap of infernal scamps and
fools got planted together fur a choke. Augh!”
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“And yet St. Louis is a small city, compared with
Philadelphia,” said I.
“ 'Tis, hey?” he replied, looking wistfully at the
empty tumbler. “Wall, stranger, I'd jest like to wet
agin on to your good sense in putting out.”
“Oh, by all means!” returned I, laughing; and I
hastened to procure another half pint.
“Younker,” he said, as he again received the full
tumbler from my hands, “if it wasn't fur this hyer,
old One-Eyed Sam 'ud spile every time he seed them
thar — brick cabins, sure;” and down went the first
half of the fiery and exhilarating contents. “Augh!”
he pursued, smacking his lips; “that thar's the stuff;
and a few stiffs to them al'ays fotches old Sam on to
his pegs. So Phila-what-d'ye-call-it, beats St. Louey,
hey?”
“As six to one.”
“That's all right, expect—but hyer's a beaver as
don't see the sign—nary once. Augh!”
“Well, then, to give you an illustration that you
will understand,” I rejoined, “Philadelphia is as
much superior to St. Louis, in point of size, as six
half pints of whiskey are to one.”
The old trapper eyed me sharply for a while, as if
he thought I might be playing upon his credulity;
and then, apparently satisfied of my sincerity, he
scratched his head and looked puzzled. At length he
rejoined:
“Wall, chaw me up fur a liar, ef I kin see how you
all draw breath thar, and git your feed. Now to this
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hyer old hoss, what's used to stretching my legs and
swinging my arms, without kicking and hitting nobody,
this hyer country feels orful close—some'at to
a b'ar-hug; but penned up whar you tell me about,
I'd strangulate; ef I wouldn't, why war cubs made?”
“I suppose you are now on your way to the wilderness?”
I said, inquiringly.
“You kin gamble on to that thar.”
“Are you in company with the party playing cards
yonder?”
“Nary once. I've got a pardner though, but old
Brimstone hisself couldn't fotch him nigh a city. He
thinks he's gwine to spile whensomever he gits to
Independence; and ef thar's business to St. Louey,
I've got to do the tramp alone. Augh!”
“How long have you been in the beaver trade?”
“Six foot one.”
“No, I mean how many years?”
“Wall, chaw me up fur a liar, ef I don't expect I
went in the next day arter I was born—leastways, ef
I didn't, I mought hev did it, fur anything I kin remember
about it now.”
“I see, by your scars, you have been through some
perilous scenes.”
“Why, yes, stranger, I've fit in, and fit out, a few,
you kin gamble on to that; but I tell you what it is,
no — red nigger ever raised my h'ar—though I've
took top-knots enough to make a lariat on—I hev—
chaw me!”
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“I should be delighted to hear you describe one of
your fights with the Indians—Will you gratify me?”
“Whar you bound?”
“Just making a trip to Fort Leavenworth.”
“Ef you has sich a like for the perraries, why don't
you jest sun yourself out thar?”
“I should like to do so, but my father would not
give his consent.”
One-Eyed Sam gave a contemptuous grunt, and rejoined:
“At your time I hadn't no master. Augh!”
“My father is not my master,” I replied, quickly,
feeling a good deal nettled; “but I respect and love
him, and therefore would do nothing to displease him,
or cause him sorrow.”
“Every body to thar likes, but the wilderness for
this hyer nigger!” responded my new acquaintance.
“And for me, too, could I have my wish,” said I.
“How old, younker?”
“Almost twenty-one.”
“Fust time out hyer?”
“Yes.”
“And never seed a perrarie?”
“Never.”
“Never 'mongst bufflers?”
“Never.”
“Never raised h'ar?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Scalped a Injin.”
“Never.”
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“Then, stranger, you hain't lived, and you is only
fit for wolf-meat. Augh!”
Strange as it may seem, I felt lowered in my own
estimation by this reply of the old trapper; for I saw
that, from his point of observation and calculation, I
was a mere cipher in existence. His world was the
wilderness, beyond which there was nothing worth
living for; and however much superior I might be to
him in my own peculiar sphere, yet in all that pertained
to his, I was forced to acknowledge my
inferiority, and I did it with a conscious blush of
shame. At home I should have looked upon him as
a human curiosity—rough, low-bred, and vulgar, in
whom the animal greatly predominated over the
intellectual—and, as such, scarcely worth more regard
than a half-civilized Indian—between whom, and one
of my education, there could be no comparison that
would do him credit; but here, bordering on a country
where the animal and its instincts, united with physical
force, held a supremacy over inexperience of
peril and the knowledge gained from books, I was
humiliated at the reflection that there was not a single
event in my even, monotonous, city life, the relation
of which would excite his admiration; while he, on
the contrary, as proclaimed by his disfiguring scars,
was the envied hero of perhaps a hundred bold
encounters, whose simple narration would cause my
hair to rise, and the blood to leap through my veins
with a wild thrill.
He noticed my confusion, and saw that I felt the
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sting of his remark; and with a delicacy for which I
had not given him credit, he promptly added:
“But I sees you've got grit and speret, boy; and
ef I only had you out with me for one tramp, I could
larn ye some'at, and make ye useful.”
“And how far are you going?” I eagerly inquired,
feeling strongly tempted to break my last resolution,
and not return till I could speak from experience of
life in the Far West.
“Jest over a piece fur now.”
“And when do you expect to return?”
“Thar I goes under. Dont like this hyer country,
no how. Augh!”
“Are you going alone?”
“Me and Jake Stericks is all—him as is to Independence—
my pardner.”
“Would you take me along?”
“Jest to keep you from spyling.”
“But could I get back by fall?”
“Expect.”
“I could join some party on their return?”
“Expect.”
“Will you pass any of the forts?”
“Bent's.”
“I am tempted to accompany you as far as there,
at all events,” said I.
“Green, but kin be seasoned!” was the sententious
rejoinder of One-Eyed-Sam, as he raised the tumbler,
with a nod and a leer, and sent the remainder of the
pint past the bullet marks.
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CHAPTER III. A NEW FRIEND.
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It is fair to conclude, from my own experience in
observing the different grades of the genus homo, that
one pint of whiskey in a human being will either
make him very loquacious, or seal up his organs of
speech. Much to my chagrin, the effect of my liberality
on One-Eyed Sam was of the latter kind; for
from the moment the last drop disappeared, he became
very stupid, and I could get no further rational
answers to my questions. But he had started an idea
in keeping with my desire, which I felt there could
be no harm in giving serious consideration; and so I
left him, and repaired to my state-room, where, stretching
myself in my berth, I held quite an argument with
myself, concerning the propriety of extending my
travels beyond the limits I had laid down in my mind
at the time of taking passage on board the boat which
was now bearing me further from home. The first
thing I considered was, the anxiety with which my
father would look for my return, and the disappointment
he would experience in not having me present
at the time he had appointed for his emancipation
from the cares of a long mercantile life; and secondly,
how I could avoid being present on my birth-day,
and not have a too serious account to settle with my
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conscience. I could write to him and say, that my
health not being perfectly restored—which was true—
I had thought it best, all things considered, to take
a trip across the prairies, intending to be absent only
the summer season, and reach home early in the fall;
and having got my conscience to side with me in this
arrangement, I leaped from my berth, and hastened
to execute the letter-writing portion of my new-formed
design.
I dated my letter on board the steamer Missouri;
and, after entering into a good deal of round-about
detail, came to the important point, and supported it
with so much logical force, that I was quite surprised
myself, on reading it over, to perceive how strong a
case I had made out in my own favor, and how discreetively
and reasonably I had met all objections
which might, could, would, or should be raised
against my doing exactly as I desired. Having
finished, read, and superscribed the epistle, I held
another very anxious debate with myself as to whether
I should send it or not. I could step on shore, at
some of the villages on the route, and put it in the
post; but as I already began to suspect myself of
being rather fickle-minded, I thought it advisible to
keep it in my possession till such time as I should
arrive at a positive decision.
It will thus be seen, that, having surmounted the
one great obstacle to the gratification of my desire,
conscientious scruples, I had rather a down-hill path
to travel; and once started, I moved over the ground
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with accelerated motion. I was not wanting in means,
for I had reserved from my collections in St. Louis
sufficient to meet all contingencies; and a little persuasion,
which I soon received from an unexpected
source, settled the matter, and entirely changed the
career which my father, if not Providence, had marked
out for me.
The state-rooms, so termed, of the Western steamers,
are small apartments, entered from a long, general hall,
or saloon, and contain two berths; so that, when the
boat is full, each traveller has one room-mate at least—
who may be a personal friend or acquaintance—or,
if travelling without company, an entire stranger. As
I was travelling alone, the individual allotted an equal
right and share in my sleeping apartment, was a person
I had not seen at the time of writing the letter to
my father; but on entering my state-room an hour
subsequent to that important event, I found a pale,
delicate-looking young man seated on the lower berth,
with a recently published map of the territories spread
out across his knees, and over which his dark, bright
eye was languidly wandering. On perceiving me, he
slowly raised his head, made a slight salutation, and
commenced refolding the map.
“Pardon me,” said I; “but as I am about half-resolved
to travel over a portion of the country which
you have mapped out before you, I should like to
glance at the land-marks there laid down.”
“It is very imperfect, sir, I am told,” he replied, as
he handed me the map; “but it is the best I could
-- 075 --
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procure. To what part of the territories, if I may
make so bold, are you bound?”
“I have not positively decided on going beyond
the settlements,” I answered; “but I have a strong
inclination to venture across the prairies to Bent's
Fort, merely for change of scene, and to gratify my
curiosity concerning a part of the world which has
long held a prominent place in the picture gallery of
my mind.”
“Have you selected your companions for the journey?”
he inquired, with some interest.
“No! on the contrary, as I said before, I am still
hesitating about the propriety of going myself.”
“I hope you will decide on going, and that you will
allow me to accompany you,” said the young man
earnestly, a faint flush tinging his wan cheek.
“It is your intention, then, to cross the plains to
Bent's Fort?” I inquired, with increased interest in
my room-mate.
“It is my intention to spend one season among the
mountains, if God sees fit to preserve me that long,”
was the solemn reply; and, as he spoke, he coughed
two or three times, in that short, dry, hacking manner
peculiar to persons afflicted with pulmonary disease.
“You are in bad health, I perceive.”
“Yes,” he sighed; “and I have set out on a
perilous journey, for the purpose of prolonging my
life. I have been told that consumptive patients, after
having been given over by physicians as incurable,
have been restored to health by a year's sojourn in
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the pure, bracing airs of the Rocky Mountains: I am
about to make the trial—but what the result will be
God only knows! I trust it will be favorable—for
much do I now desire to live; but if otherwise, I must
say, `God's will be done!' even though my bones
bleach in the wilderness, afar from the quiet churchyard
where they should repose.”
“And have you actually set out alone on this long
journey?” I inquired.
“Yes, I am alone; and that is why I so earnestly
desire the company of one in whom I can confide.
You, sir, are a stranger to me; and yet I seem to
know you as one who has a noble and sympathetic
heart—as one whose spirit answers to the yearnings
of mine for a true companion. This suddenly formed
opinion may seem strange to you; and I am unable
to give a satisfactory reason for it myself—for my
natural disposition is to be reserved, except toward
those I have tried and most highly esteem. I see I have
excited your curiosity to know something more of
one, in whom, as every expression of your countenance
betrays, you already take more than a passing interest.
Sit down—I will tell you in brief something of my
history—for I feel it is important that we know more
of each other.
“My name is Alfred Varney. I am twenty-four
years of age, and was born in a midland county of
the State of Tennessee. My father was a planter of
some note—for several years a member of the Legislature—
but died when I was quite young. An
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expensive lawsuit, the particulars of which I need not
relate, subsequently absorbed all the property he left
behind him; and my mother and myself, her only
child, would have been left in destitute circumstances,
had not a wealthy relative generously stepped forward,
and, partly by persuasion and partly by force,
put her again in possession of a competency. I was
sent to college, and graduated, in my twenty-first
year, full of honors; but it may be those honors will
cost me my life; for hard study seems to have planted
the seeds of disease in a constitution never remarkably
strong.
“My collegiate course finished, I went to reside
with my mother, and remained with her till her
death, which took place something more than a year
ago. Grief for her loss prostrated me for several
months; and when at last I began to recover from
the first heart-rending pang, I found myself attacked
with a cough, which my family physician informed
me proceeded from a serious affection of the lungs.
He ordered me to travel, and I was nothing loath to
take his advice—for there was no longer any tie to
bind me to the place of my nativity, and I felt the
need of change of scene to relieve the mind if not the
body. I repaired to New Orleans, and thence set sail
for Havana, where I spent the winter. But I grew
worse instead of better; and believing my time of
departure from this world to be near at hand, I
decided upon returning to the land of my birth, that
my bones might rest in the quiet churchyard, beside
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those of my honored father and dearly beloved
mother.
“One leaving Havana, I had no desire but to reach
home and die. The world looked gloomy to me—I
had firm faith in a better beyond—and my soul yearned
for that eternal reunion with those I loved, for which
all good Christians hope and pray. How trivial an
incident—trivial perhaps to all save those whom it
affects as a Providence, or a destiny—may change the
whole current of our feelings, causing the hopes and
desires that were setting strongly onward toward eternity,
to flow backward upon time, like the waters of
a rushing stream when suddenly obstructed. On the
passage to New Orleans, I one day chanced to perceive
a very beautiful young lady, standing on the
poop, near the taffrail, with a glass in her hand, through
which she appeared to be scanning some distant
object. There was a heavy sea, and the vessel was
rolling and pitching in a manner that should have
warned her that her position was one of peril. Yet,
careless of her footing, she stood, absorbed in her
view, heedless of danger. Life, though of little
account to me, was doubtless of much to her; and
impulsively I moved toward her, for the purpose of
giving her a timely caution. I had scarcely taken
three steps, when a sudden lurch of the vessel prostrated
me, and at the same moment a shriek of despair
pierced my very soul. I looked up, and to my horror
perceived that the young lady had disappeared. I
was a good swimmer, my life I did not value, and I
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hastened to her assistance. The cry of `A lady overboard!'
had scarcely resounded, when I leaped over
the taffrail into the crested waves, and reached the
object of my solicitude just as she was disappearing.
It was a hard struggle to keep her and myself above
water till a boat came to our assistance—but I succeeded
in my effort, and she was saved.
“She proved to be the daughter, and only surviving
child, of an immensely wealthy Louisiana sugarplanter;
and when she was placed in the arms of her
nearly distracted father, I thought he would go mad
with joy. His gratitude for the service I had rendered
knew no bounds. He hugged me in his arms
till I gasped for breath, shook my hands till I feared
he would dislocate the bones, and then informed me
that an ample fortune was at my disposal. I replied
that I was already more than repaid for the little I
had done, and that, having means wherewith to live
comfortably the brief period allotted me, a fortune
could add nothing to my happiness. The state of my
health excited his deepest sympathy; and after some
inquiries into my history, he said I must go home
with him, and he would consult some of the best
physicians in the country in regard to my case. I
would have declined his invitation, but he would take
no refusal; and so I consented, on condition that, if I
died on his premises, he would have my remains
interred beside those of my ancestors.
“The day following, I was introduced to his
daughter as the preserver of her life. She took my
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hand, and in a tremulous voice, with tearful eyes,
thanked me from her heart; and added, looking
upward, with the rapt, holy and touching expression
of the Madonna:
“`May God reward you, when you stand in His
glorious presence!'
“As this holy invocation passed her lips, I felt a
strange thrill pervade my whole being—a sensation as
of something unearthly communing with my spirit,
and saying:
“`Live, Alfred, for her—for she was born for
thee!'
“This might have been fancy, a freak of the senses,
and it might have been something more—I do not
know. I was excited, but weak in body; and how
much involuntary power the mind in such a case may
possess, it is not for me to say. It came as a reality,
palpable to the senses, was felt through the innermost
recesses of my soul, and left on me an impression of
something superhuman. I am not naturally superstitious;
but I believe the spirit exists after the death
of the body; and it is reasonable to suppose it may,
through some law not generally understood, make
itself manifest to the spirit still in its earthly tabernacle.
That it has done so, we have the solemn affirmation
of the righteous ones of old, and the testimony
of thousands who have lived since. But I am wearying
you, and I promised to be brief.”
“No! no! go on—I am deeply interested,” said I.
“I wish,” continued Varney, “I could picture to
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you the appearance of the beautiful being who stood
before me, as she thus invoked my eternal happiness!
But I cannot. Words are inadequate to the portrayal,
and I am wanting in that power of words which limns
to the imagination as the artist to the sight. Call up
your ideal of something holy and beautiful, transfused
with inspired devotion, and let that suffice. From
that moment I date my acquaintance with the lovely
being I had saved from a watery grave; from that
moment I date a friendship eternal through its purity;
from that moment I date the knowledge of a love
which sees a universe of happiness with the object
which inspired it, and which, from its very nature,
must be as undying and enduring as the Great Source
of all good. From that moment I no longer desired
death; but ever since a silent and incessant prayer
has gone up for life—for life in the mortal state—for
life in a world I was longing to bid farewell.
“Let me hasten to a conclusion. I have not spoken
so much for days, and already I feel the debilitating
effects of over-exertion. The gnawing of the worm at
the seat of life warns me to cease—for every word
seems to feed the foe I dread. I accompanied General
Edwards and his lovely daughter to their splendid
home, and remained their guest for several weeks.
Everything was done for me that humanity could
suggest; and though at first my health seemed to
improve, I soon discovered it was only one of the
illusions of a disease that flatters with hope while grim
death stands by and strengthens his relentless grasp.
-- 082 --
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A slight cold at length prostrated me, and my attending
physician gave it as his opinion that I could not
long survive in a southern latitude.
“`Is there no hope for me, Doctor?' I one day
inquired, in a despairing tone—for while the lovely
Mary Edwards lived, the very thought of death made
me shudder.
“`There is a last resort,' he answered, `which I
have heard of as being efficacious in cases similar to
yours; but I only speak from hearsay, and must admit
that I think the remedy as fearful as the disease.'
“`Name it, Doctor?' said I, eagerly.
“`A year's residence among the Rocky Mountains.'
“A ray of hope broke in upon me, and my resolution
was instantly taken.
“`I will make the trial,' was my reply; `for it can
be but death at last.'
“I mentioned my design of speedily setting out for
the Far West, to General Edwards, and he tried to
dissuade me from making the rash attempt.
“`You may die on the journey,' he said, with feeling,
`and have not a single friend by to speak a
consoling word.'
“`Then know,' I rejoined, `my last prayer shall be
for you and yours, and that shall be my consolation
on the verge of eternity.'
“In a few days I bade my new friends a solemn
adieu, as one who might never look upon them again
in mortal life. Mary wept freely, her father was
deeply affected, and I tore myself away with an aching
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heart. The general sent me in his carriage to the
river landing, some ten miles distant from his plantation;
but ere I reached my first destination, a
mounted negro overtook me, and placed in my hands
a sealed note. I knew the writing, and eagerly tore
it open. It read:
“`I shall never cease to remember and pray for the
preserver of my life. God bless, preserve and restore
you. Shall I ever hear from you again?
`Mary.'
“There was the trace of a single tear on the page,
and I felt that every word came from her gentle
heart.”
Here the narrator paused, apparently exhausted by
his effort in speaking, and evercome by mingled
emotions of pleasure and pain. Recovering himself,
he added, in a feeble tone:
“My story is ended. You see me thus far on a
journey that may be my last. Why have I made you,
a stranger, my confidant? I have spoken from an
impulse almost foreign to my nature, and I am surprised
at myself.”
“Your confidence, Mr. Varney, has made me your
friend,” said I, taking his thin, transparent hand in
mine, and giving it a gentle pressure. “You shall
now hear my story, and then I will take counsel of
you as to whether I shall return to my native city, or
extend my journey, as your companion, to the rocky
steeps of the great wilderness.”
In as few words as I could, I now made him
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acquainted with my early history, the hopes and
expectations of my father, my own desires, how I came
to leave home, my subsequent anxieties—in short, all
I have laid before the reader.
“And now,” I said, in conclusion, “what do you
advise me to do?”
“My friend,” he said, “as much as I desire your
companionship, I would not advise you to do what
you think is wrong. If you go, you will disappoint
your father; if you return, you will make yourself
unhappy with regrets. The only moral point which
I perceive is, whether it is right to gratify your father
or yourself—for whichever is done, will be at the expense
of the other. It seems you have faithfully
served your father the term allotted him by law and
custom, and it is certainly your right, as a responsible
man, to dispose of the remainder of your time as you
think best. It is therefore not a question of obligation,
but of affection and inclination; and as they draw
different ways, I would rather you should decide for
yourself. One thing I may venture to add—I do not
think your father would have carried out the wishes
of his father, had they been repugnant to his own.”
I read him the letter I had just written, and asked
his opinion of that.
“You have certainly made out a very strong case
for yourself,” he replied; “the arguments preponderate in your favor.”
“Are they substantial and just?” I inquired.
“They appear so to my view.”
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“Then,” said I, grasping his hand, “the matter is
settled. I will go with you.”
His hollow cheek flushed, and his bright eye
glistened, as he rejoined:
“Thank God! I am no longer alone, and have a
friend in my companion!”
CHAPTER IV. PREPARATIONS FOR OUR JOURNEY.
Having arrived at a final decision, my mind once
more became tranquil. I took an early opportunity
to post my letter, and then busied myself in making
calculations and arrangements for my long journey.
My new friend and I kept together the remainder of
the day, and talked over our plans, hopes, and anticipations,
till a late hour of the night. However much
he might have been improved in spirits by my company,
he was certainly not benefitted in body by the
fresh excitement and the unusual task upon his conversational
powers. On retiring to rest, his cough
became very troublesome; and the next morning I
found him quite feverish and unrefreshed—so much
so, that I insisted upon his remaining in his berth till
noon.
“I fear, my dear friend,” he said, in a dejected,
melancholy tone, “I have set out too late.”
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He certainly did not look as if he could bear the
fatigue and excitement of a long, hard and perilous
journey beyond the comforts of civilization—exposed
to all the change of atmosphere and climate, heat and
cold, a scorching sun, damping dews, and drenching
rains—to say nothing of a thousand other inconveniences,
privations, and troubles, which often break
down the hardiest constitutions; but I spoke encouragingly,
and cheered him as much as lay in my
power.
In person, Alfred Varney was of medium height,
slender, and gracefully formed. In health, his limbs
had been plump and round—the bones being small,
with very little display of muscle. His complexion
would have been termed dark—for such was the
color of his hair and eyes—but his skin had always
been remarkably clear and white; and now, under
the effects of his disease, it had a pearly hue, with a
kind of alabaster transparency. His face was oval,
with fine, regular features, which only required the
freshness and plumpness of health to render them
extremely handsome; and even sunken and wasted
as they were, there was still a fascination in their
bright intellectuality—for the soul seemed to permeate
the whole countenance with its light, as the rays of
the sun do a gossamer cloud. His dark hair slightly
curled above a broad, high, white forehead; he had a
full, clear, expressive, pleasant, and winning eye, and
a mouth and chin of decided character—the former
containing two rows of white, even teeth, and the latter
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
being almost beardless, and cleanly shaved. As I
contemplated his now emaciated form, going rapidly
downward, with scarcely a ray of hope to strengthen
his spirit against his disease, and pictured to myself the
happiness which lay before him, could he only regain
the health which had once been his, I turned away
with a saddened heart, and silently and secretly
prayed for his recovery.
Descending to the lower deck, I found the old
trapper seated on a coil of rope, near the bow, quietly
smoking his pipe, and listlessly watching the blue
vapor, as it slowly curled and lazily ascended in the
clear morning air.
“Well,” said I, “I find you enjoying yourself this
fine morning.”
“Augh!” he grunted; “d'ye call this hyer fun,
snagging it up the Missouri, on this — old grunting
boat? Chaw me up for a liar, ef I wouldn't rayther
be picketed to a rattlesnake's den. Yes, sir-ee! Augh!
wagh! shagh! Wall, hoss, how goes it? Got over
your drunk, hey?”
“The very words which might, with more propriety,
be addressed to you,” said I.
“Expect.”
“When I left you yesterday, the pint appeared to
be your master.”
“I looked drunk to you, hey?”
“You certainly did.”
“Wall, you did to old One-Eyed—so we're quits
thar. Augh!”
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“But as both are sober now,” returned I, laughing,
“suppose we talk rationally.”
“Blaze away.”
“You intend to cross the prairies to Bent's Fort?”
“Beyond, boy.”
“You will take the fort in your route?”
“Expect.”
“You said something yesterday about permitting
me to accompany you as far as there.”
“Rayther.”
“You are still of the same mind?”
“You kin gamble on to it.”
“Do you expect to travel fast?”
“Some'at.”
“Do you intend to join any large party?”
“Nary once.”
“You have one companion, I think you said?”
“Me and Jake Stericks—Wolfy Jake I calls him—
hitches teams.”
“But the route I have heard spoken of as one of
great peril, passing as it does through the summer
hunting-grounds of some of the most savage of the
predatory Indian tribes.”
“Every nigger takes his chance. Augh!”
“But is there not more safety in a large party?”
“Feared of your ha'r, younker?”
“I certainly have no desire to have it grace an
Indian lodge.”
“Them as is born to be hanged, needn't be skeered
to Injins.”
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“But not having a positive assurance of being destined
to that elevated position myself, I do not think
your sagacious remark will relieve me of any anxiety.
It is possible, however, the idea may have sustained
you through your perilous adventures—for you appear
to have entered into your fights with a very
strong presentiment of coming out of them alive,
which you have certainly done.”
For the first time, I perceived the muscles of the
old trapper's face relax into a broad grin; and extending
his hard hand, he gave me a grip like a vice,
and rejoined:
“Chaw me up fur a liar, younker, but you is
some'at to punks; and when you slid the covert, the
old man, your dad, lost a beaver. Them's old Sam
Botter's sentiments, and he's a nigger as has seed
snakes afore now. Augh!”
“Well,” I rejoined, “I am happy to find I stand
well in your good opinion at last; and now I have
a proposition to make, which is one of business.”
“Let her slide, younker. Stop a minute! What's
your handle?”
“My name?”
“Augh!”
“Roland Rivers.”
“Rolling Rivers, hey? Chaw me, but that's queer.
I once knowed a feller called Brooks, and he was jest
the driest human I ever seed. Me and him got off on
a perrarie together, and water wasn't nowhar. Arter
our throats got swelled so as we felt thar was a sand-bar
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inside, I says to him, says I, `Brooks, you're the
dryest stream ever this hyer old nigger seed. Ef you
was what you're called, hyer's a beaver as would take
a dive.' Good meat was Brooks—but he got rubbed
out to the Blackfoot and lost his ha'r. No relation of
yourn, expect?”
“I think not,” returned I, with a laugh.
“Wall, younker, you're not bad named, fur you
kin wet, as this hoss knows. Augh!”
“Now then to business,” said I. “Since I saw you
yesterday, I have met with a young man, who is
afflicted with a disease, supposed to be consumption
of the lungs, and who is on his way to the Rocky
Mountains for the recovery of his health. I have determined
to be his companion as far as Bent's Fort at
least, but I do not think he will be able to travel fast.
Now I wish to know if we can make any arrangement
with you and your partner, so that you will time your
progress to what he can perform without too much
exertion? for which, of course, we are willing to give
you reasonable remuneration.”
“Reasonable what?”
“Remuneration. In other words, pay you a reasonable
price in money;”
“Don't know, Freshwater, how that mought be.
Hev to ax Wolfy Jake, afore this child kin decide on
to that.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“Can't say how it mought come across his scent.
He's powerful to growling, is Jake, and that's why I
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calls him wolfy, and we're behind time more'n a month.
Ought to been on the mountains long afore this hyer—
for ef beavers aint spyling to lose their ha'r to us,
why was perraries made? Augh.”
“Under the circumstances then,” said I, “since you
are unable to decide, I think I had better speak to the
other mountaineers here, and see if we can make any
arrangement for travelling with them.”
“Freshwater, don't!” replied One-Eyed Sam, emphatically.
“Boy, I've kind o' tuk to you—slash my old
carcass ef I haint—and you kin gamble high on my
fotching Wolfy Jake plum centre.”
“Now you are talking to the point, sir, and I am
glad to find you take any interest in me whatever.
When I first addressed you yesterday, your actions
seemed to imply that my company was not particularly
agreeable.”
“You're right, younker, it wasn't. I haint much
liking fur strangers, no how; and when I sees a feller
rigged out in sich — silky, black, preacher toggery
as you've got on, I ginerally puts him down as sp'ilt
meat—jest fit for turkey buzzards, and them things.
But you broke in decent, and kind o' tuk me afore I
knowed it; and ef I didn't keep letting on, it was
bekase I didn't like to own up beat the fust jerk.”
“Well, shall I consider it settled, that my friend and
I are to journey with you on the conditions proposed?
You seemed just now to think your partner might
make positive objections.”
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“He'll hev to gin in, Wolfy will, or else thar'll be
powder burnt.”
“I should not like to be the cause of any disagreement
between you.”
“Wall, he'll growl a few—that's his natur—he
al'ays does that thar, anyhow; but hyer's a nigger as
has some b'ar into him; and when old Sam plants his
hoof, it's thar. You and your friend jest git off to Independence,
and leave the rest to this child.”
“But there must be a good understanding with all
parties before we set out together.”
“Freshwater, you kin take this hyer coon's davy
(affidavit) thar won't be nothing shorter—nary once—
chaw me. Augh!”
“Very well—then we will leave the boat at Independence-landing.”
“You'll want a hoss apiece, and another rig for the
plains.”
“Certainly—but I suppose we can procure all we
may need at Independence?”
“Expect.”
“Then I may consider the matter as settled?”
“Rayther.”
“What will you drink?”
“Only half a pint,” he replied, with a sly wink.
“When this hyer beaver got up to-day, he says, says
he, `Sam, you old sinner, it don't do to indulge.'
`Nary once,' says Sam; `but while you're in this —
climate, you'd better season nor spile.' `Right,' says
this beaver, `and half a pint is enough fur seasoning.'
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
So we agreed on to that thar; and chaw me up fur a
liar, ef we're going to drink nary drop more to once.
Augh!”
“A very reasonable resolution,” said I, not a little
amused at the old trapper's singular notions of temperance;
and on reaching the saloon, I dispatched
him the stipulated half pint by one of the waiters.
My friend, as I now felt I had a right to term
Alfred Varney, succeeded in getting a good sleep
during the morning, and arose about noon, much
refreshed in body and improved in spirits. I immediately
informed him of the partial arrangement I
had made with the trapper, which met with his
approval. In fact this very matter had been talked
over between us the night before, and we had decided
either to join some small party, who might for a
reasonable consideration be induced to time their
journey to our convenience, or else employ a guide,
and set off, in colloquial phrase, “on our own hook.”
True, we knew the journey under consideration to be
one of great peril; but we knew it to be perilous for
both large and small parties—the former, of course,
being better able to withstand an attack of some
roaming band of savages—but the latter, from its
smallness, being less liable to attract the notice and
excite the cupidity of hostile neighbors; so that, on
the whole, the chances of getting safely through,
might be set down as about equal. Besides, as my
friend said, the object of his journey was the prolongation
of his life; and it would be worse than folly
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to run the risk of losing it, by overtasking himself on
the way, as he might be compelled to do, were he to
travel with a large company, all anxious to reach
their destination in the shortest possible time.
In the course of the day, I introduced Varney to
One-Eyed Sam; who observed that “he was a powerful
thin beaver, and it would take a heap of meat to
make him fat enough to butcher”—the pleasantry and
oddity of the remark causing my friend to laugh outright.
We held a conversation concerning the outfit
we would require, the probable outlay, and agreed
upon the amount we should pay the trapper for escorting
us safely to Bent's Fort—the latter item being
neither more nor less than one hundred dollars—or
fifty dollars apiece—for I insisted, much against the
wish of my friend, on being permitted to bear onehalf
of the whole expense, the extra charge for delay
on his account included.
Having now done all we could in the way of arranging
our land journey, we waited, with some impatience,
the slow progress of the boat up the muddy and snagbottomed
channel of the Missouri. The river being
high, and the current strong, with immense rafts of
drift-wood floating down, rendered the navigation of
the stream tedious and perilous; but though we met
with some troublesome delays, no serious accident
occurred; and on the afternoon of the fourth day, we
disembarked at Independence-landing, as much elated
as ever were two school boys at an unexpected holiday.
That night we lodged at a comfortable inn, in
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the very heart of a great western rendezvous, on the
very borders of civilized and savage life, surrounded
by a motley collection of people from all parts of the
world, consisting of emigrants, travellers, hunters,
trappers, traders, coureurs des bois, Indians, half-breeds,
and negroes. The novelty of our situation tended to
excite my companion and myself; and in talking
over our plans and hopes for the eventful future, we
consumed many hours that should have been devoted
to sleep.
The trapper left us at the village, to go in quest
of his friend, who was supposed to be encamped, with
his animals, somewhere in the vicinity—for he disliked
the settlements so much, that he could not be
prevailed upon to remain in one a moment longer
than was absolutely necessary for the transaction of
his business, whatever that might be.
On the following morning Botter returned, and
reported having found his friend encamped on a small
creek, about five or six miles distant, and nearly on
the line of our route; and that having laid before him
the matter which most concerned us, and done some
“pretty tall swearing,” he had carried his point, and
they had finally parted like two kittens, to meet again
on the following day and commence their journey
across the plains.
“So now you see, Freshwater, that you and your
friend Shadbones—(excuse me! but this hyer old
nigger al'ays has to put a handle to suit hisself)—you
and your friend Shadbones, I say, has got desperate
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little time to buy up all you want for the tramp, and
you'd better stir your stumps and go in.”
“And will you only give us twenty-four hours to
prepare for our long journey?” I inquired, in some
surprise.
“Aint that thar enough? Chaw me, but I could
buy the whole — settlement in three hours, ef I
only had the tin.”
“Why, just now you seemed to think the time
very short yourself.”
“Yes, for you city chaps, who al'ays make a —
rumpus about nothing.”
“Then suppose, in consideration of our ignorance
and greenness, you give us three days instead
of one?”
“Can't do it, Freshwater.”
“Then will you assist us in our purchases?”
“Expect.”
“Very well, then we will set about them at once.”
I need not enter into details concerning that day's
work—for work it was, and of the most fatiguing
kind—at least I thought so at the time; for in order
to spare my friend, I took upon myself all the labor
and responsibility of purchasing two riding horses,
and one pack-mule, together with saddles, bridles,
water-proof packs, rifles, pistols, knives, ammunition, a
portable tent, blankets, costumes, and many other
articles too tedious to mention. Then we had to
overhaul our baggage, to select what we considered
indispensable, and stow away all the clothing to be
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left behind, so as to guard against moths—all of which
we finally consigned to the care of our landlord, trusting
to his honesty by virtue of necessity. Then our
new mountain-costumes had to be put on, our packs
packed, our bridles and saddles fitted to our animals;
and, what with one thing and another, it was twelve
o'clock at night before I was ready to lie down, and
take my last sleep, for a long time to come, upon
what, by way of distinction, I will term a civilized
bed.
I had just fallen into a comfortable doze, and was
dreaming of home, when I was suddenly awakened
by a rough shake, and the harsh voice of One-Eyed
Sam sounded most unpleasantly in my ear.
“Come, Freshwater, out of this hyer feathered
nest!” he said; “out on't, I say, and git ready to
tramp! Daylight's about, and the owls is gone to
roost, and this hyer old nigger wants to break for
better quarters. Augh!”
“Look you, Mr. Botter,” returned I, not in the best
humor imaginable—for I could see no reason in such
haste, and I had not been used to having my sleep
disturbed, especially in so rough a manner: “Look
you, sir! if my memory serves me rightly, we pay
you a round sum to travel with us to suit our convenience,
and this is certainly not the way I had
expected you to begin the performance of our contract.
I fatigued myself yesterday to please you, and
now I am going to sleep a few hours to please myself.”
“Wall, you kin do as you like!” growled the old
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trapper; “but chaw me up for a liar, ef this hyer
nigger stays in this — settlement another hour!
Augh! wagh! shagh!”
“We had better humor him, and make an early
start,” said Varney to me in an under tone as One-Eyed
Sam was leaving the room.
“Are you able and willing to set out now, my
friend?” I inquired.
“Yes, I feel quite strong.”
“Very well, then, for your sake I will not be obstinate.
Mr. Botter,” I called, “if you will see to
having the animals got ready, we will set off as
soon as you like.”
We hastily arose, donned our new costumes, collected
our weapons, roused the landlord, and paid our
reckoning; by which time the horses and mule were
at the door, and ready for the journey. Ere the sun
rose, we were in our saddles, and were following close
in the wake of the old trapper, who, with the vigor
and activity of youth, was leaving the town, due west,
by long and rapid strides. We soon crossed a little
stream, and ascended a grass-covered knoll; when,
turning in our saddles, we looked back on the town,
by the dim morning light, and silently bade farewell
to the last civilized settlement we were destined to
behold, till many a day of peril and suffering, privation
and sorrow, had placed its sad record on the
tablets of our memories.
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CHAPTER V. BORDER INCIDENTS.
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It was the latter part of May, and the morning was
bright and beautiful. The atmosphere was clear, the
air serene, and not a cloud was visible in the broad,
blue sky, that dome-like rose above us. In the east
the seven hues blended in perfect beauty, and gradually
grew more and more brilliant, till the god of day
himself appeared, surrounded by a halo of glory.
The scene that opened before us was an undulating
surface, carpeted with bright green grass, and flowers
of gorgeous beauty, and shaded here and there with
delightful groves, among whose branches fluttered
and twittered and sung ten thousand warblers. Bright
dew-drops rested on leaf and blade and flower; and
as the sunlight fell upon them, they glistened and
sparkled like so many diamonds. The view in all
directions was refreshing—was delightfully invigorating;
and had my mind been wholly at ease, I should
undoubtedly have experienced an exhilaration akin
to rapture. But with the sensations of pleasure came
sensations of pain. I was leaving home, leaving civilization,
for an indefinite period. My bark was now
fairly adrift upon the ocean of adventure, bound on
a voyage of discovery, and might never anchor again
in a peaceful and quiet haven. I had taken leave
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of all who loved me; had parted from all I loved;
and this as it were by stealth—in a clandestine manner—
in a manner to make my conscience in some degree
my accuser. Rivet my eyes upon whatsoever object
of interest, turn my thoughts upon whatsoever subject
of contemplation, I could not shut out the images
of those who had given me being and reared me so
fondly, nor cease to remember my transgression of the
sacred law of filial affection. I had not done right in
leaving my parents for this perilous journey, without
an explicit and mutual understanding; I had been
wanting in moral courage; I had left them in a cowardly
manner; and no reasoning to the contrary could
be other than sophistry. I felt this—felt it deep in my
soul; it was an internal conviction that no external
argument could eradicate; and it depressed my spirits,
and made me unhappy. The more bright and joyous
the scenes around me, the more sensibly I felt the
contrast of a heart made gloomy and sad by the remembrance
of what my conscience could not approve.
But the die was cast, my destiny was sealed, and it
was not a time for repentance now.
“How beautiful! how glorious! how enchanting!”
exclaimed my companion, as we rode slowly along
through green, dewy grass, and bright, sweet-scented
flowers; and as he spoke, his dark eye sparkled, and
his wan features flushed with animation. “See!
Roland—see that tiny stream of silver, winding
around between emerald banks, and playing hide and
seek through yonder groves, where a thousand gay
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birds are singing as they might have sung in Paradise!
Surely, this must be the Garden of Eden; and
this morning's ride will well repay me for days of
pain and gloom. Oh! why should I want to die,
when God's earth is so beautiful?”
“I am glad the sight reanimates you,” I replied;
“and it is my earnest prayer, that you may be spared
to behold it in years to come. It is certainly the
most charming scene I ever beheld, and I must regard
it as an auspicious beginning of our journey.”
“And yet you seem sad, Roland!” he rejoined,
with feeling.
“My mind goes home in spite of me, Alfred. I am
forced to reflect that, whatever pleasures may surround
me, I have done that which will cause the hearts
of my fond parents to beat with sorrow.”
“Can I rest assured that I did not influence your
decision with regard to this journey?” inquired Varney,
with some anxiety.
“You may rest assured that, if that decision be
wrong, not the faintest shadow of blame can attach to
you. To say you had no influence upon my decision,
would be to assert that I took no interest in your or
your fate, which would not be true; but my own mind
reasoned, weighed, and resolved.”
“Thank Heaven! your words give me relief!” said
Varney. “But, Roland, if you regret your resolve, it
is not too late to retrieve it. If you have any compunctions
of conscience, I pray you turn back, and
consider me in the matter not at all!”
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“No!” said I, firmly; “I shall go forward, be the
consequences what they may.”
Steadily the old trapper pursued his course, taking
long and rapid strides, turning neither to the right
nor left, and apparently heeding nothing around him:
I say apparently, for it was not so in reality—the truth
being that nothing escaped his eagle glance. About
two miles west of Independence, we passed a pleasant
grove, where a large party of emigrants and adventurers
had encamped the night before, only one of
whom was now to be seen. He was a tall, raw-boned,
green-looking specimen of a country rustic, and was
mounted on a slab-sided skeleton of a beast, which,
by dint of kicks and curses, he urged up to us on a
trip-hammer trot.
“I say, whoa, you scamp, you!” he sung out to his
shadowy animal, as he came up along side of me, at
the same time giving the cord rein a violent, sudden
jerk, which brought the horse's nose to a nearly perpendicular
position, while his legs seemed to keep
wilfully moving forward. “I say, you fellers, you
haint seen no stray mules nor nothing along your way,
I calculate, have you?”
“Nary mule, stranger,” replied the trapper, suddenly
wheeling about, and slyly tipping me a wink;
“but I seed a stray jackass.”
“Where, neow?” inquired our peaked-faced friend,
with a nasal whine, that said “wooden nutmegs” as
distinctly as ever a clock said “tick.” “Whoa! you
consarned old beast, you!” jerking the rope-bridle, as
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his half-starved animal made a sudden lurch forward
for a tempting bunch of green grass. “I guess I'll
larn ye, you derned old gormandizer, you! Didn't
you have enough last night tew last you a month—
say, neow?”
“I should not suppose, from the condition of your
horse, he would ever want to eat again,” said I, turning
away to conceal a laugh.
“That's a fact, I sweow; but, dern him! he's jest
like Phar'oh's lean kind—he don't want to dew nothing
else but eat. Wal, Mister, where'd you see that are
jackass?”
“Straddle a pile of hoss-bones. Augh!”
“Dew tell!” was the innocent reply of our Yankee
friend. “Calculate he was dead?”
“Nary once, greeny—wagh! hagh! wagh!” roared
One-Eyed Sam, which was the first time I had ever
heard him laugh boisterously.
“Say, you, Mister, (addressing me,) what's the
matter with that are feller? So'thing up here, I
guess!” tapping his head.
“Yes,” said I, “you can see he has been injured;”
and I drew my finger across the base of my forehead,
to indicate the long white scar of the trapper.
“Wal,” pursued the Yankee, “about them are
mules, consarn 'em! You see my name's Pease!”
“Green in the pod, chaw me!” interrupted Botter,
with another roar.
Mr. Pease looked very sharply, very savagely at
the trapper, and rejoined:
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“I know a thing or two about taming you fellers.
You've been hurt in the upper story; but a sharp
eye'll fetch you down, if you don't look eout. Yes,
(turning to me,) look him sharp in the eye—that's the
way to make a lunatic haul in. Wal, as I's saying, my
name's Pease, and I'm all the way from the State of
Connecticut, going over tew Oregon, to look eout some
prime land. There's a big party on us, and we camped
down there last night, and I've lost two mules, which
I want to find the wo'st kind. The other fellers have
gone on and left me to dew it alone; and I've looked
all areound, without seeing a derned thing of 'em.
What'll I dew neow?”
“Hyer's a nigger as will tell you what you'd better
do, afore you spile,” put in One-Eyed Sam, advancing
to the side of the forlorn traveller. “Ef you ever
expect to see your friends agin, you'd better put some
salt on to your top-knot, and start old bones arter 'em.
Augh!”
The Yankee looked savagely at the speaker, and
then inquiringly at me.
“I think the advice is good,” I said. “I am afraid
you will not find your mules; and the longer you remain
behind your friends, the more difficulty you will
have in overtaking them, especially with your horse
in his present condition.”
“Consarn it, what'll I dew?” whined Mr. Pease of
Connecticut. “Them are derned mules carried all
my duds. I got a feller to let me put 'em in his
wagon, till I found 'em; but he'll make me pay like
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thunder, if they has to go all the way in his team.
But I guess I'll have to gin 'em up. I don't see
nothing on 'em nowhere. Much obleeged to you,
Mister. Whoa! hold up your consarned old head,
will you? You'll have to dew so'thing besides eat,
you old fool! Wal, good-bye; and now, go 'lang!”
and with a few jerks at his rope-bridle, and sundry
kicks on the ribs of his skeleton beast, Mr. Pease set
off in the direction taken by his travelling companions,
and, riding through the before-mentioned grove, was
soon lost to our view.
This incident created a fund of merriment, and
proved highly beneficial to me, by diverting my
thoughts from more serious matters.
Thus far we had kept upon the regular western
trail; but we now turned off in a southerly direction;
and after travelling an hour longer, over a fine, beautiful
country, partly open, and partly timbered, with
bright, green grass and gay flowers all around us, we
came suddenly upon the camp of Jake Stericks. It
was in a little valley, hidden from our view until we
had ascended the hill which overlooked it. A clear
little stream purled through the valley, margined by
green “tall grass”—so called, by way of distinguishing
it from the short “buffalo grass” of the plains or
prairies—while a grove of trees, consisting for the
most part of hickory, walnut, ash and cottonwood,
threw over it a delightful shade. Four mules and
two horses, hoppled and tethered, were quietly cropping
the green herbage, within pistol shot of the
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trapper, who was squatted upon the ground, beside
his “kit,” lazily smoking his pipe.
On perceiving us, Stericks slowly gathered himself
upon his feet, and giving himself a shake, like a water
spaniel, awaited our approach in a kind of dogged
silence. He was a short, square-built man, about
forty years of age, with a broad, bronzed, phlegmaticlooking
face, light brown, curly hair, and a small,
cold blue eye. As we drew up along side of him, he
fixed his eye upon the animals, which he scanned like
a connoisseur, but appeared to take no notice of the
riders.
“Hyer we is, Wolfy!” said Botter, dismounting.
“Got arything to feed?”
Wolfy Jake pointed to a quarter of a deer, suspended
to the limb of a tree, and then to the sun.
“I knowed it,” he grumbled; “never will git off.
Why didn't you git your feed whar you did your
work?”
“Ef you knowed it, old growler, whar's your fire?”
inquired One-Eyed Sam, as, whipping out his knife,
he cut down the meat, and proceeded to divide it into
slices for toasting. “Yes, you knowed it,” he continued;
“and not a — spark to swa'r by. Whar's
your kindlings?”
Stericks pointed to a handful of dry twigs and
leaves, which he had collected; and while Botter
struck fire with flint and steel, he set to work to harness,
pack, and prepare the animals for the journey.
“Come!” said the old trapper to us, as, having
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dismounted, we stood watching his proceedings, with
the interest which anything novel generally excites;
“ef you want your feed, you'd best go in;” and having
by this time started a fire, he thrust a sharp stick
into a large slice of meat, and held it to the blaze.
“A-u-g-h!” he resumed, with a long drawn grunt of
satisfaction, as, having scorched the meat outside and
heated it through, he tore out a large mouthful with
fingers and teeth; “this hyer's living agin, chaw me!
Come, Freshwater, jest you and Shadbones go in—fur
this hyer nigger'd like to make a long tramp, to
please that thar Wolfy, and the thing's agin natur
with a empty meat-trap. Augh!”
“We may as well make a beginning,” said I to
Varney. “The smell of the toasting meat gives me
an appetite, and we can season with salt—besides, you
know, we have laid in a good stock of sea-biscuits.”
We accordingly set to work, and prepared our first
meal beyond the settlements, which we devoured with
a relish known only to those who have made the
trial. I was pleased to see that Varney ate heartily;
and when we had concluded our simple repast, and
washed it down with clear water from the running
stream, he exclaimed, somewhat enthusiastically:
“Roland, my friend, this is delightful! I seem to
feel stronger already.”
Meantime, Stericks had saddled the two horses, to
be ridden by himself and Botter, and had packed the
mules with the kit to be used by them on their journey
into the wilderness, so that, all being ready for a
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new start, we had only to mount and set forward.
Shaping our course to the northward, we soon struck
the great Santa Fe Trail, and followed it for some
twenty miles, over the same rolling, delightful country,
which continued to present to the view one of the
most pleasing landscapes it has ever been my fortune
to behold. The day was warm; but a refreshing
breeze blew steadily from the west, and relieved it of
anything like sultriness. My friend bore the fatigues
of equestrianism, so new to both of us, much better
than I had anticipated; but when the sun had passed
the meridian some three hours, he signified his wish
to rest for the night, in order not to overtask his feeble
system. At this, Wolfy Jake, who so far had scarcely
noticed us, began to grumble and complain that such
foolish, childish delays would keep him from the
mountains till too late to trap beaver enough to buy
his tobacco.
“It is for these very delays that we have agreed to
pay you a good round sum,” said I, in a tone calculated
to assure him I knew my rights, and did not
intend to be cheated out of them, to please one who
had taken no pains to render himself an agreeable
companion.
“See hyer, boy,” he replied, turning to me with a
look of fierce contempt, “who axed you to put in
your blab?”
Though taught from youth to curb my temper,
and keep a rein upon my passions, I had never so
mastered myself, or been so mastered, as to quietly
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brook an intended insult; and as he spoke, I felt my
features flush, and the hot blood leap through my
veins. My first impulse was, to spring from my horse
and drag him from his; but by a great effort I restrained
myself, and rejoined, as quietly as I could,
though it seemed to me the words fairly hissed as
they came forth:
“Sir! when you address me, boy though I may be
in your aged estimation, I will thank you to do so in
a more respectful manner!”
“Come, come, friends—no quarrelling!” said Varney,
anxiously, spurring his horse in between us.
“Rather than have a quarrel, I will endeavor to ride
a few miles further.”
“Not a mile further!” said I. “We stipulated that
this journey should be made to suit your convenience;
and if our guides do not intend to adhere strictly to
these conditions, we will turn back at once, and let
them go on alone.”
“Them's the tarms, and you knows it, Wolfy,” put
in One-Eyed Sam, riding up along side of his dissatisfied
partner; “and so it's the advice of this hyer
old beaver, that you jest shut up your meat-trap!
D'ye he-ar?”
“That boy's insulted me; and I'll lick him for't, or
die!” growled Stericks.
“Wolfy Jake, that thar ain't so,” returned Sam.
“I seed and heerd the whole on't; you insulted him;
and ef you dar to put a paw on to him, hyer's a nigger
as 'll let daylight through you agin, by —!”
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This threat silenced Stericks, who now relapsed
into a sulky mood, and rode slowly along, evidently
brooding revenge in his heart. In the course of a
few minutes, the old trapper, as if without design,
brought his horse along side of mine, and in a low
tone, so as not to be overheard by his companion,
said:
“Freshwater, I can't say you didn't do right in
speaking up like a man; but I'm desperate sorry you
and Wolfy has quarrelled—for he's the devil to git
along with—has got a memory like a red nigger—
and thar ain't another human on the borders kin shut
him up 'cept me. Me and him once had a grand go
in; and when we kim out, he'd got daylight clean
through him, and this hyer old nigger hadn't one eye,
four teeth, and jest only a chunk of a nose. This
happened up to the Sweetwater Divide, long time
ago; and nary human seed the fight 'cept me; for
Wolfy laid out in his tracks, as dead as a skinned
buffler. I dug a hole, and was gwine to cache* him,
when I seed him begin to fotch sensible. This child
took care on him, and fed him for two months; and
when he got about, he swo rehe'd never fight sich a—
cantankerous old hoss agin, and he hain't.
Augh!”
“Well,” said I, “I regret that I have had occasion
for hard words, on a journey which I had hoped
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would prove agreeable to all parties—but what would
you have me do?”
“Let him growl, and don't say nothing. Growling
is into his natur', jest as nateral as a bite ar' into a
snapping turkle; and all you has to do, is to jest let
him hev his say, and no bones broke. It's desperate
hard to do it, to a lad of speret like you; but what
good 'ud kim fur getting into a fight, and leaving
your carcass out in these hyer diggings, jest below
wolf-smell?”
“True,” said I, after a moment's reflection; “what
good would come of fighting a man who seems to
know little else? I will take your advice, sir, and
remain silent or civil, unless he encroaches too much
upon good nature. But understand one thing, Mr.
Botter—”
“Sam, I is—One-Eyed Sam—leastways sence I fit
Wolfy Jake—and I don't know no sich beaver as Mr.
Botter.”
“Very well, then, Sam—if you prefer being so
called—I want it distinctly understood, before we
proceed any further, that you are to make each day's
journey no longer than my friend can perform without
excessive fatigue! It is in consideration of this we
have agreed to pay you your own price; and if you
think you and your partner cannot conform to the
contract, without even so much as grumbling, why
then we part here.”
“That thar seems all fa'r and squar', chaw me!”
“It is as it seems, Sam.”
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“Wall, you drop behind, and let this hyer nigger
hev a confab with Wolfy.”
I made a halt, and called Varney to my side, while
Botter spurred on and overtook his friend. I related
to Varney what had passed between the trapper and
myself, and he shuddered as he replied:
“Oh, my dear friend, how fortunate it is that you
did not get into a physical contest with that dangerous
fellow! You would have been killed, I feel
assured; and then what would have become of poor
me? Oh, for my sake, Roland, if not for your own,
avoid quarrelling with men who would think no more
of killing you than they would a wolf!”
“Would you have me act the coward when insulted?”
I inquired, with some asperity.
“Answer me, Roland!” returned Varney; “which
requires the most true courage—to bear a harsh,
unkind, contemptuous word-insult, or to resent that
word-insult with a retort, and perhaps a blow?”
“To bear in silence,” said I.
“Then I would have you courageous beyond what
the world terms courage.”
“It is not in my nature to be so.”
“We can mould our nature, in a great degree,
Roland, I know by experience; and we often throw
the blame of some hasty action upon our natural
disposition and passions, when the blame should rest
upon our acquired infirmities, through inattention to
the laws of proper mental government or self-control—
upon the inner man, that should govern the outer.”
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“I feel you are right—I know you are right—yet
it is much easier to feel and know right, than to do
it.”
“Ay, my friend; and there comes the struggle in
which every reasoning being, made in God's image,
immortal as his Maker, should engage—the struggle
to conquer himself.”
“And would you, if attacked, not defend yourself?”
“Most assuredly, else would I not go armed; but
bear in mind, there is a great difference between an
insult and an attack. Self-preservation is the first law
of nature, seen in the instinct of every living thing;
and if attacked to the danger of life, then we have a
right to protect life, even should such protection
require the life of the assailant.”
“And yet, after all,” said I, “you come far short of
what Jesus Christ taught and practiced; he justified
no retort, retaliation, or resistance; but if smote on
one cheek, to turn the other.”
“I grant you,” said Varney, with a smile; “but if
my platform of self-guidance falls short of that laid
down by the Great Master, how much more so yours?
No man living can be wholly like Jesus Christ; but
the nearer we approach him in principle, the more we
purify and fit our spirits for eternal communion with
the spirits of just men made perfect. But see! Botter
has separated from his companion, and is awaiting
us: let us ride on.”
“One question more,” said I, as we started our
horses forward. “You heard Stericks threaten to
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chastise me for my insolence: if he lay hand on me,
what would you have me do?”
He looked hard at me, his eye brightened, and his
thin lips compressed, as he answered:
“I am a very weak, erring mortal, I find, after all,
Roland. If he touch you, without further provocation—
which Heaven forbid—I cannot expect you
will forget you are armed against savages and wild
beasts.”
“Enough, my friend—I understand you!”
On coming up to Botter, he said:
“I've gin Wolfy Jake a right smart chance of a
talking to, and it's the opine of this hyer old hoss
he'll keep down. D'ye see that thar clump of trees
yonder?”
“Yes.”
“We camp thar. Augh!”
“You have triumphed, Roland,” whispered Varney;
“but God send you do not have cause to regret
it!”
eaf462n1* A term used by the mountain men, signifying to bury or
hide—from the French word “cacher.”
-- 115 -- p462-092
CHAPTER VI. OUR FIRST CAMP.
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Well do I remember our first camp beyond the
borders of civilization. It is one of the pictures which
still hang in the cabinet of memory. The spot selected
was in a little dell, beneath a clustering grove of
hickory, maple, ash, linden and sycamore, through
whose interlocking branches the grape-vine wound in
gay festoons, and made an arbour fit for a lady's siesta.
Through this delightful retreat rippled a rivulet, its
bright, clear waters rolling over a bed of white sand
and pebbles that sparkled like gems. The green,
luxuriant grass was variegated with flowers of many
hues, and birds of gay plumage played bo-peep and
sung songs amid the heavy foliage, or clove the air,
like winged jewels, as they passed over the adjacent
openings.
The face of the country was still the same as we
had passed over during the day—a rolling prairie of
high grass and flowers, alternating with ridges rocky
and steep, and wood-lined streams. Our camp, which
Varney christened Calyptra, was about a quarter of a
mile south of the great trail, and had evidently not
been visited by any of the parties passing so near.
We at once unsaddled our animals, which seemed
eager for the enjoyment before them, and, having
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hoppled, turned them loose. Varney and I next set
to work to erect our portable tent; which consisted
of small strong ash poles, made to lengthen by means
of iron slides, unite at the top, and fold together like
an umbrella. A sharp iron spike, at the bottom of
each pole, readily penetrated the earth, and made the
base firm; and there were rings and short hand spikes,
by which we could further secure it, with very little
trouble. Over the frame, when spread, we drew a
water-proof canvass, which we fastened down with
hooks; and thus our house was erected, with the cost
of only ten minutes' labor. Underneath this tent
we placed all our baggage, and swung our hammocks
to rings in the poles; so that, whatever might be the
weather without, we could sleep above ground, and
escape being drenched.
“There,” said Varney, when we had put everything
in order, “if the Indians will only be kind enough to
let us alone, I think we can sleep as comfortably as
twin monkeys in a menagerie.”
“It's all powerful nice fur you settlement fellers,”
said Botter, as he inspected outside and inside, with
a look of curiosity; “but I tell you what it is, hyer's
a nigger as 'ud sooner hev 'arth for a bed, and heaven
for a kivering, nor all sich squaw contrivances ever
made. Augh!”
“Every one to his liking,” said I.
“Wall, yes, expect—and that thar's what this hyer
old coon telled old Joe Nesbit's darter, Sal, when she
tuk to a hump-backed, squint-eyed tailor, 'stead of
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me. But I say, Freshwater, how long do you 'spect
that thar flimsy fixing is gwine to float out this hyer
way?”
“I see no reason why we may not carry it through
with us.”
“Don't ye now?” said Sam. “Wall, jest you wait
till one of them perrarie storms gits afoul on't, and
you'll hear so'thing howl, or else thar aint no b'ars.
Augh!”
“You think it wouldn't stand a storm-gust, then?”
“Some I've seed afore to-day, 'ud fotch it out like
a Kaintuck dandy-nigger's dickey, you kin gamble on
to that.”
“Well, we must take the chances. My friend,
being in delicate health, was afraid to venture sleeping
on the ground—at least until inured to the climate
and change of life. But where is your companion?”
“Gone fur meat. He seed a deer over yonder, and
felt like chawing—fur Wolfy's one of them as is
powerful on to feed.”
“I feel inclined to try the sport myself,” said I.
“Ever do arything to that sort?”
“Never.”
“Then its like you'll hev more fun nor meat.”
“You think I can't kill a deer, eh?”
“You kin try, Freshwater.”
“And try I will,” said I; “though I am free to
acknowledge myself more familiar with a day-book
than with a rifle.”
“Do not go far,” said Varney, with some
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uneasiness; “for not being familiar with the country, you
might get lost.”
“Have no fear, my friend! I will keep the camp
in view, and return by sunset, at the very latest.”
“Let's see what you've got fur a shooter,” said Sam;
and he gave my rifle a careful inspection. Then
levelling it for an aim, and holding it with an iron
nerve, that had no tremor, he discharged it—adding,
as he brought the breech to the ground: “Ef she's fit
fur a old hunter to sw'ar by, thar's a hole plum centre
in yon yaller leaf.”
We hastened to the object which he had selected,
at the distance of some seventy paces, and found it
bored through the centre.
“An admirable shot!” exclaimed I.
“Not a bad shooting-iron,” said Sam, indifferently.
“With a good eye, and steady arm, she'll do herself
a heap of credit; and that's more'n kin be said of
every — gim-crack like her!” alluding to the
silver-plated mountings. “I say, Freshwater, what'll
you gin fur a shoot to this hyer old nigger, a hundred
paces off.”
“I have no desire to kill you,” said I. Botter burst
into a horse-laugh.
“I'd jest like to gamble on to it, you can't hit nary
tree to that thar distance.”
“What will you bet?” inquired I, supposing him
to be joking.
“Money?”
“Anything you please.”
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“I'll try your narves on to five dollars.”
“That I can't hit a tree at a hundred paces?”
“Rayther.”
“Done!” said I: “select your mark, and prepare to
lose;” and hastily, and under some excitement, I proceeded
to reload my rifle.
Botter pointed out a tree, and said:
“Ef you graze the bark, old One-Eyed owes you
five; ef you don't”—
“Young Two-Eyed owes you ten!” rejoined I,
laughing; and bringing my rifle to my shoulder,
with a quick and somewhat careless aim, I fired.
“Nary once, chaw me!” rejoined Sam, fixing his
one eye upon me, with a most ludicrous expression.
“I knowed it—you city chaps hain't the narve you
reckon you has.”
I hurried to the tree, and felt deeply chagrined to
find no trace of the bullet, high nor low.
“Perhaps you would like to double that bet?” said
I, somewhat nervously.
“Rayther.”
I went back, loaded, and fired again, with the same
result.
“The piece does not carry true,” said I, greatly
mortified.
“Double to quits,” returned Botter, with a broad
grin, “that this hyer one-eyed old nigger bores a
dollar with that thar same shooter.”
“Done!”
I fastened a white flower, the size of a dollar, to the
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tree; and One-Eyed Sam, standing at the required
distance, loaded and fired with great deliberation.
The flower fell. I hastened to pick it up, and, to my
utter astonishment, found the ball had driven the pin
through its centre.
“The de'il is in it!” said I, perplexed and crestfallen.
“I will give over hunting deer for to-day,
and practice at a mark.”
“Let me try my hand!” said Varney.
“Two to one agin you, Shadbones!” roared Botter,
fairly holding his sides.
“That I don't hit the tree at this distance?”
“Expect.”
“My horse against yours, Sam!” said Varney,
flushing with excitement.
“Them's 'em—let her went!”
Varney loaded, fired, and missed the tree.
He looked perfectly blank at the result, and I enjoyed
a laugh at his expense.
“If I were as superstitious as some I have known,”
he said, looking curiously at the old trapper, “I would
be willing to swear you had bewitched this rifle. I
never missed such a mark before, at such a distance,
in my life.”
“Thar's tricks to all trades 'cept ourn,” rejoined
Botter, throwing himself upon the ground, in a
paroxysm of laughter.
Never had I seen the old trapper so completely
convulsed with merriment: he rolled, yelled and
screamed, till our horses pricked up their ears, and
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snorted with fear: and no wonder—for his was a most
unearthly cachinnation, something between the screech
of a catamount and the bellow of a bull, alternating
upon the upper and lower keys.
“He has played us some trick, you may depend!”
said Varney. “I know I am not such a bad shot as
to miss a tree at a hundred yards, even though I
might not hit a dollar.”
“But what can be his trick?” inquired I: “we
loaded the rifles ourselves.”
Varney again levelled the piece, ran his eye along
the barrel, and exclaimed:
“I have it! I have it! he has altered the hind
sight: no wonder we could not hit the tree!”
“Let that thar l'arn ye to al'ays keep your eye
skinned, and look to your hind sights as well as target!—
look close around your nose as well as a mile
ahead!—them's the lessons we old mountain-men larn'
arly!” said Botter, gathering himself up, and wiping
the tears from his one eye. “Augh!” he continued,
drawing a long breath; “this hyer old nigger hain't
had sich a right down good old Kaintuck yell, sence
he barked around his mamma's float-sticks—chaw
me!”
“And do you claim the bets for your trick?” I
inquired.
“Nary once, Freshwater—I'll gin in on to them
thar. Shadbones wants his hoss, I expect, and you've
been decent fur a greeny; so we'll quit squar'—or ef
you rayther, we'll wet on't to Bent's.”
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“I shall remember my first lesson,” said I—and
I did.
“Trust in God and keep your powder dry,” was a
remark, which the position of the speaker, together
with its peculiarity and force, rendered immortal;
and “look close around your nose, as well as a mile
ahead,” though homely phraseology, certainly contained
good advice for one who, like myself, was venturing
upon an unknown region of danger.
Having properly adjusted the hind sight of my rifle,
and reloaded it, I made another trial of marksmanship;
and found I not only hit the tree, but within three
inches of the point at which I had aimed; and this,
even the old trapper admitted, was remarkably good
shooting for one having as little practice as myself.
“But fur all that thar, Freshwater,” he continued,
“I wouldn't be afeard to gamble high on to it, that
you don't fotch nary deer; and what's more to the
pi'nt, that you couldn't plug a live one to thirty
yard!”
“Why so?”
“'Kase you're young, green, and hain't the narve.”
“A fig for your sage opinion!” said I, with a laugh.
“You might have made me believe something of this,
if I had not discovered the trick you just now played
me; but nothing, save repeated failure, can convince
me I cannot lodge a ball in a deer as well as a tree.”
“You kin try it,” grinned Sam.
“And try it I will, this very day—that is, if there
are any deer to be found.”
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“Skase, but about,” returned Botter, “and it's
good three hour to sundown. Now see hyer, boy! ef
you fotch in ary part of a deer, that you've shot, this
hyer old nigger'll back water agin all he's said about
greenness, and stand a heavy wet to Bent's hisself.
Augh!”
“If I don't,” rejoined I, “I will give you leave to
laugh and drink at my expense, and to call up as
many friends as you like.”
“Be careful, my friend, not to lose sight of the
camp, in your eagerness to establish a reputation as a
hunter!” said Varney.
“Have no fear! I will take the best of care of
myself, in every particular,” was my confident reply.
I then proceeded to equip myself for a hunt on
foot; and in less than a quarter of an hour, I had left
the camp, secretly exulting in my anticipated triumph.
I have said that the country was partly open and
partly timbered—the ground rolling, with an appearance
similar to large swells of the ocean. The face of
the country was so much alike in every direction, that
I saw one might easily lose himself, unless proper
precautions were adopted; but I set off directly south,
resolved not to go beyond a certain point, from which
I could easily retrace my steps. I soon started some
prairie-chickens from the covert of the tall grass; but
as I was bent upon bringing in a deer, I did not waste
any ammunition upon them. Next I came upon some
animals resembling the hare; but for the same reason,
I did not molest them. Deer, in this region, were
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rather scarce; but after a tramp of a couple of miles,
I espied a group of four in the distance; and creeping
carefully along to the leeward, I soon had the satisfaction
of placing a wooded knoll between them and
myself, which enabled me to draw near them with
less caution, and without being scented or seen.
I had never fired at an animal of the size of a deer
in my life; and I now felt myself laboring under
more excitement than I had anticipated; much of
which, however, I attributed to my eager desire to
convince the old trapper that he had greatly underrated
my hunting qualities. On reaching the knoll,
or ridge, I made a cautious ascent, through tangled
brush and brambles, fearful lest each snap of a dry
stick or twig might alarm the wary game. At length
I reached the summit; and crawling carefully on my
hands and knees over a ledge of rocks, I parted some
intervening bushes, and, to my great delight, beheld
four sleek, beautiful deer, daintily cropping the green
herbage within fifty yards of me. I now became so
nervously excited, that my long rifle shook like an
aspen, as I slowly pushed the muzzle forward, preparatory
to a fatal aim. I had just got my nerves a
little quieted, and was in the act of glancing along the
barrel, with my breath suspended, when I heard a
loud, ominous rattle close to my side. I started with
a thrill of horror, and a single glance showed me an
enormous rattlesnake, partly coiled, with head erect,
forked tongue, and fiery eyes, within three feet of me.
To say that I sprung to my feet, and went down the
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other side of the hill, regardless of alarming the deer,
in the shortest possible time, is only to admit that the
instincts of nature acted for my preservation, without
calling upon reason, or any of the slow, operating
faculties.
It is no use to deny it—I was scared. I felt cold
chills run down my back, and my hair gather itself
on end; while my legs displayed a power of locomotion,
as they bore me through the valley below and
after the flying deer, which even my long familiarity
with them had previously failed to discover and place
to their credit. I will not say I ran; for to run, even
from a rattlesnake, would by some be considered
cowardly; but I will venture to assert, that, in,
Western parlance, “I did some pretty tall walking.”
Ere I reached the opposite slope, my rifle and hat
went off at the same instant—the one in front, the
other behind. As I stopped and stooped for my hat,
something whizzed over my head; and immediately
after, I heard the report of a rifle; while from a
thicket, distant some hundred and fifty or two hundred
yards, I saw a wreath of thin blue smoke float
lazily upward and disperse in the light breeze.
Here was another narrow escape from another
danger, and for the time being the rattlesnake was
driven from my mind. I had evidently been shot at
by a good marksman, and the stooping for my hat
had saved my life. But why had I been shot at? and
by whom? I was in a region of country thinly peopled
by Indians; but then they were known to be
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friendly to the whites, and were living on lands ceded
to them by our Government. Had I been mistaken
for a deer? I glanced down at my green hunting
frock, and fringed buckskin trousers, and could fancy
no resemblance to that innocent quadruped, except in
the quickness with which I had lifted one foot after
the other from among the tall grass.
Suddenly, a horrible suspicion seized me. Wolfy
Jake, who was out hunting deer like myself, had probably
seen me, and sought to gratify his malignant
passions by a cold-blooded murder. I shuddered all
over as the thought flashed through my mind, and I
made all haste to bury myself in the brushwood of
the swell or ridge toward which I had shaped my
flight from my more magnanimous foe, and which
fortunately was within fifty yards of where I had
made my second escape from an awful death.
Being now fairly screened by a dense copse, I drew
a long, quavering breath of momentary relief, and
proceeded to reload my rifle with a trembling hand;
while my knees knocked together from a sort of nervous
weakness, and a cold, clammy perspiration
seemed to start from every pore. My rifle again
loaded, I felt my courage again return; and with the
reaction from an almost paralytic surprise and terror,
came a wicked indignation; and as my blood again
leaped through its natural channels, with a burning
sensation, I solemnly resolved, if I discovered Stericks
anywhere in the vicinity, to shoot him down as
I would a wild beast.
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This was not a very Christian-like intention, I
know; and under less excitement, I should never
have so determined; but I was not then in a condition
to reason calmly on a matter involving crime. I
was beyond the limits of civilization, and in a country
where the strong arm, keen eye, and sure rifle must
stand me in place of law. My life had been sought;
I had the right of self-protection, by any and every
means; and the fact of his being in the vicinity, would
have then been sufficient proof to my mind, that he
alone was the deadly foe whom personal safety required
me to destroy.
Fortunately for my subsequent peace of mind, to
say nothing worse, I did not discover him. I crept
through the bushes to a point whence I could overlook
the covert from which the smoke had issued,
and also the adjacent country; but though I kept a
careful watch till the sun, large and red, went down
behind the western line of earth and sky, I saw no
human being. The gathering shades of night now
warned me that it was high time to set out upon my
return to camp; and looking carefully to the priming
of my rifle, and laying my course with my eye, I was
soon hastening through the tall grass of the valley
already mentioned. Avoiding Rattlesnake Ridge, as
I mentally christened the point of my first peril, I
kept along the hollow some half a mile, and then
turned off to the right, over what I supposed to be the
very undulations I had previously traversed.
So confident was I of pursuing the proper
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direction, and so occupied was my mind with the startling
events of the last few hours, that the possibility of
missing my way did not occur to me till night had
fairly set in; when suddenly looking up and around,
a moment's reflection convinced me that I had already
passed over more ground than lay in a direct line between
the furthest point I had visited and the camp.
Instantly a glow of heat passed over me, a new alarm
thrilled through me, and I fairly shuddered at the
thought that perhaps I was lost.
CHAPTER VII. A THRILLING ADVENTURE.
Lost in the wilderness! Lost on the prairie! What
terrible associations are linked with these two phrases,
in the mind of him who has ever experienced their
heart-sickening reality! No situation, probably, in
which a human being can be placed, can more forcibly
bring home to him the enervating, overpowering sense
of human littleness and human helplessness—the
crushing, blasting sense of loneliness and desolation—
than being completely lost in the awful solitudes of
nature. He looks around him, as far as his strained
and aching sight can reach, and beholds solitude
stretching away and away, seemingly limitless; he
looks above him, and beholds the heavens spread with
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cheerless grandeur over all; while excited fancy
places him in the immediate presence of the Great
Principle which wrought a world from chaos; and
standing there, a conscious atom of the Universe, his
sins, like culprits, rise up before him, and ready conscience
pronounces a severe judgment—a judgment
from which there is no appeal to human sympathy.
Time misspent—wrongs committed—all the errors of
a life passed in the whirl and turmoil of a human
vortex—now rise up for dispassionate review; and
his inner-self writes the sentence that expels him from
all that is pure and holy.
It was not my misfortune, in the present instance,
to experience all these sensations in the full poignancy
of despair—for I did not, for a moment, consider myself
lost beyond hope—but I felt enough to make me
wretched. That I should find my companions, either
soon or late, I did not doubt—for I had not as yet
advanced far enough into the wilderness to preclude
the possibility of a sudden return to the settlement I
had left in the morning, where I could procure another
horse and take a fresh start upon the broad trail; but
should I find them during the night that had now just
dropped its dark curtains around me? And if not,
what physical sufferings might result to myself! and
what prostrating, mental anguish to my dear friend!
who had already begun to cling to me, and put his
hope in me—as the mariner puts his trust in the bark
which bears him over the great deep—and to whom,
therefore, my absence would be a source of grief and
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alarm, that would banish sleep from his debilitated
frame! And for myself, I was much fatigued with
my day's ride, foot-ramblings, and intense nervous
excitement, and felt the need of both food and rest.
With the exception of a single sea-biscuit, I had eaten
nothing since morning; and the keen, gnawing sense
of hunger, which I now experienced, brought additional
dejection to my oppressed spirits.
But it was folly to stand idle, or sit down and brood
over my misfortune; and so, collecting all my forces
with a will, both mental and physical, I determined to
find the camp, if it were possible to be found. Ascending
the highest knoll or ridge in my immediate vicinity,
I surveyed the landscape in every direction, as far as
my sight could penetrate in the star-light darkness—
but saw nothing to determine my course. I shouted
with the whole strength of my lungs—but only the
echo of my voice, the hooting of some owl, or the
dismal howl of a distant wolf, came back in answer.
I discharged my rifle—but my hearing remained
unrejoiced by another report; and reloading my
piece, I again set off, taking a more westerly course.
In a few minutes I came upon a small stream of
water, which I supposed to be the same that flowed
past our camp—but could not decide whether that
camp were above or below. Being undetermined, I
mounted another elevation, and away to the westward
discerned a light, which I believed to proceed from
the fire of a camp—but whether from the one I was
in search of or not, I could not say. At all events, it
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was a welcome sight, for it showed the locality of
human beings; and with my eyes riveted upon it,
with as eager a gaze as ever miser bestowed upon his
gold, I made all haste over the intervening ground,
and reached it within a quarter of an hour after making
the discovery.
It proved to be the camp of a party of emigrants
and traders, united for the journey, on their way to
New Mexico. There were some twenty or thirty
wagons in all, which were arranged in a circular form,
in regular order, on the bank of a little creek, the side
next to the water being left open. Here, at different
fires, the several parties, or families, were having prepared
their evening meal—the women, some eight or
ten in number, being the principal cooks; while the
men were packing and unpacking, smoking, lounging,
and looking after their animals, which were picketed
within rifle range. As I drew near the camp, no one
seemed to take any notice of me; and before I had
addressed any one, my attention became arrested and
riveted upon an object, that for the time caused me to
forget where I was and what I sought.
In the full blaze of a bright fire, over which was
suspended a kettle, which she seemed to be watching,
stood a pale, delicate, but beautiful girl, of perhaps
sixteen or seventeen years, bare-foot, and clad in
coarse garments. The style of her dress was rather
Mexican than American, and consisted of a scarlet
petticoat, with a full, flowing sack, which covered her
bust and a portion of her arms, and fell half way below
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the waist, around which it was secured by a blue belt—
thus giving her a somewhat fanciful and picturesque
appearance. The usual appendage of the head—the
long muffler, or rebozo—was wanting; and her long
raven ringlets fell in wanton profusion around her
pale face, neck and shoulders.
But it was the expression of that pale face which
riveted my gaze. The features were fine and beautiful,
seemingly intellectual, but melancholy to a degree.
They did not lack soul, but lacked the soul of happiness.
They seemed as if a blight had fallen upon the
young heart—as if a secret sorrow were nestled in the
soul. The eyes were large, dark, full and dreamy;
and beaming through long, drooping lashes, the expression
was very sweet and fascinating—the more
fascinating, perhaps, that its constant sadness seemed
to demand constant sympathy.
As I stood somewhat in the shade, and silently regarding
her, I could not but fancy that some fairy had
been expelled from her bright realm, and been doomed
for a season to wander over an unsympathizing, uncongenial
world. I felt a strange interest in her—an
interest for which I could not account. I had never
before experienced such peculiar sensations in the
presence of one of her sex. It was as if some unknown
superhuman force were drawing me to her, and compelling
the conviction that her destiny and mine were
in some unaccountable manner united. For a time I
was fascinated—spell-bound. What could it mean?
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I aroused myself, with a start of surprise, and, without
a moment's reflection, advanced straight to her side.
“Fair being,” said I, “who are you?”
My voice broke her reverie—for until I spoke she
did not perceive me. She looked up suddenly, and
for a moment her soft, dark eyes timidly rested upon
mine. I felt a strange thrill pass through every nerve
and fibre of my system, and a strong impulse to rush
forward and clasp her in my arms. What did it all
mean? and what foolish thing might I have done,
had my magnetic infatuation continued without interruption!
But it was harshly interrupted.
“Who are you, stranger? and what do you want?”
demanded a gruff voice, that instantly transported me
from Paradise to Pandemonium.
I started, and my fairy shrank timidly away. I
looked around, and discovered that the voice proceeded
from a black-haired, swarthy, ill-favored, very earthlylooking
human being, who was reclining on the
ground near one of the wagons. He had a pipe in
his hand, from which, as he spoke, he knocked the
ashes; and gathering himself upon his feet, he came
swaggering forward to where I stood. His height
was about five feet ten inches, his frame bony, his features
cadaverous, his eye black and devilish, and his
age about forty-five years.
“Were you addressing yourself to me, sir?” I
inquired, in a subdued tone; while I felt certain that
a close examination would discover anything but
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a pleasant mood in my flushed face and flashing
eyes.
“Yes,” he gruffly replied; “I was talking to you,
and to nobody else! I want to know who you are?
and what you want?”
“And I want to know what right you have to
make the inquiry?” returned I.
“I'll let you know, — soon, if you don't give me
a straight-forward, civil answer.”
“When you put your questions in that courteous
manner which is due from one gentleman to another,”
said I, “I will answer you civilly and correctly; but
if you think to bully me into a gentlemanly reply,
you have mistaken your man.”
“Well, I want no more words with you!” he rejoined,
biting his lip; “so take yourself off! Away
with you now!”
“I am not used to being ordered away like a dog,”
said I.
“Well, you had better get used to it then—for a
decent dog is worth two of you!”
“You are an insolent scoundrel!” said I.
“By —! no man tells me that and lives,” he
fairly shouted with rage; and as he spoke, he darted
to his wagon and seized his rifle.
Ere he could bring it to a level, my fairy, who had
been standing back, a witness of all that had taken
place, suddenly bounded forward, with a scream, and,
seizing his arms, exclaimed:
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“Oh! don't shoot him, father! for God's sake, don't
shoot him!”
“Back, spawn of a hell-cat!” he cried, gnashing his
teeth with fury; and raising his hand, he dealt her a
blow on the side of the head which laid her prostrate
on the earth.
I could bear no more; I was beside myself with a
thousand wild fancies; my brain was in a whirl; I
thought of nothing but that I was in a country without
law, where my life had twice been sought; that
my angel protector had been struck down by a demon
in the human form; that it was his life or mine; and
bringing my piece to a level, I darted forward, and
discharged it within ten feet of his breast.
He fell. I saw him fall, and heard him groan. But
I stood as one paralyzed. What had I done? Had
I committed murder?
“Oh, sir! oh, sir! you have killed him!” broke in
the sweet, mournful voice of the being for whose life I
would have given mine; and seemingly unmindful of
the foul, brutal blow she had herself received, she
crawled to him, and bent over him—affectionately, I
fancied, she bent over the prostrate monster whom
she had called father, and whom my act had laid low,
perhaps in death.
I stood transfixed—my eyes riveted upon two objects—
an angel and a demon. There came a rush
of feet—a buzz of voices. Shadowy spectres seemed to
flit past the different firelights—to the right—to the
left—before, and behind. I was soon surrounded;
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my strained sight no longer rested upon the angel
and the demon; other objects intervened; I felt rude
hands grasp me, and comprehended that I was being
hurried away.
All this, I think, occupied no more time than I
have in recording it; and I was finally aroused from
a kind of mental lethargy, by words uttered in a tone
of stern reproof and inquiry.
“Young man, you have probably killed one of our
party? Who are you? how came you here? and
what led you to shoot Gaspard Loyola?”
I looked up, and saw myself surrounded by some
ten or twelve strong, muscular, hardy, bronze-featured,
resolute men. The speaker was advanced in
years, and had iron-gray hair, and a commanding
appearance. To him I addressed my reply.
“Sir!” said I—“most deeply do I regret the sad
occurrence of which you speak; and half an hour
since, I should have regarded as insane the man who
had predicted that I was on the point of staining my
hands with the blood of a total stranger.”
I then proceeded to state who I was; whence I
came; the peculiar circumstances which had led me
to their camp; the cause of my quarrel with the person
they called Loyola; and how, while acting in selfdefence,
I had been governed by a kind of insane
impulse.
“I think Mr. Rivers speaks the truth,” said one of
the party; “for you know this Loyola makes it a
point to quarrel with every one who crosses his path;
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and I myself heard a portion of the conversation just
repeated, and saw the Spaniard run for his rifle, and
knock down the girl for interfering.”
“He deserves all he's got'!” said another, with an oath.
“We will examine the girl,” rejoined the first speaker,
“and if she corroborates the statement of the
young man, we must acquit him.”
Leaving some three or four of the party with me,
as a kind of guard, he then walked away with the
others, to where the wounded man was lying.
“I feel faint,” said I, to those remaining with me;
“I have scarcely tasted food since morning: will you
permit me to sit upon the ground?”
“Come with me,” returned one, “and I will give
you food.”
He led the way to a wagon, on the opposite side
of the camp, where his supper—which he was in the
act of devouring, when interrupted by the general
alarm—was still spread out on the end-board—the
latter being turned down and supported horizontally,
to serve as a table. The repast before me consisted
of hot coffee, with sugar—a great luxury in the
wilderness—a freshly baked corn-cake, and several
smoking slices of meat, with salt. He got another
cup and poured it full of coffee—first asking me if I
would take some whiskey, which I declined.
“Eat, young man,” he said, in a kindly tone; “you
are welcome.”
I did not feel the same keen appetite as when
wandering over the rolling prairie; but being very
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faint, I considered it essential to take food to sustain
nature. Accordingly, I drank off half the coffee at
once, and then ate a few mouthfuls of the corn-cake
and meat—which, owing to the weak and nervous
state of my system, I swallowed with difficulty, and
with a sensation of nausea.
While thus engaged, the wife of my kind and hospitable
entertainer, who gave me his name as Phillips,
came running up and exclaimed:
“William, they think he'll die, though he is still
alive.”
I staggered at the words; for till now, knowing
Loyola to be alive, I had some hope that his wound
would not prove mortal; and had Phillips not caught
me, I should have fallen to the ground.
“Hush, Martha!” he said to his wife; “have you
no regard for the young man's feelings?”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” returned the woman,
addressing me in a kindly tone. “I did not think before
I spoke. But nobody seems to blame you: they
say you did it in self-defence.”
“God forbid the man should die!” groaned, I, sinking
down upon a box, in great distress of mind.
Mr. Phillips, and the men who were with him, used
such words as they could to console me; but I had a
terrible consciousness, that, should the man die, I
should never know peace of mind again. While they
were yet talking to me, the venerable head of the
party—for such he was by election—returned and
said:
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“Mr. Rivers, you stand honorably acquitted of
crime. The testimony of Adele corroborates yours;
you acted in self-defence; and though I think you
might, by prudence, have avoided the tragic quarrel, I
take pleasure in adding, that I am empowered, by
the verdict of twelve of our party, to discharge you
from custody.”
“Will the man die?” inquired I.
“The wound, which is in the right breast, is thought
to be mortal.”
“Then God arrests me, and takes the case to the
High Court of Eternity!” I groaned, feeling most
deeply the pangs of remorse and despair.
CHAPTER VIII. ADELE AND MYSTERY.
I have, in the course of my adventurous life, passed
through many trying scenes—scenes of horror, scenes
of peril, and scenes of acute physical and mental
suffering; but I do not think I have ever experienced
more real soul-torture in the same time, than during
the first two hours succeeding the announcement of
the venerable Captain Hillyard, that Gaspard Loyola
had received from my hands what was supposed to
be a mortal wound. It was in vain that persons of
both sexes gathered around, and strove to console me,
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by declaring that I was not to blame—that the act
was one of self-defence—and that I must have been
more than human, or an arrant coward, to have done
otherwise than I did. I knew in my own heart that
I could have avoided taking a fellow-creature's life;
that I could have borne an insult, and walked quietly
away from the insulter; and my conscience condemned
me for allowing my passions and impulses to
prevail over my reason, judgment, and education. I
had begun my career of manhood by deliberately
thwarting the wishes of my father—and here was one
early and awful result of the first wrong step. I had
been brought up to regard the life of man as the gift
of God, which no human being had a right to destroy;
I had not yet been long enough beyond the reach of
law to have my keen sensibilities dulled; and consequently
I felt that the deed I had done, however justifiable
in the eyes of man, was a heinous sin in the
sight of Him who had given the stern decree, amid
the smoke, the lightnings, and the thunders of Mount
Sinai—“Thou shalt not kill!”
For two hours, I say, I sat buried in the most
intense agony of mind—with remorse and despair,
like an incubus, upon my heart—the most wretched
of all wretched beings—when word was brought me
that the ball had been extracted from the breast of
Loyola, and that, though dangerous, the wound was
thought not necessarily mortal. The parched traveller
in the desert, when his eye falls upon the cool waters
of a spring; the lost mariner, drifting for days on the
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great deep, when he finds himself discovered by a
friendly sail; or the drowning man, when he beholds
a rope within his grasp; leaps not more suddenly
from despair to hope—from misery to joy—than did
I at this unexpected announcement.
“Great God, let him live!” was my first ejaculation;
and if ever a sincere prayer came from the heart, that
came from mine. “Can I be permitted to see him?”
I inquired.
There was some consultation among three or four
leading members of the party, and then I was answered
in the affirmative. I hastened to the wounded
man, and found him lying upon his back, on a rude
bed, in his own wagon, his eyes closed, his face pale
from loss of blood, and his respiration somewhat
difficult and irregular. By his side knelt the beautiful
Adele, with a green bush in her hand, which she was
slowly waving to and fro, to keep off the musquitoes,
and other night insects, which had already, in this
part of the country, become very troublesome. I saw
them both by the light of a glass lantern, which
depended from one of the ribs of the covered vehicle;
and its pale gleams, falling upon their pale faces, and
upon the rough, uncouth surroundings, and only faintly
revealing the sober features of others peering in at
the opposite end, presented a picture of death-like
solemnity, which haunted me for days, and even now
rises vividly before the eye of the mind. I drew back
with a shudder, and addressed myself to a person
standing near.
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“Can I be permitted to speak a word with the
daughter of Loyola?” I inquired.
“I think so; but do not speak too loud, for I reckon
Loyola is asleep.”
“No! not there, my friend: do me the favor to ask
her to step outside.”
He did as I requested; and getting some one to
take her place, Adele descended from the wagon.
“This way!” said I, in a tremulous voice: “let us
step aside! I wish to speak a few words with you
privately.”
She seemed not a little agitated; but silently, and
with downcast eyes, complied with my request. I
led her toward the centre of the camp, that she might
have no fear; and the moment I thought we could
converse without being overheard, I stopped, and
gently taking her hand, said:
“Adele—for so I understand you are called—this
is a terrible affair to both of us; and no one can know
what agonies I have suffered, in consequence, during
the last two hours; and yet, properly considered, I
know not that I am to blame. I did not come here
with the intention of quarreling, but because I had
lost my way; you yourself were the first with whom
I spoke; and God knows, Adele, I had anything but
a wicked design in my heart at that moment. Your
singular beauty—nay, start not, and think I am passing
unmeaning compliments, for my soul is too heavy
to deal in frivolities!—your singular beauty, I say,
united, as it is, with a melancholy expression of
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sorrow, demanding sympathy, arrested my attention, and
attracted me to your side; and what followed you
know. My life was menaced; and, but for your interposition,
would undoubtedly have been taken. I saw
you foully struck to the earth; I knew that blow was
given on my account; and excited to that point where
reason is lost in frenzy, I darted forward and shot
down the aggressor. Can you forgive me for an act
done as much upon your account as my own, Adele?”
She drooped her head, and sobbingly replied:
“Oh, yes, I forgive you—because, as you say, you
did not intend anything wrong when you came and
spoke to me; and my father—God and the Saints forgive
him also!—forced you to quarrel, and would
certainly have killed you, in his rage, had you not
disabled him. He is a very passionate man, sir; and
when he has been drinking freely, as he had to-day,
is very much disposed to quarrel, even with his
friends; but I trust you will forgive him, too, sir!”
The voice of the fair speaker was low and silvery,
and had a melancholy sweetness which touched my
heart. Her accent was slightly foreign; but she
spoke my native language with an ease and fluency
that argued a long familiarity with it; and, from
various causes, I found myself most deep'y interested
in her and her hard fortune.
“For your sake, Adele,” I replied, “I will and do
forgive him—though through him I have been led to
the commission of a deed which may render the rest
of my life unhappy; for should he die, the awful
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remembrance, that my hand had sent a fellow-being to
eternity, would ever haunt me.”
“And should he recover,” rejoined my fair companion,
with a shudder, “I hope and pray you may never
meet again! for if he found the opportunity, he would
certainly take your life.”
“Is he then so revengeful?”
“Alas! yes: he never forgives any one that he has
ever looked upon as an enemy.”
“And is it possible that he can be your father?
that the blood of a man of such vindictive passions
flows in the veins of one so fair and pure, forgiving
and gentle, as yourself?”
“Really,” said Adele, with some agitation, withdrawing
her hand—which till this moment had, with
seeming unconsciousness on her part, rested in mine:
“Really, I must go back! I am afraid he will wake
and ask for me; and then he will get excited, seeing
others about, and excitement now might prove fatal
to him.”
“You must not go yet!” said I, detaining her.
“Stay a few minutes longer, I pray you! I am about
to leave you, and may never see you again; and I
would like very much to have you answer me a few
questions.”
“Are you going away to-night?” she timidly inquired,
but in a tone that indicated surprise; and
looking up as she spoke, I saw, by a gleam of firelight
that fell upon her pale face, that a deeper shade
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of sorrow rested upon it, and that her dark, dreamy
eyes were swimming in tears.
“I must leave to-night, Adele, or very early in the
morning, to search for my friends.”
And then, in as few words as I could, I told her who
I was, and what chance, accident, or Providence, had
brought me to the camp. She listened attentively,
earnestly, sadly.
“And now,” continued I, “will you not so far confide
in me, as to say whether or not Gaspard Loyola
is your father?”
“Why do you ask?” she said, quickly.
“Because I take more than a passing interest in
you, and much desire to know something of your
history; and because, as I said before, I cannot bring
myself to believe that his blood flows in your veins.”
“Well,” sighed Adele, “I do not know. I have
been told that he is my father, and I have been told
that he is not.”
“If there is any doubt, Adele, in the name of
humanity, give it for the negative—do not consider
such a brutal wretch the author of your existence!
Excuse me for speaking plainly and boldly! I saw
him strike you to the earth, with the blow of a cowardly
ruffian, when your only offence was an attempt
to withhold him from the commission of murder; and
it was that brutal act, I think, rather than fear for my
own safety, that impulsively urged me on to a deed
which I have since repented of in the deepest agonies
of remorse and despair. But mark you! I had no
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sympathy for him; nor have I now—strange and
anomalous as it may seem; my contrition was for
having shot down, and probably killed, a fellow-being,
when I might either have avoided the quarrel, or beat
him down, and severely punished him, without taking
life. If God spares him, I shall not regret being the
cause of his retributive sufferings; and though, for
your sake, and on account of those sufferings, I will
pardon his design upon my life, yet my sympathies
will be with you only. Do you understand me?”
“I think I do, sir!” she timidly replied, casting
down her eyes.
“So far as you are concerned, mark me—in so
much as his sufferings may cause you pain—shall I
sympathize—no more. I would have him live; but
live to repentance; live to know and feel that life is
not given for the mere gratification of hellish desires
and passions; not given to the strong to be used
against the weak; not given for the purpose of making
all around him miserable. And now tell me, Adele,
can I be of any service to you? I have been the unfortunate
cause of bringing fresh trouble upon one
who has seen much sorrow; and if I can in any manner
serve you, I am in honor and duty bound to do
so.”
“I thank you, for your kind offer!” half sobbed
the afflicted girl; “but I do not know of anything
you can do for me.”
“I pray you to have no hesitation in answering
frankly; for though I am a stranger, whose brief
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acquaintance you have made under circumstances the
most painful, not to say horrible—under circumstances
rather calculated to excite your antipathy than regard—
yet I solemnly assure you, I would peril my life to
do you a favor.”
Adele burst into tears, but made no reply.
“Why do you weep?” I said, taking her hand
again, and impulsively drawing her to me. “There
is something you wish to tell me. Speak out, I pray
you!”
But she only wept and sobbed the more.
“Adele,” I continued, “you are young; I am
several years your senior; do not be afraid to confide
in me; speak as to a brother; and I solemnly assure
you, you shall not find your confidence misplaced!
Tell me, Adele—why do you weep?”
“Because,” she sobbed, “you speak so kindly to
me—so like a true friend; and I am not used to kindness;
and I never had a friend—or if I ever had, it
was a long, long time ago.”
“Poor girl!” said I; “no wonder your features are
stamped with sorrow! But you shall not want a friend
again, while I live and have the power to serve you.
Let me be your brother! Will you let me be your
brother, Adele?”
“Oh, no! I dare not! my father would kill us
both!” she said, wringing her hands. “He does not
allow me to speak to any one but himself; and it was
because you came and spoke to me, that he became so
angry with you.”
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“But you need not fear him now, Adele,” I said,
with something like secret exultation—for the more I
learned of the base character of Loyola, the less I regretted
my hasty deed: “you need not fear him now;
it will be a long time, should he eventually recover,
before he will regain sufficient strength to interfere
with us, or again misuse you; and should he ever attempt
the latter again, in my presence, he must again
abide the consequences!”
“Oh! you do not know him!” cried Adele: “and
you must avoid him; for should he recover, and ever
see you again, he would find some way to take your
life! But you said you were going away!”
“True, so I am. I have a friend, who is even now
miserable because of my absence; and I must find
him as soon as I can; but the party to which I belong
cannot be far from yours; and as you will necessarily
travel slow, on account of this dark man, whom you
call your father, I shall endeavor to overtake you.
Will you permit me to be your brother, and befriend
you as a brother should?”
“I do not know; I am afraid; and yet I have often
wished I had a brother,” she sighed.
“Say no more then—it is settled; have no fear; I
will be prudent; but I must see you, for I feel myself
drawn to you in an unaccountable manner. And
now, before we part, will you not confide in me, and
tell me what you know of your history?”
“What shall I tell you?” she inquired, with a
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air, looking cautiously around, as if fearful
interruption.
“Tell me what you remember of your history,
Adele! Tell me where you were born; what has
become of your mother; how long you have known
this man you call father; how you became separated
from your friends; and how long you have been
engaged in this hard, perilous life, so unsuited to one
of your years and delicate organization!”
“I could not answer all your questions if I would,”
she replied; “and even those I can answer, would
take more time than can now be spared; and besides,
I am afraid to tell what little I do know.”
“Fear not, my poor Adele! I will protect you;
and if wrong has been done you, as I have reason to
believe, I will see you righted, or perish in the
attempt. There is something mysterious in your past
history, I feel assured—is it not so?”
“Yes! yes!” she answered, quickly; “there is
something mysterious in my past life; I do not myself
understand it; but —”
“Speak, I pray you!” I urged, as she hesitated;
“tell me all you know; and, rely upon it, you are
confiding in a friend, who will not only keep your
secret sacred, but will, so far as lies in his power,
guard you from further oppression and wrong.
Where were you born?”
“I do not know, sir!”
“Did no one ever tell you?”
“Not that I remember, sir!”
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“What are your earliest recollections?”
“I have a confused recollection—it is like a dream—
of being in a place of splendor, where there were
a great many persons coming and going, and where
kind words were always spoken to me.”
“Do you refer to a dwelling, or a city?”
“I think it must have been a dwelling—and it
might have been in a city—but I do not know. I
remember walking over a marble floor, and seeing
beautiful flowers, and fountains, and paintings; and
one, more than all the rest, dear, sweet face, which I
think was my mother's; but all the rest is confused,
and perhaps it was all a dream.”
“I think not,” said I, most deeply interested:
“Children, too young to distinguish the real from the
ideal, are not apt to dream of such realities and
retain the impression for years. Does your memory
connect this place with a southern climate?”
“I have no recollection concerning the climate, sir!”
“Have you any remembrance of feeling cold there?
of seeing any thing like snow?”
“Oh, no, sir! it seems as if it were summer-time; for
the trees were always green, and the flowers were
always bright—at least I cannot recall them as being
otherwise.”
“And do you remember leaving this beautiful
place?”
“No, sir! I have often tried to do so, but I cannot;
and that leads me to think it might have been a dream.”
“Well, what next do you remember?”
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“Something dark and awful!” said Adele, with a
perceptible shudder. “It seems as if I were in a
dark place, like a prison, and was rolling about, and
felt very sick, and heard the roar of winds and the
rush of waters.”
“For how long a time were you in this dark and
awful place?”
“I do not know, sir! but it seems as if it were a
long time.”
“Does it seem as if you were in a ship on the
ocean?”
“I cannot say: I only remember what I have told
you.”
“Well, what is your next impression, or recollection?”
“I remember being in a convent, and having certain
lessons to recite to a tall, stern, austere woman;
and likewise having a good many religious duties to
perform. I learned to read and write there, in Spanish,
Latin and English.”
“Which language did you use in common conversation?”
“Oh, the Spanish.”
“Was that your native language?”
“I think so.”
“How long did you remain at this convent?”
“'Till I was ten years of age.”
“And what were you called while there?”
“Adele.”
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“And did no one tell you anything of your history?”
“No, sir! I one day inquired of the abbess who I
was; but she only frowned, and said she knew nothing
of worldly affairs; and that it mattered not who I was,
so I conducted myself properly.”
“Well, you were in the convent, you say, till you
were ten years of age—how came you to leave?”
“My father came and took me away.”
“Had you ever seen him before that time?”
“I did not remember his face.”
“How did you know he was your father?”
“He and the abbess both said so.”
“And was he the same person now in yonder
wagon?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you said, a few minutes since, you had
been told he is not your father—who told you so?”
“Sister Agnes—one of the nuns.”
“Did she know anything of him? or of your history?”
“No! but she saw him at the convent, and heard
the abbess speak of him as my father; and she said
to me, before I left, that she knew he could not be my
father, for there was no resemblance between us; and
that one like myself could never have had being from
so dark and wicked-looking a man!”
“And depend upon it, my poor Adele, Sister Agnes
was right!” said I. “Nature could not so falsify, as
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to produce, from such a cause, such an effect—so totally
at variance, in person, mind, and innate principle.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Adele, again looking hurriedly
around—“I must go! I must not remain here another
moment. Suppose he should wake, and find me
absent? and suppose any one should inform him of
my interview with you, here, alone? He might, in a
moment of passion, do me a serious injury!”
“He shall not,” said I; “for I am going to take
your case in hand: you shall not remain with him to
be maltreated!”
“Oh, sir! I could not leave him!”
“Why not? You do not, you cannot, have any
regard for him?”
“I do not know; perhaps he is my father; he says
he is.”
“And even grant that he is—he has sundered every
tie, human and divine, that should bind a child to a
parent. You do not feel any affection for him, do
you, Adele?”
“Sometimes, sir, I think I do, when he speaks
pleasantly to me.”
“That is not properly affection, my poor Adele;
but is rather a grateful sense, arising from the absence
of fear. You know that you are in his power—that
he is generally harsh and cruel; you fear him in consequence;
and when, for a time, he gives you cause
not to fear him, you feel so grateful, that it seems as
if you almost loved him: is it not so?”
“I think, perhaps, that is it, sir!” she replied.
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“It is your nature to love, Adele; your heart is
warm; you feel the want of that iron strength and
will which can give adversity strong battle; and, like
the tender, drooping vine, you must needs twine
around the hardy, storm-enduring oak for support.
It has never been my fortune to meet another of so
sweet, so gentle, so loving, so forbearing, and so forgiving
a disposition as yourself. Nay, do not think I
am paying unmeaning compliments for an evil purpose;
I mean what I say; and what I say, I know to
be true; for it is all stamped on your soul, and your
soul is seen in your face. Your countenance is an
open book, easily read by one who has made human
nature a study. But time is precious, and I would
know more of your history. What was the name of
the convent where you received your education?”
“Santa Maria.”
“Where was it located?”
“I am not certain about the location, but I think it
was in the interior of Mexico.”
“And where did you go after leaving there?”
Just at this moment a voice called Adele.
“There!” she exclaimed, hurriedly, and in a tone
of alarm; “I feared it would be so; he has awakened;
good-bye!” and she darted away to the wagon.
I followed more leisurely, and cautiously looked in
at one end of the vehicle, keeping my features in the
shade, so that I might not be seen and recognised by
Loyola, who was not only awake, but giving evidence
of some strength, and a devilish disposition, by
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scolding Adele in Spanish. I could not understand what
he said; but the tone in which he spoke, and the
manner of the poor girl, who was trembling and
weeping, were enough to assure me that he was playing
the base tyrant, and wounding her gentle, sensitive
soul, by using harsh and vicious language. He was
lying upon his left side, his head supported by his left
hand, while his right clasped and pressed the bandage
over the wound. I could just dimly see his features—
dark, scowling, and malignant—the muscles contorting
with anger and pain—the black, beetling brows
knitted, and the small, black, sunken eyes emitting
gleams of malice; and I thought that Satan, if not
more wicked than he has been represented, might
have had his likeness taken by proxy. Adele, as I
have said, who was crouching, trembling and weeping
by his side, suddenly hastened, as if by an order, to
hand him a cup of water from a bucket near; and no
sooner had he drank, than the cup was hurled at her
head, barely missing it by an inch.
I could bear to see no more; I dared not longer
trust myself in such a presence; and I quietly hastened
away—feeling, after what I had just witnessed,
that my conscience would no longer condemn me,
even should my deed result in ridding the world of a
demon incarnate.
-- 156 -- p462-133
CHAPTER IX. RETURN TO CAMP.
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The camp had now become comparatively still,
the different fires were gradually dying out, and most
of the tired wayfarers had retired to rest, some under
cover of the different wagons, and many in the open
air, with only a blanket spread on the earth for a bed,
and a stone, a log, a saddle, or whatever was at hand,
for a pillow. A few were still strolling about outside
of the wagons, keeping watch over the horses, mules
and cattle, which were getting their fill of the luxuriant
grass along the little valley of the rippling
stream, and which were soon to be driven in and picketed
close around the camp. The night was warm
and close, with scarcely a breath of air stirring; and
though cloudless overhead, a thin haze, gradually
thickening with vapors rising from the earth, permitted
only the brighter stars to be dimly visible, and
betokened the final eclipse of all.
Among those still astir, I found Mr. Phillips. He
was sitting, a la Turque, on the ground, by his wagon,
smoking his pipe, and repairing some portion of a
harness by the light of a lantern. As I had had little
conversation with any one save Adele, owing to my
depressed state of mind after shooting Loyola, I now
approached him, for the purpose of making some important
inquiries.
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“Well, my friend,” he said, in a kindly tone, looking
up from his work as I drew near—“how is it
with you now?”
“I feel much better, I thank you!” was my reply.
“I have had some conversation with Adele, of an
important nature, and have just come from looking
in upon the wounded ruffian—for I cannot call him,
after what I have just witnessed, by any gentler term.
If it be true, as some physicians assert, that ill-temper
is a sign the invalid is in no immediate danger of
dying, then I think his life might be insured at a very
small per centage.”
“You found him savage, did you?”
“Yes, savage is a very good term; unless, in applying
it to him, it scandalizes the natives of this
region;” and I proceeded to give an account of his
late brutal treatment of Adele.
“Poor girl!” said Phillips, sympathetically; “I
wish she were beyond his reach!”
“How is it,” I inquired, “that you permit such a
brute of a man to travel in such respectable company?
for all the rest of you, that I have seen, appear to have
human feelings.”
“Why, the fact is,” answered Phillips, “though we
travel together, for mutual protection against our common
enemy, the Indians, we are all separate traders,
each man owning his team and freight, which he disposes
of to please himself. I say all; but I should
except some four or five families, now going out to
Santa Fe with us, for permanent settlement. I am
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one that have been in this line of trade for a couple
of years. About a year ago, this Loyola, whom we
first saw in San Miguel, begged the privilege of being
allowed to join us. Some objected; but on a vote
being taken, the decision was in his favor. He
brought this girl, whom he calls his daughter, with
him; and with the exception of sometimes treating
her rather harshly, and being, now and then, especially
when he has been drinking, sullen, savage, and
quarrelsome, he has behaved himself pretty well, and
kept within the rules and regulations by which we
are governed. With a man's private affairs, if he
does not intrude upon and disturb his neighbors, our
general law has nothing to do—our motto being,
`each one mind his own business;' and though few
of us like Loyola as a man—and all of us more or
less pity the poor girl, who is kept under the most
savage restraint, not being permitted to speak to any
one without the consent of her father—yet, according
to the code which binds us together, no one has a
right to interfere in his domestic matters.”
“And does not common humanity authorize you
to interfere, when a poor, innocent girl is the recipient
of a ruffian's blows?” inquired I, with some
asperity.
“I never knew him to strike and knock her down
before to-night, and I think you will admit he is pretty
well punished for that.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and I am now inclined to believe
he got no more than he deserved.”
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“So I have heard several say already. If you had
not punished him severely, Mr. Rivers, you may rest
assured he would have met the proper chastisement
from other quarters, and that is why your act is
viewed so leniently. If he recovers, he will have to
carry himself pretty straight hereafter, or he will find
himself expelled from the company. Even as it is, I
have heard several declare, that if he is to be permitted
to travel with us, they will withdraw. I do
not know how it will be. With the exception mentioned,
Loyola is not a bad travelling companion.
He has his good points. He never meddles with his
neighbors' affairs, and a better Indian fighter it would
be hard to find. Last winter, when we were attacked
by the Camanches, he fought like a hero; and with
rifle, pistols, and knife, killed four, and wounded two
more, besides chasing the others, when they fled,
further than any other white man dared to venture.”
“I should suppose he would make a good fighter,”
said I, “and good Indian fighters are valuable. Do
you know anything of his history?”
“Nothing—he is not communicative.”
“Is the girl, Adele, generally supposed to be his
daughter?”
“We know nothing to the contrary—though I
have heard many express their doubts.”
“And rightly, I judge. At all events, as I have
taken a deep interest in her, I shall endeavor to see
her again, and make some further inquiries, whether
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he like it or not—that is, if others of your party
have no reasonable objections.”
“Loyola will have objections, you may rest
assured; and you will have to be cautious, or your
life may be the penalty. I believe he would shoot
the man who interferes in his affairs, as he would a
dog.”
“There are two that can play at that game,” said
I, “as he already knows to his cost. But I will be
cautious; and if others do not intermeddle, I think I
can manage the matter very safely. And now, my
friend, give me a candid, straight-forward answer.
Should I ascertain that Adele has been removed from
her friends—and I can, through her, find any clue to
them, and wish to restore her, with her own consent,—
do you think any of your party, save Loyola himself,
would object to my taking her away?”
“Why, if satisfied of your intentions being perfectly
honorable—as I doubt not they are—I do not
think any one would; because, should the girl desire
to leave, that would be her own business; but it
would be better that none of our party rendered
you any assistance; for I have seen enough of
Loyola, to know that he would be a dangerous man
to tamper with.”
“I will ask no help beyond my own friends; and
nothing shall be done to compromit any of your
party; and as to my intentions toward the poor girl,
if I do not mean her well, in every respect, may my
tongue wither, and my eyes refuse me sight!”
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“I see how it is!” rejoined Phillips, with a smile
of meaning; “it is already whispered about that you
are in love with the girl.”
“Is it so?” returned I, with a start of surprise;
for though I had been drawn to Adele in an unaccountable
manner, I had never once thought of her
in such a connection: “Then tell your friends they
labor under a mistake. I never was in love in my
life; and if I know myself, I am not now; but I
have much sympathy for her, and I will do her a
service if I can—though my feelings are rather those
of a brother than a lover. I have just left home to
see something of the world in the wilderness, and do
not intend to fall in love for ten years to come—five,
at least.”
“Say what you will, Mr. Rivers,” returned Phiilips,
with a pleasant laugh, “you could not convince the
women to the contrary—and they are pretty shrewd
in matters pertaining to the heart. However, it is
none of my business; though I venture to say, that
you might fall in love with a less attractive girl, judging
from the little I have seen of her.”
“Pray do me the favor to undeceive your lady
friends in this respect,” said I. “And yet,” I added,
after a moment's reflection, “it may, on the whole, be
best to let them think as they do.”
“I think it will,” laughed Phillips; “at least, I
am certain nothing I could say would change their
opinion; for I have seen enough of the sex to know,
that if a woman has once fairly got a crotchet in her
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head, all the reasoning powers of man, or angel,
would not be sufficient to drive it out.”
I continued my conversation with Mr. Phillips for
some half an hour longer; and I found him, as I have
shown him, a shrewd, intelligent man, with pleasing
conversational powers, and an education superior to
the majority of Western traders. He informed me
that he was originally from one of the Eastern States;
that he had been a merchant in St. Louis; but having
failed in business, he had adopted his present mode
of life in order to get another start in the world, and
liberally educate his two boys, both of whom were now
at college. His wife, by her own choice, accompanied
him in his hard, perilous journeys back and forth
across the plains; which at times made his travels
more pleasant to him; and at others, especially when
surrounded by danger, caused him extreme anxiety.
He said he thought if he could get safely through
another year, with the same good fortune in trade
that had hitherto attended him, he would be able
to start again in business in St. Louis, where he could
have all the comforts of a happy home. I wished him
success, with all my heart. He dealt partly in dry goods,
and partly in teas, coffee and sugar—on all of which
he made enormous profits—generally selling out at
Santa Fe, and getting his pay in cash, or furs—which
latter were even better than cash, because he realized
on them a second profit on his return to the States.
Most of those with him were Missourians—each, like
himself, trading on his own account—and, like
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
himself, most of them at home were men of some standing.
“Well,” he said, at length, “it is time for us to turn
in, for these hot days we must start early. I have
no tempting accommodations to offer you; but I can
lend you a blanket, and show you the soft side of a
turf; and to such accommodations you must get accustomed,
if you continue your journey over the prairies.”
“I kindly thank you!” said I; “but I am still too
much excited to sleep; and I think I will make
another effort to find my own camp; it certainly cannot
be far from here.”
“By-the-by,” he rejoined, “was your camp a little
south of the regular trail?”
“Yes, about a quarter of a mile, in a very pleasant
woodland-bottom, on the bank of a little stream.”
“Had you a tent?”
“Yes!” I returned, quickly.
“Then we passed it about half an hour before sundown.
I saw the tent, and called attention to it. It
is about a mile and a half, or two miles, east of here.”
“Then I can certainly find it,” said I, joyfully;
“and I must find it to-night; for my friend will not
sleep till I return; and one night's loss of sleep will
unfit him for to-morrow's journey.”
“Well, if you think you had better go, I will not
try to detain you, for I appreciate your feelings; but
you scarcely tasted of your supper; so, for fear of
accidents, I shall insist on your taking some food
with you.”
-- 164 --
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I gladly assented to his proposition, for I now began
to feel a very keen appetite; and he hastened to procure
me a large slice of meat, and one entire corncake—
apologizing, at the same time, for not having
anything better to offer me.
“And now,” he said, giving my hand a hearty grip
and shake, “I will bid you good-bye, with the hope
that we shall meet again. You will probably overtake
us—for we travel slow with teams—and I think
your heart and Adele will hasten the meeting. And,
my friend, should it chance that Loyola does not
recover, do not be too much cast down! You acted
on the defensive; and there is not one of us, probably,
that would not have done as you did under
the circumstances. If we have any human right
more than another, it is the right to protect our own
lives, by our own strong arms, in this wild, lawless
country; and even in the settlements, you could not
find a jury that would not, in your case, even had the
man been killed outright, bring in a verdict of justifiable
homicide. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye, and God bless you, for proving yourself
a friend in need!” I replied; and I spoke in a
tremulous voice, and left him with tearful eyes.
On quitting the kind-hearted Phillips, I crossed over
to Loyola's wagon, to take one parting look at the
wounded man, and perhaps speak another word with
Adele. While we had been conversing, one after
another had betaken themselves to rest; and only
here and there a person could be seen stirring; while
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all the fires had gone out, or were smouldering in
their own ashes. I approached the wagon cautiously,
and stealthily, and quietly looked in. Loyola was
lying on his left side, apparently asleep; and poor
Adele, sitting on a box, with her back against a bale
of goods, was nodding with drowsiness, though evidently
struggling to keep herself awake, probably
because she had been ordered to do so by her tyrannical
master. I wished to say a parting word to her,
but did not think it prudent to speak, and so withdrew
as stealthily as I came.
Loyola's wagon was near the runlet or creek, which
was the proper outlet to the camp; and springing
over the tiny stream, I ascended the opposite slope,
and once more found myself upon the broad, beaten
trail. Here I remembered I had left my rifle at Phillips'
wagon, and went back for it. He had just returned
from looking at his animals, and was in the
act of crawling into his vehicle. I exchanged another
good-bye with him, and hastened away. Once more
over the little stream, and upon the trail, I proceeded
to load my rifle, and then set off eastward upon a run,
so anxious was I to reach my camp and relieve the
distress of my friend.
The night had now become quite dark. The rising
vapors had completely veiled the heavens, and, stretching
along the earth, like a cloud, had wrapped a close
mantle around every object; so that the speed with
which I had ventured to start, was suddenly checked
by an obstruction, over which I went headlong, but
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[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
fortunately without breaking a bone, or seriously injuring
my rifle. On gathering myself up, I came to
the conclusion, that the race, in this case, might not
be to the swift; and that the slightest variation from
the trail, would be likely to detain me from my friend
till morning, to say nothing worse; so I resumed my
route at a very slow walk, and allowed my mind to
run over in haste the events of the day.
And a most eventful day it had been to me. I had
travelled twenty miles into a new country; had seen
a trifle of wilderness life and sport; had quarreled
twice; had been lost once; had three times narrowly
escaped with my life; had shot a man, perhaps mortally;
had received a brief trial and acquittal; and
last, though not least, had, according to the opinions
of some, fallen in love with a young and beautiful
girl, whom I had for the first time beheld within the
last three or four hours.
But was the inference, which had been drawn from
my actions, a correct one? Was I in love with Adele
Loyola? I did not think so. True, I had taken a
strange interest in her; had felt peculiar sensations
in her presence, which I had never before experienced
in the presence of one of her sex; and I still regarded
her, now that she was absent, as one of the brightest
links in the chain of my existence; as one whom I
was bound to snatch from a tyrannical master, and
to succor and protect; but did it follow that I was in
love? Was the feeling I had for her other than
brotherly sympathy? other than I might have felt
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
toward another similarly circumstanced? Love!
what was love? I knew nothing about it. I had
never been in love in my life. I had always supposed
it to be the passionate desire of two persons, of
different sexes, to unite their fates and fortunes for
the journey of life. Had I any such desire with regard
to Adele? No! Had she any such wish or
thought with respect to myself? Probably not. Did
I wish to marry at all? and more especially the object
of my present solicitude? No! Then how could I be
in love? I was not. It was only mere fancy on the
part of those who knew nothing of my nature.
Besides, when looking forward to an event which
might possibly happen in the course of my life, though
not yet for years, I had set up an ideal being in my
mind—an ideal which I had never as yet seen in
human form—an ideal as unlike Adele Loyola as any
other of her sex. Then why think of love in connection
with her? Pshaw! what folly! Who was
she? I did not know: she did not know herself. I
was interested in the mystery, of course; interested
in her as an unfortunate being; interested in serving
her, so far as lay in my power; interested in seeing her
made happy; interested in wanting and retaining her
good opinion: but it was the interest of a brother
rather than a lover, or else warm friendship and
ardent passion had not the marked distinction I had
always supposed.
Thus I pondered, as, with slow pace and weary
limbs I pursued my course—the deep cart-ruts of
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[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
the road, or trail, being sufficient guide to my steps,
even though I could not perceive an object a foot
from my eye. At length, on calculating time and
progress, to the best of my ability, I came to the
conclusion that I had advanced about far enough
eastward to be on a line with the camp of my friend;
but as I could see nothing in any direction, I began
to feel renewed uneasiness, lest after all I should be
compelled to pass the night away from him. Once
more I bethought me of my rifle, and discharged it;
but the fog lay so dense around, that the report did
not go far, and I listened in vain for an answering
sound. I still kept moving slowly forward, and
presently the rippling sound of water caught my ear.
I now fairly shouted for joy. That this was the
stream on which my companions were encamped, I
really believed; and if so, I had only to enter its
bed, and follow it up, for a quarter of a mile, to find
them.
Fifteen minutes more put me out of suspense, and
filled my heart with joy; for I now beheld the light
of a fire; and, sitting beside it, his elbows on his
knees, his face buried in his hands, was the figure of
my friend. I approached him stealthily, and placed
my hand on his shoulder. He looked up with a start,
and a flash of joy brightened his pale, sad features.
“Why, Roland!” he exclaimed; “my friend! you
have come at last—God be praised!” and springing to
his feet, he threw his arms around my neck, and
wept like a child.
-- 169 -- p462-146
CHAPTER X. OUR JOURNEY RESUMED.
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
“Hello!” shouted another voice, that seemed to be
half smothered; and at the same moment a dark
bundle, a few feet distant, came rolling toward the
fire, and the rough, ugly features of One-Eyed Sam
popped out into the light. “Hello! Freshwater—
that thar you?”
“It is me, Sam, thank God!”
“Thought you'd got lost, or gone under!”
“I have been lost.”
“Expect! Ary deer, boy?
“No!”
“Nary once—I knowed it—chaw me! Hyer's a
old nigger as'll wet on to that thar. Augh! Glad
you've come, lad! Shadbones war quite down in the
mouth. Better turn in and snooze it off, and talk it
over to-morrow. Right smart chance of fog, and the
muskeeters bite like the d—l. Augh!”
With this the head ducked into the blanket, like a
turtle into its shell, and the bundle rolled back to its
place, when something like a snore gave evidence
that the old trapper had put off care till another day.
“Oh, my friend!” exclaimed Varney, in a tremulous
voice—“how shall I express my joy at your safe
return! Oh! if you only knew what I have suffered
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[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
on your account! and yet, to some extent, a selfish
suffering, as I am free to admit.”
“I do know, Alfred,” returned I; “at least I have
in imagination seen your mental anguish. But come!
it is late; you have been much disturbed, and need
rest; let us take Botter's advice, turn into our hammocks,
and talk over the matter to-morrow.”
“But you need food, Roland!”
“No! I have already eaten all I require. Are the
animals safe?”
“Yes, they are all picketed close around us. Mr.
Botter was kind enough to take care of ours as well
as his own. But tell me—where have you been?
why did you not return at the time promised? and
how did you obtain food?”
“The story is too long for to-night, my friend. I
have met with some remarkable adventures, but am
weary; and so I pray you restrain your curiosity till
to-morrow.”
“I will try and do so,” he said, feebly; and as he
spoke, he was seized with a fit of coughing, which
lasted a long time, and left him greatly exhausted.
“You should have gone into your tent before dark,
and avoided this damp air!” said I, reprovingly. “If
you do not take better care of yourself, I am afraid
you will never see the mountains.”
“My dear friend,” he replied, “do not blame me!
I did go into the tent and lie down; but I could not
even remain there. I could not avoid thinking of
you; and the more I thought, the more excited I
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became; till at last it seemed as if I should suffocate;
and I was, as it were, compelled to get up and sit by
the fire. Oh! Roland, for the love of Heaven, do not
leave me so again! If anything were to happen to
you, I believe it would kill me. I am so feeble—so
dependent—and, without you, I feel so lonely—so
wretched.”
He spoke in such a feeble, mournful, pleading tone,
that I was affected even to tears. I took his thin,
trembling hand in mine, and, in an unsteady voice,
rejoined:
“Alfred Varney, unless severed by the overruling
power of Divine Providence, I will not leave you
again, till you are better able to bear the parting.”
“Thank you, Roland! my more than brother!” he
responded, with tearful eyes. “I am asking much of
you, I know; I am a dead weight upon your enjoyment;
I am a poor, miserable, selfish mortal—unnerved—
unmanly perhaps—with the seeds of death
in my system; I may never be able to repay your
kindness; but I know there is a world beyond,
where all will be rewarded for the good they do in
this; and when the time shall come, as you know it
must come, for you to go hence, your spirit will be
buoyed up by the knowledge that you did all you
could to render happy the last hours of a dying
friend.”
“Say no more, Varney!” I replied, most deeply
affected; “do not talk in this desponding, melancholy
strain; for you not only make me very sad, but
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[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
unfit yourself for the hard, perilous journey before
you. I will do all I can for you, and feel it no sacrifice;
I promised as much when I consented to be
your companion; but you must, for my sake, try and
look on the bright, instead of the dark, side of the
picture. The mind, in your case, has much power
over your disease; and if you give way to despondency,
it will only hasten the doom we both seek to
avert.”
“I know it—I know it,” he rejoined; “and I will
try and be cheerful and hopeful; only do not give
me the same cause for despondency which you have
to-night. Roland,” he continued, earnestly, after a
moment's pause, during which he seemed to be lost
in deep reflection—“did it ever occur to you, that
when, as in my case, the spirit is partially severed
from its bonds of clay, it might at times receive correct
impressions concerning the unknown future?
that it might, as it were, become invested with prophetic
knowledge?”
“I do not know that I have ever thought upon the
subject; but why do you ask?”
“You remember, when you spoke of going in quest
of deer, how anxious I seemed that you should not
lose sight of the camp?”
“Yes,” said I; “and I felt some surprise that you
should be fearful of my getting lost.”
“That,” returned Varney, “might have been natural
to any one so dependent on another, as I acknowledge
myself to be upon you—but that was the least
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of my fear. I did not express all I felt then—for one
does not like to subject himself to ridicule; but I will
speak frankly now—for you are now prepared to say
what claim I have to prophetic inspiration. If none,
I shall be glad to know it was mere fancy, and not
truth—for I desire not to see into a future so fraught
with danger to those I love.”
“Say on!” returned I, with newly awakened interest.
“Remember, Roland, you have told me nothing;
and if I hit upon facts, that have transpired to your
knowledge, you must at least regard it as something
singular.”
“I certainly shall so do,” said I, “if you are even
able to tell me one tithe of what has taken place since
I parted from you.”
“I shall make no attempt to tell you what has happened,
my friend—for my impression was general,
rather than particular; but I felt, and believed, your
life would be in danger three several times ere I
should see you again.”
“Great God!” exclaimed I, with a start; “does
Destiny indeed walk before us, pointing out the path
which we must follow!”
“ `There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
“ `Rough-hew them how we will,' ”
replied my friend, with deep solemnity. “How near
right was I, Roland?”
“Right to the letter. I have three times narrowly
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escaped death since I saw you. But had you any
intimation in what manner, and by what means, my
life would be menaced?”
“None.”
“Did you think I would escape?”
“Twice I knew you must, else your life could not
a third time be in danger—but for the third time I
trembled! But tell me how it happened, Roland?”
“Not now! not now!” said I, glancing cautiously
around, and dropping my voice to a whisper. “Is
Stericks here?”
“Yes! he is asleep yonder, just beyond Botter,”
was the whispered reply.
“What time did he come in?”
“About dark.”
“Did he bring any game?”
“He was loaded with deer meat, of which we made
our supper.”
“Did he inquire for me?”
“Not in my hearing.”
“Come!” said I, aloud—“let us to bed; you forget
we have a journey before us to-morrow.”
We accordingly repaired to our tent, and it was my
design to turn in and go to sleep at once; but my
friend was so anxious to hear of my adventures, that
I thought it best to gratify him; and in a very low
tone I hurriedly narrated the principal facts. He was
much depressed and distressed at what had occurred—
but said he could not see that I was to blame in
shooting Loyola, everything being taken into
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consideration. As to the mysterious shot, he thought, like
myself, that it was an attempt of Stericks to take my
life; but advised me to make no mention of it to
either of the trappers, and appear as if nothing had
happened—though, thenceforth, to take every precaution
against a secret foe, and be ever on the watch for
a sinister indication.
“As regards that poor girl, Roland,” he said,
“much as I pity her—and pity her, I do, from my
very soul—I do not think it would be wise in you to
interfere. You would, in all probability, get yourself
involved in a more serious difficulty, without being
able to better her condition in the least.”
“But my conscience would ever reprove me,” returned
I, “should I leave her in the hands of such a
brutal monster.”
“And provided you took her away from him—
what would you do with her?” he inquired.
“Do with her?” said I, not a little puzzled for a
rational answer; “why, take her to her friends.”
“And who are her friends? and where, Roland?”
he pursued. “I understand you to say, that she
knows little or nothing of her early history, and is
not certain that she has a friend or relative in the
world.”
“But I think I could find the convent where she
was educated.”
“And what then?”
“I think I could there learn something more
of her.”
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“You might, and you might not; suppose the
latter—what then?”
“I do not know what,” said I; “but doubtless Providence
would aid me in my efforts to do right.”
“Pray answer me, frankly, a simple question!”
continued Varney, with much earnestness. “Would
you, under any circumstances, make this girl your
wife?”
“Frankly, then,” replied I, “I have no such design
in view. I do not wish to marry at present and if I
did, she is not my ideal.”
“Then, for a single moment, my dear friend, consider
the whole matter in a reasonable and rational
manner; and tell me, if you do not think it would be
Quixotic in the extreme for you, a young man of twenty-one,
to take this girl of seventeen from her father, or
one who passes for her father, and set off alone with
her into a strange country, for the purpose of restoring
her to friends of whom she has no knowledge, and
who, for all you know to the contrary, may have no
existence save in your excited imagination?”
“You certainly place the matter in a very Quixotic
point of view,” said I, much struck with the force of
his remarks.
“I certainly place the matter in its true light,” he
answered.
“Well, I will sleep upon it, perhaps dream upon
it,” said I; “and we will confer upon it to-morrow.
We both need rest, after the exciting events of to-day—
you especially. Good night, my friend.”
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“Good night, and God bless you!” he returned.
We both turned into our hammocks, without saying
anything further, but neither went immediately to
sleep. He coughed for an hour, and I lay awake and
listened to him, my brain racked with painful and
perplexing thought. At last he became quiet, and I
gradually fell into a slumber, which was more or less
disturbed, through the night, with strange and startling
dreams. Toward morning, however, my nerves
became quieted, and I became oblivious to the cares
of mortality.
When I awoke, the sun was an hour above the
eastern horizon, and was shining bright and clear,
and gradually dispersing the mists and fog that still
lay in the little valleys along the courses of the different
streams. My friend was now sleeping tranquilly;
and fearful of disturbing him, I crept carefully
from the hammock, and stealthily left the tent.
It was indeed a day to put one in good spirits.
The mists had left the elevations, and the bright sun
was scattering the fog in the valley of our camp;
birds fluttered and sung in the branches of the trees
above us; squirrels chirruped, and leaped from limb
to limb, or darted up and down the stately trunks;
bees hummed their drowsy song, as they flew from
one bright flower to another; the little stream purled
musically, and sparkled like silver, as the light breeze
now and then lifted the mist and let the rays of the
sun strike it; and all nature seemed joyous and
decked in her holiday attire. I felt most sensibly the
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cheerfulness of the day, and resolved to show goodwill
to every living thing; and had even a rattlesnake
at that moment crossed my path, I should have given
him a wide berth, and allowed him to pass on unharmed,
unmolested.
I found the trappers squatted upon the ground, at
a little distance from a dying fire, which had cooked
their morning meal. They had their pipes in their
mouths, and seemed to be enjoying their indolence;
for One-Eyed Sam was talking glibly, and Wolfy
Jake was listening, and occasionally grunting approval
to his remarks. Neither seemed to take any
notice of me, as I drew near, till Botter had closed
his observations, with one of his peculiar laughs—
when, turning to me, he said:
“Wall, Freshwater, ef snoozing can save you settlement
chaps, there's no chance of your spyling.
Augh!”
“So it seems,” returned I, with a cheerful smile.
“But you must bear in mind I had a very fatiguing
day of it yesterday; and my sick friend, who is still
asleep, needs all the rest he can get, after the intense
anxiety and excitement he suffered on my account.”
“Yes, Shadbones war rayther down in the mouth
about you, that's a fact; though I knowed you'd kim
out right side up, and hind-sight plum!” and he
winked his one eye mischievously, and his ugly features
spread out into a broad grin. “But whar was
you all that time, and nary deer about?”
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“I was on the look-out for game till dark,” replied
I; “and on my return I missed my way.”
As I said this, I fixed my eyes upon Stericks, who
sat quietly smoking, and looking off down the stream,
taking no notice of me whatever. I thought if he
were guilty of an attempt upon my life, I should perhaps
detect some change, however slight, in the expression
of his features. But I did not. There was
not the slightest variation in color—nor the slightest
twinkle, expansion, or contraction of the eye; and the
eye, be it observed, will often betray the consciousness
of an allusion to a secret fact, while all the rest of the
countenance, by an effort of the will, may remain in
an innocent repose. For some moments I looked
fixedly at Stericks, in order to decide in my own
mind if he held murder in his soul; but his was one
of those hard, inexpressive, phlegmatic faces, that, in
general, give no reflex of the owner's thought; though,
on the present occasion, I fancied the harsh outlines
appeared softened; and I was tempted to address him
in a kindly tone, in order, if possible, to do away with
that bitter animosity which must render our journey
disagreeable, to say the least, so long as we should remain
travelling companions. Botter glanced at me,
and seemed to understand my wish—for he immediately
observed, in his peculiar way:
“Come, come—what's the use, Wolfy? why can't
you and Freshwater make it up, and be friends? I'd
hate, most powerful, to hev anything agin anybody
on sich a day as this hyer—I would—chaw me!”
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“For my part,” said I, “I am desirous to forget
what has passed between Mr. Stericks and myself;
and if he is willing, we will shake hands, and be no
longer enemies.”
“I don't believe in shaking hands,” growled Stericks,
without turning his head; “but ef you've a mind
to be civil, younker, we'll say no more about it; but
ef you raise the devil in me agin, I'll shoot you,
by —!”
I felt my blood tingle for a sharp retort. I was
tempted to tell him that he had already tried the
shooting game once and failed; and that I could do
something with powder and lead, as well as himself;
but, for several reasons, I restrained my temper, and
replied:
“Very well—let it end so then.”
“Come,” said Sam, judiciously turning the conversation,
“you want some feed, Freshwater; and
thar's meat, and thar's fire.”
“Thank you—I will help myself.”
“And I say, Freshwater, I reckon you'd best stir
up Shadbones; for we don't see powerful many sich
days to this hyer, and we ought to make the most on'
em—yes-siree!”
“As soon as I have cooked my meat, I will call
him,” said I.
“Then, Wolfy, we'd best fotch in the critters, and
pack our traps,” he continued, turning to his companion.
“Never you mind, though; you got the
feed last night, and this hyer old nigger'll git the
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critters ready;” and knocking the ashes from his pipe,
he carefully placed it in his wampum-worked holder,
and set off to drive in the horses and mules, which
were feeding at no great distance.
By the time I had replenished the fire, and toasted
a slice of meat, Varney made his appearance. He
looked pale and exhausted, said he felt very weak,
and was afraid he would not be able to make a long
day's journey. He had some appetite, however,
which I considered a favorable sign; and, after partaking
of our somewhat primitive meal, said he felt
stronger.
As the morning was wearing away, and I knew
the trappers were anxious to be on the move, I
hastened to catch our animals, saddle our horses, fold
our tent, and pack the mule; and in less than half an
hour from Varney's appearance, we were once more
mounted, and had bidden a long, an eternal, adieu to
Camp Calyptra.
We regained the Santa Fe trail, and, in the course
of another half hour, rode directly through the now
deserted camp of the Santa Fe traders. I did not pass
the ground without experiencing some very strange
and peculiar sensations; and as I pointed out the
spot to Varney, he slightly shuddered, and said:
“I thank God, Roland, you did not kill him!”
“I pray God he may not die!” returned I.
“And what of the girl, my friend?” he continued.
“Are you still resolved on your Quixotic adventure?
or have you thought better of it?”
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“I should like to see her again—I must see her
again, Alfred—but, further than that, I am not prepared
to say.”
“And are you really resolved on seeing her again,
Roland?”
“I am.”
“But how will you accomplish your wish?”
“We must overtake them.”
“I fear it will be impossible, my friend, unless
they travel very slowly, or my health so improves as
to make long daily journeys.”
“I think we shall travel faster than they, and they
have only very little the start,” I replied.
“Well, to gratify you, Roland, I will exert myself
to the utmost of my strength,” said Varney, with a
troubled countenance.
“You shall do no such thing, and I beg you to
give yourself no uneasiness! It is a long journey to
Santa Fe; and if we do not overtake the party in
question for a week or two, it will make no material
difference. I wish to see Adele again, and have a
further talk with her; I wish to learn the result of
the wound of Loyola; but I am in no haste: therefore
cast the matter from your mind.”
The country we travelled over on the second day,
was of the same general character as that of the day
preceding—rolling prairie, green with grass, and gay
with bright flowers—steep bluffs, winsome valleys,
and wooded streams. Much of the soil was rich, but
only a little of it was under cultivation. Here and
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there, at long intervals, were the log-cabins of Indian
farmers—for, by treaty, no whites were allowed to
settle here; but the different tribes, who owned the
land, in general preferred hunting and fishing to the
labor of cultivating more than an occasional corn-patch
and a patch for vegetables. They lived mostly in
moving villages—that is to say, villages of tents,
which they could strike in the morning, transport
through the day, and pitch at night, with very little
trouble. Their territory was large for their numbers,
and their wealth lay mostly in horses, mules and cattle,
which cost them little labor to raise, and which
found ready sale, at fair prices, with their eastern
white neighbors.
On our journey to-day we met a party of some half
a dozen, going to Independence with a small drove of
horses. They were superbly mounted, and were
dressed to Indian fancy—being bedecked with feathers
and wampum, and bedaubed with paint; and they
had bows, and quivers of arrows, and rifles, and
lassos, the latter coiled and hung upon the horns of
their Mexican saddles. They were friendly, of course,
though looking very fierce; and being real, native
Indians, of whom I had heard and read so much—
and being, moreover, more Indianfied than anything
I had seen at Independence—I could not resist the
temptation of stopping one, on pretence of wishing to
know the price of a good horse. I was at first inclined
to be very romantic, and to fancy myself my great-great-grandfather,
or some other worthy
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pioneer-leader, on the point of making a very important
treaty with a bold, daring, cruel, pale-face-hating
Indian chief; but the moment he opened his mouth,
and assured me “his hoss was good a heap,” I began
to feel quite common-place; and when he wound up
by telling me “he liked good whisk to make drunk
come,” and asked for a “chaw tobac,” I thought him
akin to a very vulgar human importation from Holland,
and could scarcely conceal my disgust. So we
parted—neither particularly pleased—he no richer,
but I some wiser. Shade of Cooper! had this red
man the cunning of the fox, the fierceness of the
tiger, the nobility of the lion? No! rather say the
slouching vulgarity of the hound! And this is the
half-civilized Indian of the nineteenth century!
My friend proved not so well able to bear the
fatigues of the second day as the first; and by the
middle of the afternoon we encamped for the night.
During the night his cough became more troublesome
than usual; and he had a slight hæmorrhage of the
lungs, which quite alarmed me. The next day he
was still weaker; and we both began to despair of
his ever seeing the mountains; but from that time he
gradually began to amend, and hope revived.
For several days, which I pass over with a word,
we were not in our saddles over four or five hours of
the twenty-four, and then we travelled very slowly.
This was a standing cause for grumbling on the
part of Stericks; and even Botter himself, I fancied,
began to get tired of his bargain—though he had, as
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yet, made no direct complaint. I had once or twice
heard of the Santa Fe traders, from parties we had
met—but could learn nothing of Loyola or his daughter.
According to report, the company was now
many leagues ahead of us; and I began to lose all
hope of overtaking them before they should reach the
point where our course would require us to diverge
from the grand trail.
During all this time, the weather had proved
remarkably fine; and our route, each day, had been
over the same delightful, picturesque country already
described; but we were now approaching the borders
of these rolling and partially timbered lands; and
were about to enter upon the grand prairies—upon
scenes of more exciting and thrilling adventure—upon
scenes of hardship and peril—compared to which, all
I had seen and experienced would sink into insignificance.
Oh! the eventful future which lay before
me! Could I have lifted the vail, which, by
Almighty wisdom, shut it from my view, I should
perhaps have turned back with trembling and fear.
But the beacon of hope seemed to beam brightly in
the distance; and I pressed onward, perceiving not
its ignis fatuus illusions, nor the quicksands of despair
which lay between me and my goal!
-- 186 -- p462-163
CHAPTER XI. STARTLING NEWS.
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The breeze was blowing softly from the south, a
few fleecy clouds were floating through the blue of
heaven, and the bright, genial sun was some three
hours advanced on his western decline, when we
reached that little Paradise of the West known as
Council Grove. On our journey hither, I had seen
many beautiful places and scenes—but none to equal
this. A grove of stately trees, their trunks standing
like huge columns to support the green Gothic canopy
above, formed a broad belt to the right and left of a
clear running stream, which purled through a gently
sloping valley, whose emerald hue was variegated
with thousands of bright flowers. All the sylvan
charms of the temperate zone were here in lavish profusion.
Giant trees of oak, beech, hickory, elm, ash,
maple and walnut, here seemed vieing for superiority,
yet with harmonious rivalry, and locking their huge
arms in fraternal embrace. Bees hummed their
drowsy songs, as they flew from one bright flower to
another—sometimes seeming to dispute possession with
gay-colored butterflies—while thousands of grass-hoppers
went bounding from blade to blade, and the
innocent cricket chirped his music beneath them all
Above us, sleek, bright-eyed squirrels went leaping
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from limb to limb, combining cunning, coyness, and
boldness in their every movement; and while hundreds
of showy-plumed aerial voyagers fluttered
among the green leaves, the well-known mocking-bird,
cat-bird, and blue-jay, made the air vocal with
their melodies.
“Roland,” exclaimed Varney, as we rode under the
green arches, “is this the Garden of Eden?”
“The Garden of Eden could scarcely have been
more beautiful and enchanting,” I replied.
“This hyer's one of the spots!” observed One-Eyed
Sam; “and this hyer old nigger says it, as has
seed some punks in his time. Augh! But we've
been a long time gitting here,” he added, with some
hesitation; “and though I hate to tell you so, Wolfy's
got opinionated that we'd best quit to this hyer.”
“Indeed!” returned I, in a tone of surprise; “and
do you wish to be released from your bargain?”
“Wait till we camp,” was the reply, “and then I'll
tell you some'at.”
We pitched our camp in one of the shadiest nooks
of this sylvan retreat; and then, for the first time, I
discovered we were not the only human tenants of
the grove. On the opposite side of the stream, some
distance below us, was a small moving village of
Peorias; and near it, the camp of a party of white
traders from Missouri. I pointed them out to Botter,
who said, in reply:
“Sartin, Freshwater—I knowed thar'd be white
and red humans hyer, so as you could take your pick,
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ef you didn't go no furder with me and Wolfy—fur
this hyer's a grand stamping ground to all the friendly
red niggers, and them as wants to trade with 'em;
and I've seed 'em here as thick as fleas to a dog's
back—ef I haven't, chaw me! Augh!”
“Then you are really in earnest about separating
from us?” inquired I.
“Why, hoss, I don't like it, and I'd like to take
you considerable; but Shadbones keeps us back like
a sick muley, and Wolfy growls like the d—l, and so
what's a old one-eyed nigger to do except to gin in?”
“Well,” said I, “I don't know as I can blame you;
for when we made our bargain with you, I supposed, of
course, we should be able to travel much faster than
we have done between here and Independence.”
“Yes,” returned Botter; “and don't forgit we've
had jam up weather, and been tramping through a
peaceable country; but now we're agwine to leave all
them thar behind; and what 'ud Shadbones do with
his tent tore up into lariats, all heaven kiming down
to water, and a hundred screeching devils arter his
top-knot? You kin gamble high on to it, Freshwater,
that ef he don't jine some big party with wagons, he'll
never take his ha'r to Bent's.”
“But can we find such a party going directly to
Bent's.”
“Expect—leastways, thar's al'ays some as is gwine
out about this time.”
“Very well, I will have a talk with my friend, and
see what can be done.”
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This conversation occurred while Botter and myself
were unsaddling and unpacking our animals; and as
soon as I had hoppled and picketed ours, I informed
Varney what had passed between us.
“Well, Roland, he is right,” he said, in a low, sad
tone. “I have myself been thinking I might never
get through on horseback, and Stericks' impatience
and surliness is a great source of annoyance. We
will pay them for their time, and let them go; and if
I can find no means for getting on, I can die here.
It is at least a consolation to think my body will take
its last rest in the most beautiful spot I have ever
seen.”
“Come! come!” returned I; “do not talk of dying
here, or elsewhere! During the last three or four
days, your health has improved, and you only need
good spirits to make you still better. Let us take a
walk through this grove, and visit our neighbors.”
“Have you given up all thoughts of overtaking
Adele?” inquired Varney, as, arm-in-arm, we sauntered
down the flowery bank of the limpid stream.
“I should, if I have not—for doubtless the traders
are fifty miles ahead of us.”
“And are you contented to let her go?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because it is my duty to study your pleasure and
happiness, as well as you mine; and as we cannot
longer travel together in the company of the trappers,
perhaps you had better leave me here and go on with
them yourself.”
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“Leave you here—alone?”
“No, not alone. I think I can make friends with
my countrymen here—or at least with the Indians;
and in their camp, and under their protection, I can
remain till I find an opportunity of prosecuting my
journey with a large company of wagoners. I am delighted
with the place—I feel the need of rest—and
so I think I shall pass a few days very agreeably
here.”
“And for what purpose shall I go forward?”
mused I.
“That you best know yourself, Roland?”
“True, I did promise Adele I would see her again
soon; and, I frankly admit, it would give me pleasure
to keep my word; but that pleasure would be heightened
to have you in my company.”
“But you see that cannot be, Roland. I can only
travel a few miles a day on horseback, under the most
favorable circumstances; and the most favorable
circumstances, so far, we have had. What would
become of me, should I see the reality of the picture
which Botter has drawn? And, moreover, you could
go on to Bent's Fort, and there await me; and there,
you know, we were to separate, according to your
original plan of returning home in the fall; so that the
parting must come soon or late, and the only difference
between now and then is time.”
“You grow philosophical,” said I, “and seem anxious
to get rid of me.”
“Roland Rivers!” exclaimed Varney, stopping
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[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
suddenly, and facing me, with a sad, reproachful look,
that touched my heart—“what have I ever done to
deserve such words from you?” and his voice trembled,
and his dark eyes filled with tears.
“Forgive me, my friend!” said I, grasping his thin
hand. “I was hasty; I did not think before I spoke;
but I was surprised to hear you speak so coolly of
separation, when all along I had been led to suppose
it would be painful to you as well as myself.”
“If you could look into my heart this minute,
Roland, and behold the anguish it has cost me to
make this proposition, you would not reproach me
with making it coolly, and without pain.”
“Why then have you made it at this time of all
others?”
“Roland, I have watched you closely for the last
few days, and have thus been made aware how much
your mind dwells upon that poor girl. Ah! you
start—you are surprised; but you must know that,
to me, the face of a friend is a glass, in which I see
the heart mirrored; and to read your heart, in so
good a glass as your face, were an easy task, even to
a novice. I know you have sought to conceal from
me the fact of your mind being occupied with what
you fancied would give me pain to learn—but which
I have learned, nevertheless—and had it not been
that I indulged the hope of being able to make such
progress as would accomplish your desire, I should
have spoken to you on the subject ere this. Thus
you perceive why I have chosen the present time, of
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[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
all others, to make my proposition—it now being
rendered certain that I cannot go forward with the
rapidity required—and I would not have you disappointed
for the world.”
“But, Varney, much as I would like to see Adele,
and learn the fate of Loyola, I cannot bear to think
of leaving you here—it seems like deserting a friend.”
“It is not so in truth,” replied Varney; “though I
shall be selfish enough to exact a promise, that you
will either return on the trail and meet me, or go forward
to Bent's and await my arrival—for not to behold
you again, would render me miserable indeed.”
“But can you find a safe conveyance to the fort, do
you think?”
“We will inquire; and here we are at the traders'
camp. How shall we cross the stream? I would avoid
wetting my feet.”
“Let me show you;” and lifting him in my arms,
as if he had been a child, I quickly landed him on the
opposite bank—for the stream was neither wide nor
deep.
We here found a few traders from Missouri, and a
small village of Peorias—the “big village,” as it was
termed, being out on the plains. The Indians here
were not painted, and really appeared quite civilized—
many of them being clothed in garments purchased
from the whites, and several of them being able to
converse in the English language with ease and
fluency. The males, some of them, were fine, athletic-looking
fellows; and a few of the women had
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interesting and intelligent, though not remarkably
handsome, features. There were about thirty in all—
men, women, and children; and though most of them
were rather flashily ornamented with gold and silver
rings, brooches, red scarfs, red blankets, beads, wampum,
and so forth, I saw not one of decidedly repulsive
appearance Their tents were pitched in a
semi-circle, fronting on the stream, and looked comfortable
and tidy; and their cattle were grazing in the
vicinity, tended by half-grown boys.
The traders, about a dozen in number, were
awaiting customers from the plains—Council Grove
being the grand rendezvous of all the friendly tribes.
They dealt in guns, knives, pistols, trinkets, gew-gaws,
cloths, blankets, powder, lead, whiskey, tobacco, sugar,
coffee, and so on; and bartered their commodities for
furs, skins, horses, cattle, and such articles of Indian
manufacture as would find ready market in the
States. Their wagons were so disposed as to form a
hollow square; and they displayed their articles in a
long, temporary booth, each trader having his allotted
place or stall. At present they were doing no business;
and while three or four were lounging about,
smoking their pipes, and talking over their affairs, the
others were playing cards and pitching quoits.
To our inquiries concerning a party for Bent's Fort,
we were answered, that it was supposed a small train
of wagons would be shortly going out, but at what
precise time no one could say. Varney asked for the
privilege of being allowed to pitch his tent in their
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camp, and was told that he would be welcome to do
so; and further, that he could mess with them, by
paying his share of the expense—a proposition which
he accepted with pleasure.
“You seem determined to so arrange your affairs
that I shall have no excuse for remaining with you,”
I observed to him.
“I know enough of the human heart, to be almost
certain that you will not rest contented till you have
redeemed your promise to Adele,” he replied.
“Well,” I rejoined “I will talk with Botter before
I decide—though I have no great inclination
to travel further with his surly companion.”
We were just on the point of leaving the traders'
camp, and recrossing the stream to our own, when
we heard the tramp of horses' feet; and immediately
after, four men, in the usual hunting costume of
the West, rode up to the wagons and dismounted—
their fine, noble animals, covered with sweat and dust,
fairly drooping their heads with fatigue, showing that
they had been ridden fast and far. The riders themselves,
all comparatively young men, and fine, athletic
fellows, looked weary and anxious—so that it was
evident, from a single glance, that something had
gone wrong.
“You're back soon, Mr. Sutton,” said one of the
traders, addressing one of the new-comers—a tall,
handsomely-formed individual, with black hair, eyes,
and beard, and whose age could not be far from
thirty. “Anything the matter?”
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“Yes!” replied Mr. Sutton, in a positive tone, with
compressed lips; “the Indians are out in great
numbers, and several whites have been killed. You
perceive that two of our own party are missing!”
Instantly the parties playing cards and pitching
quoits, left their games, and gathered around the
speaker and his companions, to hear the news.
Varney and myself also hurried up to the group.
“Let's hear all about it!” said the one who first
addressed Sutton.
“The story is soon told,” pursued Sutton. “We
were out on the plains, having some rare sport with
the buffaloes, in the vicinity of the Plum Buttes, when
we were suddenly set upon by a large party of Arrapahoes.
As our numbers were too few to cope
with them, we fled, in a southeast direction, aiming
to strike the Santa Fe trail. The Indians followed us
for a few miles, and then apparently gave up the pursuit.
As it was near night, we selected a pleasant
spot, and camped, keeping a sharp look-out till daylight,
when we were astonished to perceive the same
party not more than a mile distant. They had probably
been searching for us through the night, for
they immediately bore down toward us, and we made
a narrow escape, having barely time to saddle and
mount our beasts before they were upon our camp.
We left our tents, blankets, and camp utensils, which
they stopped to seize and divide, and this diversion
in our favor probably saved our lives. Determined
this time to put a safe distance between them and us,
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we continued our course eastward, and toward evening
reached Turkey Creek, where we found a company
of Santa Fe traders encamped on the western bank of
the stream. We joined them, and told them our
story. Some looked grave; but a few of the young
men received the intelligence lightly enough, and
seemed to think we had been unnecessarily scared.
They said if we had stood our ground, doubtless the
Indians would have fled, as they do not like to face
the unerring rifles of the whites.”
“That's a fact,” said the Missourian; “you see you
haint got seasoned out here yet!”
“Suppose you reserve your opinion, sir, till you
hear my story through!” rejoined Sutton, a little testily.
“When I have finished, you will be better able
to judge whether the Indians proved themselves arrant
cowards or not.”
“Oh, sartin,” returned the other, a little crestfallen.
“Go ahead!”
“I do not think,” proceeded Sutton, with a touch
of irony, “I am more cowardly than people in general;
but as my companions and myself came out here
for a pleasure hunt, we were not in a proper condition
to see the propriety of recklessly throwing our lives
away, when caution and prudence could save them.
Well, as I have said, some of the younger members
of the party in question, made rather light of our
story, and none seemed to be apprehensive of their
camp being attacked, though they took the precaution
to post sentinels. But it was attacked,
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nevertheless—probably by the same large party of Arrapahoes,
who fought like devils. We did not fly this
time, sir! but made as good a defence as we could.
Several of the Indians were killed; but, alas! that I
must add, several of the whites also, among whom
were two of our comrades. After a desperate fight of
more than an hour, our enemies retreated, bearing
away their dead, driving away several of the animals,
and taking with them two female prisoners.”
“Shocking!” exclaimed several voices.
“Was there a wounded man in that camp when
you joined it?” inquired I, eagerly.
“There was, sir—a Mexican, or Spaniard, I believe—
but he was killed at the first onset, and his daughter
was one of the two taken prisoners.”
“Good God! Adele a prisoner!” exclaimed I, in a
tone that drew the attention of the whole group upon
me.
“Yes,” said Sutton, “that was the name—I remember
hearing it mentioned with commiseration after the
fight was over.”
“When did this occur?”
“Last night.”
“You don't say you've come from Turkey Creek
since last night?” said one of the traders, in a tone of
surprise.
“Yes, since daylight this morning.”
“Then you've eyther killed your hosses—or, dern
me, they're some punks!” cried another.
“They are the true mettle, or we should never
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have escaped those cursed savages,” replied Sutton.
“But they need rest and food now; and as we are
almost worn out with our long ride, I will stand treat
for the whole, if any of you will unharness and
hopple them.”
Three or four of the party instantly took charge of
the weary animals, and I inquired the distance to
Turkey Creek.
“Wall, stranger, it's seventy mile, or tharabouts,”
was the answer; “leastways, we put it down for two
jam-up days' journey.”
“Will you permit me a few minutes' private conversation
with you?” I said, addressing one of
Sutton's companions—a light-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking
young man, of perhaps twenty-five years of
age.
“Certainly,” he replied, in a courteous tone; and we
immediately withdrew from the crowd.
“As I know several of the company which was
attacked,” I began, “and take a deep interest in the
fate of the poor girl—who, as your companion says,
was taken prisoner—I shall be much obliged to you
for some particulars of the tragic affair. Are you
sure the girl was not killed?”
“I am not sure,” he answered; “but after the fight,
it was discovered that she and another female were
missing, and it is supposed that the Indians took
them away alive.”
“Are you sure that her father was killed?”
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“If you mean the wounded man, I am sure, for I
saw him dead.”
“Do you happen to know if his wound was considered
dangerous at the time of the attack?”
“No, sir! of that I know nothing.”
“And how many of the whites were killed?”
“Seven in all, including two of our party—but
several others were wounded.”
“Was there any talk of following the Indians, in
order to rescue the captives?”
“I heard one or two suggestions of that kind—but
others said it would be the height of rashness and
folly—so I think none will make the attempt.”
“And what will the Indians do with these female
prisoners?”
“Make wives and slaves of them, I suppose.”
“Great Heaven!” cried I—“that must not be! they
must be rescued!”
“More easily said than done, my dear sir!” replied
the other. “These Indians are said to be among the
most formidable of the Western tribes; and it would
be sheer fool-hardiness to attack them in their own
country, without having a large force of experienced
Indian fighters.”
“But might these females not be rescued by stealth
or stratagem?”
“I cannot say, sir! but I think such things seldom
happen except in novels.”
“Is it your intention to return to the prairies?”
“No, sir! it is my intention to return to the States,
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and there remain. A party of six of us came out for
a pleasure hunt, and we have had enough of it. Two
of our friends take their last sleep on the banks of
Turkey Creek, and the rest of us are going home,
sadder and wiser than when we came hither.”
“It is curious,” observed Varney, reflectively—
“you return to the States to prolong your life, and I
seek the wilderness for the same object.”
“You go to regain your health?” inquired the
other.
“I do.”
“Well, you may do that, and lose your scalp. As
for me, I think I should rather die among my friends,
in a civilized country, than live out here in constant
dread and terror.”
After some further conversation, we returned to
our own camp.
“Well,” inquired Varney, “what now, Roland?”
“That girl must be rescued, Alfred!”
“But how?”
“I do not know—I must have a talk with Botter.”
“But surely, Roland, you will not be so venturesome
as to set off in quest of her?”
“And must she remain among them forever, poor
girl?”
“It is a hard fate,” sighed Varney, “and I appreciate
your humane and noble feelings; but if you
attempt to rescue her, you will only lose your own
life, and she remain a prisoner still.”
“I might, and I might not—God only knows.”
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“You are resolved on the venture then, Roland?”
“I will first consult Botter, and take his advice;
and, apropos, here he is.”
“Pray Heaven he discourage him!” said Varney,
in a tone not intended for my ear—though I heard
the words, and the deep sigh which followed.
CHAPTER XII. ON THE GRAND PRAIRIES.
I immediately made Botter acquainted with all I
had heard from the amateur hunters.
“Wall, them thar Injuns al'ays was the devil's
own,” he said in reply; “and hyer's a old nigger as
has seed 'em within short smell—ef I haven't, you kin
chaw me up fur a liar. Augh! But they must hev
got cantankerous arter them green spoonies, to make
sich a dash so fur east as Turkey Creek; they'd
looked a — sight more like themselves—the infernal,
greasy scoundrels—howling around to Pawnee
Fork; that's whar they ginerally spread out to do
thar dirty work.”
“So Pawnee Fork is considered the most dangerous
point on the route, is it?” said I.
“Rayther—though nobody's top-knot is parfectly
safe from thar to Bent's—but I'd not expected them
to Turkey Creek. Chaw me up fur a liar,
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Freshwater, but this hyer old one-eyed corn-cracker would
jest like to been thar—fur I jest feel myself spyling
fur a fight—eh! Wolfy?”
Stericks was squatted on the ground, within hearing,
and replied, in his usual growling tone:
“Better keep cl'ar of them thar 'Rappahoes—that's
my notion, and I knows 'em a few.”
“Wall, you does, old hoss!” laughed Botter. “D'ye
remember the time, Wolfy, we both went in, plumcentre,
rubbed three on 'em out, and lifted thar ha'r?”
“And how I toted you off, with two or three arrers
sticking into ye? Yes, I haint forgot to that.”
“Augh! them was times!” said Sam, with a satisfactory
grunt.
“Suppose I pay you well for your time, how would
you like to go with me in search of these female prisoners?”
inquired I.
“Go whar, Freshwater?”
“Why into the Indian country.”
“Arter them thar womens?”
“Yes.”
Botter looked at me, with a quizzical leer, as he inquired:
“In 'arnest, Freshwater?”
“Certainly I am.”
“What! you jest want to run your wool into them—
red niggers' fists, fur two womens?”
“You think, then, there would be no chance of our
return, should we make the attempt?”
“Nary once—not any more nor ef you was sunk
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two foot below wolf-smell! What! go dodging to
them thar niggers, to thar own stamping-ground, and
expect to keep your ha'r?—that's one of the notions—
chaw me!”
“From what you have just said, I inferred you had
done as much already.”
“Nary once, boy—nary once—not so green sence
I cut my eye-teeth. About fifteen of the — imps
once pitched into me and Wolfy, and we went in and
drawed blood; but that thar wasn't walking into the
whole nation, in thar own country, by a long shot.
Augh!”
“Alas! poor Adele!” sighed I.
“Poor what?”
“One of the females captured was a young girl, a
particular friend of mine,” said I, by way of explanation,
for I had never told either of the trappers of my
adventure in the traders' camp.
“Oh, she was, hey?” returned Botter; “that's the
reason fur you wanting to go, hey? Expect! Glad
you told me that thar, Freshwater.”
“Why?”
“Bekase your wanting to tramp arter two strange
womens, right into the devil's own camp, made me
suspicion your whole senses had gone a wolfing.
Being your friend, Freshwater, I'm sorry fur the gal;
but ef them thar 'Rappahoes has got her, thar's no
help for't—she'd better been dead fust.”
It is impossible to describe my feelings, when I
found there was no hope of my ever beholding Adele
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again. It was as if one bright joy had been for ever
removed from the sum total of life. Now, for the
first time, I realized how strong was that attachment
which I had termed friendship. Was it mere friendship?
or was it love? I began to doubt if I properly
knew my own heart—but time, I knew, would show.
“You see,” said I, sadly, turning to Varney, “I
have no object in hurrying forward now, and so I will
remain with you.”
He grasped my hand, and tears filled his eyes.
“You give me new life, my dear friend,” he replied.
“I should be miserable without you—though,
for your happiness, I feigned a willingness to make
the sacrifice.”
“Poor Adele!” I sighed.
“Roland, you love her,” he whispered, “and I pity
you.”
“She was good and beautiful, Alfred; and since I
have lost her, I feel that one bright hope has been
struck from existence. Is that love, Varney?”
“It is akin to it, at least,” he said; and as he
spoke, he cast his eyes upward, with an air of abstraction,
and sighed.
“You are thinking of her you love?” said I.
“Yes, Roland, I am thinking of my sweet Mary—
shall I ever behold her again?”
“You have hope,” said I.
“Else would life be valueless,” he rejoined. “I am
thinking, that were she lost to me forever, as perhaps
Adele is to you, not only one bright hope, but all
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hopes, ends and aims would be struck from my existence,
which would then be a blank indeed.”
“Yours is certainly true love,” said I; “but I cannot
say I have the same feelings; though, Heaven
knows, just now I feel quite wretched. Little did I
think, when I parted from that poor girl, in whom I
took so deep an interest, that such a horrible fate
awaited her, and that I should never behold her again.
Better, far better for her, had the ball, which I lodged
in Loyola's breast, been sent to her heart; for I am sure
her gentle spirit would have found its way to Paradise,
and thus she would have escaped an earthly
doom which makes me shudder to contemplate. And
Loyola is dead! How much had I to do in shortening
his days? Ah! the whole subject is painful—let
me not dwell upon it. Come, Varney, since we are
to travel no further in the company of the trappers,
let us settle with them, and talk over other plans—it
will at least be a temporary relief to my mind. If it
were not for you, my friend, I would turn back, and
make glad the hearts of my parents. Oh! Varney,
just now I am very, very wretched.”
“I perceive you are,” rejoined Varney, in a tone of
deep feeling; “and as I love you, my friend, I must
counsel you for the best. Do not make further sacrifice
for me; but if you feel you are doing wrong, in
going forward on this perilous journey, return at
once to those who have more claim upon you than I.
I shall always feel grateful for the kindness you have
shown to one who may never be able to repay you;
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but much as I prize your companionship, I would
not, for the world, that on my account you should do
that which will cause you future regret.”
“Say no more!” I replied—“I am going with you.
You have succeeded, during our brief acquaintance,
in twining yourself about my heart; and come what
come may, a friend in your extremity I will not desert.”
“Thank you, and may God reward you!” said
Varney, in a tremulous tone; and he turned his head
away to conceal his emotion.
Botter at first declined taking any pay for the time
he had lost in traveling to suit our convenience. He
said that as he was the first to break the bargain, he
was willing to consider the matter square; and that
we had a better right to complain of our disappointment
than to pay for it. But I insisted on remunerating
him, because his time was valuable, and he had
really been very kind and obliging, which was not to
be offset by the disagreeable churlishness of his
partner.
“Wall,” he said at last, with a mischievous grin,
and twinkle of his dark eye, “I reckon, Freshwater,
you sort o' does owe this hyer old beaver a wet to
Bent's, fur not fotching in ary deer—to say nothing
to hitting a tree to a hundred yard—eh! boy?”
“I certainly do, Sam; and as you were to call up
all your friends, you know, I am sure twenty-five dollars
will not be too large an appropriation for that
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interesting occasion, at which I had hoped to be present.”
“Chaw me, boy, but I wish you was gwine to be
thar—fur this hyer old hoss likes you jam up; but
them thar twenty-five shiners is too much—bekase,
ef me and Wolfy's got to wet 'em out, there'll be two—
lazy, drunken loafers fur a week. Eh! Wolfy,
coon?”
“Oh, take the money, without no sich — palaver!”
growled Stericks. “We've 'arned it, by the
hardest work I ever done to my life.”
“Then s'pose you take it, and shut your ugly meattrap!”
cried Botter, indignantly. And as I put the
specie into his hand, he gave it an angry toss to his
partner—muttering, in an undertone: “Some twolegged
critters is more hog nor human—ef they ain't,
why war decency diskivered? Augh!”
Saying this, he turned short about, and walked
away—but soon came back, and called me aside.
“Freshwater,” he said, “you musn't take me fur
Wolfy, nor Wolfy for One-Eyed Sam, when you kim
to think over your fust tramp. He's got some good
streaks, has Wolfy—and this hyer old nigger's got
some — bad ones—and so, not being jest alike, I
want you to keep me and him from gitting mixed up
like to your thinking noddle.”
“I certainly shall do that, without the least difficulty,”
I replied. “I shall always remember you as
one it would give me pleasure to meet again, either in
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the settlements or in the wilderness—but your companion—”
“Wall, thar, Freshwater, s'pose you quit to the
good word, and leave Wolfy go—fur I sees a sign in
your eye, that you'll say some'at as I wouldn't like to
hear, being his friend like, ye see.”
“Botter,” said I, grasping his hard, horny, weatherstained
hand, “would to Heaven there were more like
you in the world!”
“What! more sich chawed-up, slashed-up, nosebitten,
cheek-bored, one-eyed old niggers like to me,
hey?”
“Even so—if, under their rough exteriors, a heart
could be found like yours.”
“Wall, you won't find nary sich chopped-up human
agin—you kin gamble on to that,” returned the
old trapper. “As to the heart, Freshwater, I reckon
the less said about that thar ar' the best. I knows
I've got some decent feelings—but the devil gits into
me at times, and then I mought be prayed for a heap.
Augh!”
We spent the night in our tent, in the trappers'
camp; and the next morning, at an early hour, I took
leave of Botter, who expressed the hope that we
should meet again. I saw him mount his horse and
depart, with feelings of regret; for I had got accustomed
to his ways—and, rough and uneducated as he
was, I liked him.
The new day, like those which had preceded it, was
bright and beautiful. The sun rose golden in the east,
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and the birds, squirrels and insects surrounded us
with happy life, and filled the air with happy songs.
Varney, too, made his appearance in good spirits, and
seemed stronger and more animated than at any time
since our acquaintance; and this had a revivifying
effect upon me, who might otherwise have been quite
despondent. What with dividing my thoughts, strange
as it may seem, between poor Adele and my parents,
I had slept but little through the night; and had my
friend risen gloomy and dispirited, and the morning
been cloudy and unpropitious, I do believe I should
have been tempted, in spite of my resolution to the
contrary, to turn my steps homeward—so much are
we, impressible beings the best of us, affected internally
by external surroundings.
`Ah!” said Varney, cheerfully, with an animated
glow, as his eye wandered around the grove—“this
seems like living indeed! So, the trappers are gone?
Well, I am not sorry. I liked Botter; but his surly
companion constantly impressed me with dread—a
kind of indefinite fear—and I am glad to be relieved
of his presence.”
“Come,” said I, “let us go down to the traders'
camp, get another civilized meal, and see if we can
gather any interesting news.”
Not to enter too much into detail of that which can
be of no special interest to the reader, I will merely
remark, that we remained two days at Council Grove;
when, to our great delight, a military company, having
in charge a small train of wagons, passed through the
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place, on their way from Fort Leavenworth to Bent's
Fort. The commander of the company, whom I will
term Lieutenant Parker, being a very gentlemanly
and obliging individual, we had no difficulty in making
suitable arrangements to go out with him. We took
our animals, tent, and all our camp materials along;
and Varney had the privilege of riding on horseback,
and in one of the wagons, and changing from one to
the other as often as suited his pleasure, while the
lieutenant took care that we both fared as well as
himself.
We now journeyed much faster than before; and
there being some fifty of us in all, we felt perfectly
safe from Indian molestation; and had the weather
proved fine, we should have had a few days of
agreeable traveling; but during the afternoon of the
first day, it set in to rain—and continued, with very
little intermission, for three or four days—swelling
all the streams on our route, making the road in
many places muddy and miry, and causing the horses
and mules to chafe under the saddle and in the
harness.
Varney, much to my relief of mind, did not appear
to suffer from the unpleasant change of weather; but
he took care not to expose himself needlessly, and to
keep himself as dry as possible, under cover of the
wagon, in which he now rode altogether, (letting his
horse follow,) and which at night served him for a
tent.
Our first military camp was at Diamond Spring,
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about twenty miles from Council Grove. This is a
spring of clear, cold water, some three or four feet
across, and is a noted stopping-place for caravans,
either going out or coming in. The second day we
started early, and pushed rapidly forward, through
the constantly falling rain, and camped, just before
dark, on Cottonwood Fork, a distance of some thirty
miles from Diamond Spring. The third day—I date,
of course, from the time of our joining the company—
we found our animals so chafed and fatigued, that
we made only a short march, and encamped, about
noon, on Turkey Creek.
This was the spot to excite in me the most painful
emotions; for here it was the fight had occurred,
in which Loyola had met his death, and Adele been
taken prisoner. I looked around, with a sad heart,
and shuddered to think upon the awful fate of the
poor girl, who might never know the blessings of
happiness in her weary journey through life. Her
early years had been passed in what might well be
termed misery—but these, in comparison with her
present doom, might seem as sunny hours to a long
night of tempest. And would her present night of
wretchedness ever have a morn in life? or was it her
hard destiny to groan on, in desolate wo, till her
bright spirit should float to its heavenly home beyond
the dark river of death? Was there no hope for
her? was there no friendly hand to be stretched to
her relief? Should I, who had vowed to protect her,
go quietly on my way, and allow her to suffer?
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Was I always to think of her as one doomed to a
hopeless slavery, among a race of savages, and make
no attempt to save her? No! my soul revolted at
the thought; and should nothing intervene in her
favor, I solemnly resolved, soon or late, to make one
attempt to rescue her—even if compelled to go alone,
and unaided, into the very jaws, as it were, of a most
horrible death.
But it was not my intention to pursue a rash or
perilous course, if I could avoid it. I was resolved
that Adele, if living a prisoner among the Indians,
should be restored to civilized life; I was resolved,
should all other means fail, to do for her all that one
man could do, ere I turned my face homeward; but
I had no romantic ideas of performing wonderful
feats, like the knights of old, merely to display my
heroism and devotion. I would not rush into peril
for peril's sake—nor was I particularly desirous that
she should owe her liberty to me more than another.
My prime object was her restoration to civilization:
the means and manner of her deliverance, and by
whom performed, were of secondary importance.
I had strong hopes, too, this might be effected
without my personal assistance—for I had laid the
whole matter before Lieutenant Parker, and he had
promised to report to his superior officer, and thought
it not unlikely a force might be sent against the tribe
in question, to chastise them for their presumption,
and snatch their ill-fated victims from their remorseless
grasp. But besides all this, my first duty was to
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remain with my sick companion; and I was now
determined not to part from him till there should
come a change, either for better or worse—till, in
fact, I could leave him on the road to health, or know
his spirit had passed the portals of death.
We were now, it could be said, fairly upon the
margin of the Grand Prairies. The rolling and partially-timbered
lands, had gradually given place to
the flat and arid-looking plains, that stretch away,
northward and westward, for hundreds of miles—to
the very base, in fact, of that grand, rocky chain
which divides the rivers of the Atlantic from the
Pacific. No longer were our eyes to be greeted with
the tall green blade and bright flowers; but, in place,
we were to have the short, brown buffalo grass, thinly
planted, and looking withered by contrast—though
really sweeter and more nutritious, I was told, than
the ranker and more beautiful vegetation. No longer
were we to be delighted with stately groves, along the
banks of purling streams, with gay birds singing in
their green branches, and blithe squirrels hopping
from limb to limb, and darting up and down their
stately trunks; but, in place, we were to have deep,
sunken, muddy, sluggish creeks, and a dull, monotonous
view, unrelieved by a single tree, shrub, or
bush. Turkey Creek was entirely bare of timber;
and it was only with great labor, and a search far and
wide, that sufficient fuel could be collected for culinary
purposes.
But as a compensation, if I may so term it, for
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the beauties of the country left behind us, we were
now entering upon the Paradise of hunters, the grand
buffalo range, where these formidable-looking animals
may be seen in droves of millions, covering the earth
for miles on miles beyond the reach of sight. As yet
we had seen none of the living; but here and there
were old wallows—that is, places where the animal,
lying on its side, as its wont, and using its feet to turn
itself round and round, has formed a cavity in the
yielding soil—here and there, I say, were old wallows,
and grinning skulls, and decaying bones, showing that
once their range had been here and eastward, and
giving us an inkling of what we might shortly expect
to behold.
Toward evening the rain ceased; but the air becoming
sultry and oppressive, I resolved to sleep on
the ground under cover of my tent. I chose the
ground there, because of its being drier, while I could
have all the advantage of a chance breeze, as my canvas
covering did not reach quite to the earth. Soon
after dark, I picketed my animals, and, being very
tired, threw off my clothes and laid down on one of
my blankets, with the other at hand to cover me in
case of a sudden change of temperature during the
night. For some time I laid awake, troubled with
painful thoughts; but gradually my senses sunk into
a doze; and, soon after, a deep, dreamless sleep succeeded.
About midnight I was awakened by a stunning clap
of thunder. I was lying on my back, uncovered, and
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felt chilly—for the rain was beating furiously against
my tent, and quite a puddle of water had begun to
form against my side—but as I attempted to rise,
there came another vivid flash of lightning—and,
horror of horrors! by its searching light I beheld an
enormous rattlesnake nestled close to my feet. My
movement had aroused him, so that I saw his arched
neck and fiery eyes; and, almost at the same instant,
he gave his warning signal, and struck. I felt the
blow against my foot; and not doubting that his
deadly fangs had lacerated the flesh, I started up,
with a piercing yell of terror, and rushed forth from
the tent, more mad than sane.
CHAPTER XIII. A NIGHT TO BE REMEMBERED.
Instantly the whole camp was alarmed. Men
started up in every direction, shouting “Indians!
Indians!” and for a few minutes a scene of the wildest
confusion prevailed. As soon as I could make a few
of them understand what had occurred, order began
to be restored; and Lieutenant Parker, seizing me by
the arm, and a dark lantern which hung in one of the
wagons, hurried me into the tent, and ordered one of
his men to fetch a gallon of whiskey with the utmost
despatch.
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“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, in an excited
tone, “where is it? where is the wound? we must
burn it out at once!”
“Quick!” cried I—“do what you can! Oh, God!
to die such a death!” and I threw myself down upon
the blanket, and pointed to my foot.
He held the light to it a moment, and exclaimed:
“Quick! the other foot! you have made a mistake—
there is no wound here.”
“No!” said I—“that is where I felt the blow.”
At this moment Varney burst into the tent, and,
dropping upon his knees by my side, seized my hand,
and fairly gasped:
“Great God! Roland, are you bit? have you
received your death-wound?”
“I fear so, my dear friend,” I answered, in as calm
a tone as I could command. “Your prospects of life
are better than mine now.”
“Oh! say not so! You will get over it—you
must, dear Roland! Great God, do not, in Thy
mercy, snatch him away thus suddenly!”
“There is no wound,” said Parker, in that peculiar
tone which shows that the mind of the speaker is
suddenly relieved of great anxiety. “You were
dreaming, perhaps!”
“No!” said I, examining my foot, with feelings of
joy and gratitude no language can express: “I was
not dreaming—it was a horrible reality; so horrible,
indeed, that the very recollection of it makes me shudder
and grow sick. I saw the reptile, by a bright
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flash of lightning, as distinctly as I see you now; and
I heard his rattle, and felt the blow of his fangs.”
“It is very strange! there is no wound to be seen!”
said the lieutenant. “Are you sure this is the place
where he struck?”
“Yes, I am certain.”
He mused a moment, and added:
“How were you lying?”
“On my back.”
“Please to take the same position again.”
I did so.
“Now where did you see the snake?”
“Just where you stand.”
“I have it!” he said, stooping and throwing a corner
of the blanket against my foot. “The snake was
here, and struck there. It was your blanket that
saved you.”
“Whatever it was,” said I, solemnly, “I humbly
thank God for my almost miraculous preservation;”
and so overcome was I, at the reflection of what might
have been my fate, that I shed tears freely.
“These venomous reptiles are very abundant in this
part of the country,” pursued the lieutenant; “and it
is very dangerous to sleep on the ground, unless completely
covered by a blanket. I congratulate you on
your wonderful escape. For the future, you had better
swing your hammock, or get into the wagon with your
friend.”
“I shall not soon forget your kindness,” said I,
taking his hand; “for had I really been poisoned, as
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I had every reason to believe, when I alarmed the
camp, I think, if in human power, you would have
saved my life.”
“I should have done what I could,” he replied; “but
had any of the virus entered a blood-vessel, and been
carried to the heart, it is certain you would never
have returned to the States alive. You have indeed
had a narrow escape; and if you go to the mountains
and return, you will doubtless have many more—for
this is a country of peril, and no one can say his life is
his own from one hour to another. Ah! what lightning
we have out here!” he continued, as a sudden
flash fairly blinded us, followed instantly by a crash
of thunder that seemed to lift us from our feet. “How
the storm rages! Hark! what cry is that?”
The cry alluded to came from without, and was
instantly repeated, announcing the startling fact that
one of the men had been struck by lightning. We
all hurried from the tent into the beating storm, and
found a poor fellow stretched on the ground, by one
of the wagons, to all appearance dead. The wagon
itself—the same which Varney had occupied a few
minutes before—was much shattered; and the very
spot where he had been lying, when my cry of terror
aroused him, was literally torn into splinters. As
soon as he became conscious of this fact, he grasped
my hand nervously, and in a tone made tremulous by
deep emotions, exclaimed:
“How mysterious are the ways of Providence!
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Your peril, Roland, and its consequences, have been
the means of saving my life!”
“Which you may lose in another manner, if you
do not seek shelter from this furious storm!” said I,
anxiously.
“God is over all, and rules all for the best!” he rejoined,
with great solemnity; “and after what has
happened to-night, we should not fear to trust to His
protection! But as we can render no assistance here,
we may as well return to our tent.”
We left Lieutenant Parker, with several of his men,
busy over the body of the unfortunate soldier, trying
to restore him to life; but just as we reached our tent,
a fierce gust wrenched it from its fastenings, and sent
it whirling through the air.
“Great Heaven! what a night!” cried Varney; and
he had scarcely uttered the words, when we heard
several fierce neighs, and heavy trampling sounds,
followed by a loud shout, above the roar of the
storm:
“A stampede! a stampede! the animals have
broken loose!”
“There go our horses and mule!” exclaimed Varney;
“what next?”
“Heaven only knows!” said I. “We have lost our
animals, and tent, and my clothes; and here we both
stand, almost as naked as when we came into the
world.”
In fact, I only had on me a flannel shirt, with a
belt underneath, in which was secured my money—
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all the rest of my wearing apparel, hanging in my
tent at the time of its demolition, having been carried
I knew not whither. I say all; but I had another
suit in my mule-pack, which fortunately had been
thrown into one of the wagons; and I now made
search for it in the darkness and confusion which prevailed.
We found the wagon, and both got into it,
glad to escape from the chilling winds and merciless
peltings of the tornado-driven rain.
For two hours the winds blew, the lightnings
flashed, the thunders crashed and roared, and the
rain fell in torrents; and then the storm ceased its
fury, and gradually disappeared to the eastward,
leaving the atmosphere at least thirty degrees colder
than at the going down of the sun. With what joy
we hailed the departure of the storm, mingled with
feelings of gratitude for the wonderful preservation
of our lives! It is in times like these that we humbly
feel our dependence upon an All-wise Power; and the
soul, drawn into direct communion with itself, gives
forth an offering of thankful prayer, which must be
acceptable to Him who reigns supreme over all, and
controls alike the fate of millions of worlds and the
smallest atom which His will, wisdom and love have
brought into existence.
Let me not dwell upon the incidents of that eventful
night—for there is enough before me, of a more
exciting, thrilling, and even painful interest, to
occupy the space I have allotted to my narrative.
Day dawned at last, as bright and clear as if the
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night had seen no tempest; and we hailed the light,
as a weary spirit might hail a messenger of glad tidings
from a better world. But it dawned no more
for him who had that night felt the visitation of an
inscrutable Providence. The poor fellow, prostrated
by the bolt of heaven, slept his last sleep; and his
body was consigned to dust, on the bank of the
stream, not far from our camp; and the news of his
fate, in time, went home to his friends, and carried
sorrow to many a heart. I pitied him then—cut
down, without warning, in the very bloom of life;
but I lived to see a time when I could envy his fate,
and regret the chance which had saved me from the
fangs of a deadly serpent.
After a long search, most of the animals were recovered—
and, among them, our horses—but our mule
we never saw again. I found our tent about half a mile
from camp—but in such a wretched condition as to
cause me to abandon it to the further sport of the elements.
I also recovered my garments, which had
made quite a journey without their owner—but I could
not perceive they were in the least improved by traveling
through mud and rain on their own account.
My rifle and pistols were found lying on the ground
where our tent had stood—having, through my excitement,
been forgotten till morning—but they were
in a condition to require considerable labor to again
fit them for use.
It was not till noon that we were prepared to break
up our camp and resume our march; but once under
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way again, and the day being fine, we pushed rapidly
forward, and reached the Little Arkansas about dark.
Here we found some large elms, and box elder, and
were able to procure fuel, without difficulty, to cook
our meals; which principally consisted of coffee,
sweetened with sugar, and stakes from a freshlyslaughtered
beef, several of which were driven over
the route to serve in case of need.
This stream, the Little Arkansas, is a tributary of
the river of the same name, and is usually about six
or eight feet wide, and some four or five inches in
depth; but at this time it was much swollen by the
late rains, though not sufficiently so to render it difficult
to ford. By invitation of Lieutenant Parker, I
slept in the wagon with my friend—who, I may remark,
had not suffered from the drenching of the
night before, as I had feared at the time he would.
In fact, Varney considered that, on the whole, he
had improved in health since leaving Independence—
and this we both acknowledged to be quite encouraging.
“If I can only hold out till I reach the mountains,
my dear friend,” he said, “something tells me I shall
yet recover to return to her I love.”
“God grant it!” said I; “and may the happiness
of the future compensate you for all the sorrows and
sufferings of the past!”
“You are the most unselfish friend I ever met!” he
added, with feeling.
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“Because I wish you well, Alfred? Surely, no
friend would do less.”
“No, not altogether that; but because, at all times,
you seem to study my happiness rather than your
own.”
“Because, being your friend, my own happiness is,
to a certain degree, bound up in yours,” said I.
“Well, I only hope I may live to repay you.”
The next morning we made an early start; and
scarcely were we under way, when we espied several
antelopes feeding at no great distance; but on seeing
us they fled, before any of our party could get near
enough for a shot. On our journey to-day, we saw
several fresh signs of buffalo, but did not get a sight
of one of the animals. Early in the afternoon we
reached Cow Creek, which we found difficult to cross,
on account of high water and its muddy bottom. In
fact, it was some three hours before all the wagons
were got safely over, and then we camped on its
western bank.
On the following day we came upon a small drove
of buffaloes, the first I had ever seen; and as it was
resolved that we should kill a few for meat, I joined
the party that went in pursuit.
The ordinary method of killing this unwieldly
animal, is to ride into the very centre of a drove,
single out the fattest, and begin the work of slaughter
by discharging holster pistols into his side, near the
brisket, till he falls. Sometimes the buffalo, especially
if a bull, will run a long distance, and require an
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immense deal of shooting, before he will succumb to
his fate; and so, when mounted, the worrying down
of the unfortunate animal is by some considered very
excellent sport. I did not find it so—for I sympathized
too much with the poor brute to take any
pleasure in the exciting chase; and so, after killing
one, by way of experiment, I returned to the train,
resolved to shoot no more, unless the flesh were actually
required for food.
On our journey to-day, we passed through a large
village of prairie-dogs, in which both Varney and
myself became exceedingly interested. This is a small,
brown animal, with a head not unlike a terrier pup,
and a short, stumpy tail, which, when excited, he
keeps in constant motion. They select for the site of
their village, or town, a large level of sandy soil; and
their dwellings are made by throwing up the earth,
in a conical shape, to a height of two or three feet,
and having a hole in the apex, or summit, which
descends vertically to the base, and thence obliquely,
for a considerable distance, into the earth. These
earthen houses are constructed with so much order
and regularity as to give the spaces between them
the appearance of streets, and not unfrequently they
cover an area of several miles in extent. Owls and
rattlesnakes are their companions—the former hopping
about at twilight, and feeding upon camelions
and lizards, and the latter not scrupling to fill their
maws with the young, fat pups of their hospitable
entertainers. On the approach of danger, the dogs
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run into their holes, and then thrust forth their heads,
and set up a series of sharp, squeaking barks.
When the danger becomes imminent, they retire
from sight altogether; but after waiting awhile in
silence, they peep forth very cautiously; and as soon
as they discover the coast to be clear, they come out
chattering, and have a merry time of it. They have
laws and regulations, which they strictly enforce;
and a big dog, in the centre of the village, appears
to be chief magistrate. Altogether, they are a very
interesting, democratic community of animals; and
it might not be amiss for here and there some
pompous, over-fed city functionary to take a few
lessons of true republican simplicity even from them.
Having now fairly entered upon the buffalo range,
we found these animals increasing in numbers as we
progressed; and I was glad to hear our humane
commander, after the first half-a-day's sport, issue
peremptory orders against their wanton destruction.
Our next camp was upon the bank of the Arkansas;
and, the night following, upon the grand prairie,
within a mile of the river, whither we led our
animals to water, and from which we brought what
was needed for our own use. Here, as not a splinter
of wood could be found, our fires were made of “bois
de vache,”* which, when dry, proves a very good
substitute, and is always used by hunters and others
on the open plains. As this was known to be a
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dangerous part of the country, our wagons were
made to form a hollow square—inside of which, soon
after dark, many of the animals were driven—while
the others were picketed close around outside, and a
strong guard set.
What happened the reader shall see.
eaf462n2* Literally, “wood of cow”—but, appropriately, “buffalo
manure.”
CHAPTER XIV. ATTACKED BY INDIANS.
The night set in cloudy, and the clouds gradually
became more dense, while the air grew cool and damp,
an almost certain precursor of rain. I crept into the
wagon with Varney; but most of the men rolled
themselves in their blankets, and laid down on the
earth, outside of the hollow square. For a long time
I laid awake, listening to the dismal howlings of the
prairie wolves, which are always to be found in great
numbers on the buffalo range, lying in wait to kill
and devour the wounded and defenceless cows and
calves. The expected rain had begun to fall, and its
gentle patter on the canvas covering of the wagon had
just lulled me into a doze, when I was startled by the
sharp, successive reports of three or four rifles, mingled
with the cries of “Indians! Indians!” and the fierce,
unearthly yells of a large body of savages.
“Heavens! we are attacked!” cried Varney.
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“Remain where you are!” said I, hurriedly; “you
are safer here than elsewhere;” and, having laid down
with my clothes on, with my knife and pistols in my
belt, I instantly grasped my rifle, powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, and leaped to the ground outside.
I was now in the midst of a scene of the wildest
confusion; yells, shouts, and the reports of fire-arms
filled my ears; men were running to and fro; horses
were neighing, stamping, kicking, and cattle bellowing;
but it was so dark that I could not distinguish
friend from foe, and therefore I stood undetermined
and bewildered. Suddenly I felt something encircle
my neck with a snap—the fire flew from my eyes—
and at the same moment I was jerked to the earth, and
felt myself being dragged over the ground with great
rapidity. Not being deprived of consciousness, I knew
at once what had occurred. I had been perceived and
lassoed* by a mounted Indian, who was now dragging
me by the neck to a safe distance, for the purpose of
killing and scalping me. Fortunately for me, the
noose had passed over the barrel of my rifle, in front
of my chin, so that the rope drew upon the back of
my neck; while the tension of the lasso, as the horse
dashed away at great speed, kept my head elevated
above the earth; and retaining in that awful moment
my presence of mind, I caught the rope with one hand,
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and held to it, while with the other I drew my knife
and cut it near the loop.
I was now released from the most imminent peril,
but lay half dead upon the ground, listening to the
clamor behind me, and thanking God for my almost
miraculous escape from sudden death. I knew I was
much hurt, but I hoped not mortally. My neck was
already swelled, and began to grow stiff, and felt as if
it had been twisted once round; my body was much
bruised, and my legs felt as if the skin were scraped
off in spots all the way down to my feet; but I was
satisfied there were no bones broken; and if not injured
internally, I had every reason to let my heart
swell with gratitude to God for his wonderful Providence.
But setting aside all my injuries, whether trifling
or important, my position was still one of great peril.
I was lying on the open prairie, some little distance
from camp, and literally surrounded by Indians—for
I could hear their horses darting hither and thither on
all sides, probably chasing and securing some of our
animals, which they had put to flight—this, of course,
being their principal object in attacking us—and
every moment I was fearful some beast would tread
upon me. I gathered myself upon my hands and
knees, ready to spring aside should I discover a horse
advancing directly upon me; but I made no effort to
return to camp; for, aside from considering myself as
safe where I was, I did not feel capable of any great
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exertion, and had no desire to have my neck again
stretched with another lasso.
In this position, some two or three minutes passed;
and I was listening to the infernal yells of the savages—
mingled with the shouts of my companions, the
reports of fire-arms, and other sounds of conflict—
when I was startled by hearing the loud snort of a
horse close behind me. I turned my eyes in that direction,
and, after a sharp, steady look into the darkness,
I fancied I could perceive a still darker shadow
moving toward me. One of my pistols had been torn
from my belt, but the other remained; and grasping
this and my knife, I dropped down flat upon the earth,
with my eyes steadily fixed upon the shadow, which,
as it drew close to me, I could perceive assume the
figure of an Indian.
At first I was surprised that an Indian should be
on foot, approaching me at that slow, stealthy pace—
for I felt almost certain that no human eye could see
me where I lay—but I soon comprehended all. The
savage who had captured me, on finding I had
escaped from the lasso, and doubtless thinking me
dead or badly wounded, had cautiously returned on
his trail, for the purpose of getting my scalp. He
had dismounted from his beast, and led him forward,
till the snort of the animal—for the true Indian horse
never approaches the white man without signs of fear—
had warned him of my proximity; when, leaving
his horse behind him, he had stealthily advanced
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alone, till my eye had been able to restore his seeming
shadow to a substantial human figure.
“Well, my worthy friend,” thought I, “you have
come back on a fool's errand; and if my weapons do
not fail me, there will probably be some howling in
your lodge, when your infernal, thieving, murdering
companions return to their village.”
I knew he did not see me—for his head was bent
forward, and he was feeling his way, as it were, at a
very slow, stealthy pace. At last he stopped within
a foot of me, and was just in the act of dropping down,
probably with the design of crawling up to me, supposing
me still several feet distant, when, thrusting
out my arm suddenly, I pressed the muzzle of the
pistol against his breast, and pulled the trigger. With
a yell of surprise, disappointment, rage and pain, he
bounded back, and fell, and rolled over and over
upon the moist earth; and then, uttering a long, gurgling
groan, he lay perfectly still.
“There, my fine fellow!” muttered I, grinding my
teeth with a kind of bitter satisfaction; “how do you
like that? Perhaps you would prefer dragging somebody
else by the neck over the prairie; but it is the
private opinion of a certain white gentleman from
the States that you never will.”
It may seem a little strange to the reader, that one
who had so recently felt compunctions of conscience at
shooting a villain who had assailed his life, should
now glory, as it were, in killing another of a different
race; but so it was; and it only shows how much
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custom, public opinion, and education have to do
with conscience after all. Strictly and morally, it was
just as wrong for me to kill the Indian, as it would
have been, under the circumstances, to have killed
Loyola; but one appeared perfectly justifiable in my
eyes, and the other only a shade removed from
murder.
Scarcely had I shot the Indian, when the fight terminated
at the camp; and with fierce signal yells, the
savages seemed to collect in a body and dash away—
the hoofs of their horses thundering over the earth
together, and gradually dying out in the distance.
I now ventured to get upon my feet, for the purpose
of returning to the camp; but I was so bruised
and lame, that it was with difficulty I could walk;
while my neck was so swollen and stiff, that I could
only turn my head by turning my body. I had only
taken two or three steps, when I heard the horse of
the Indian snort and whinny; and it at once occurred
to me to make a capture of the beast—perhaps to
replace my own—for it was not improbable my own
had been stolen during the melee. So I turned back
and groped my way up to the animal, which I found
near his dead master, snuffing, snorting, whinnying,
and trembling, evidently uncertain whether to remain
or fly. He permitted me to approach him, though
not without signs of fear, and a half disposition to
spring away; but probably the fact of his master (for
whom he seemed to have an affection) remaining so
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quietly on the ground, so near, gave him confidence in
a white stranger.
At all events, he suffered me to take hold of him,
and pat him on the neck; but when I attempted to
mount him, he began to shy and snort. I coaxed
and fondled him, till he became quite docile; but then
I discovered it would be no easy matter to mount,
even should he remain perfectly still—for in place of
a regular saddle with stirrups, he had only a part of
a buffalo-hide strapped to his back; and his bridle
was little else than a halter, without bit—his rider
having been able to govern him in a way peculiar to
the native of the wilderness. Taking the whole matter
into consideration, I began to be doubtful about the
propriety of mounting him at all; but it was unpleasant
to me to walk; and besides, I felt some pride in my
exploit, and thought it would look well to ride into
camp on a steed I had captured.
But mounting where I was, was out of the question—
for I was too stiff and lame to make the requisite
spring; and so I set off on a walk, leading him by
the halter. Had I continued on to camp in this manner,
it would have saved me no little trouble; but
happening to stumble against a small bank of earth,
I led him round to the lower side, and, after some
difficulty, succeeded in getting upon his back. He
now appeared very docile, and quiet, and I started
him forward at a gentle pace, in the direction of the
camp, being guided only by the voices of my companions,
for there was not a light to be seen.
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All went very well till I was nearly up to the
wagons; when some one, mistaking me for one of the
savages, fired without challenging. Whether the horse
was hit or not, I never knew; but he wheeled suddenly
to the right, and bounded away like a comet—
my friends giving me a parting volley—the balls
whizzing over and under me, and increasing the terror
of my frightened beast.
It was now a John Gilpin race, sure enough; for I
found, after repeated trials, that I could neither control
nor guide the fiery animal, and so was compelled
to let him have his own way. It was easy riding
enough, but whither was he bearing me? Was he
following the trail of his companions? and would he
carry his captor into captivity, and thus take his revenge
upon me for the death of his master? It was
not a pleasant speculation, and I would have given
half my fortune to have been safely on the ground;
but getting to the ground, while under such speed,
was not to be thought of, unless I could make up my
mind for sudden death or broken bones; and until I
could see as imminent danger ahead, I did not feel like
taking the risk. Should I come within sight or hearing
of the Indians, I would leap from his back, be the
consequences what they might; but, till then, I
thought it best to take my chances where I was.
It was a wild, fearful ride; and yet to me it had
something of a sublime fascination. On, on we sped,
over the level prairie, my flying steed scarce seeming
to touch the earth, as he darted through the thick
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darkness. In broad day-light, and under other circumstances,
the ride would have delighted me; for it had
the sense of flying, rather than running, and I would
have risked my neck for the peculiar sensation of such
wild freedom; but bounding through darkness, leaving
my friends behind me, and rushing perhaps into
the very jaws of death, or worse, was a different matter;
and yet, as I have said, it had a sort of sublime
fascination, and threw over the spirit and influence not
unlike that which urges an adventurer to some bold
and perilous exploit without rational motive. On, on,
we sped, in inky darkness, the rain pouring steadily
down, and not a thing to be seen, above, below, or
around. On! on! Now splashing through a stream
or pool—now flying through a startled herd of buffaloes—
sometimes brushing their shaggy manes, as they
strove to clear the way—with wolves howling on the
right and left—on! on! Mazeppa-like—though not
like him to be borne to a throne, but rather to sudden
death, or the torture-fires of a merciless foe.
Miles now lay between me and the camp of my
friends; and yet my “wild prairie steed” had not
slackened his railroad pace; and when he would, and
where, and what would be the end, the Lord only
knew! Again I tried to check him, but in vain; and
again I yielded to my fate, with what resignation I
could command, commending my soul to Him who
reigns and rules in time and eternity.
At last I heard the hollow, gurgling sound of an
angry flood; but ere I could fairly comprehend what
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was before me, my maddened steeed had plunged
into the furious torrent, completely burying me under
water. So sudden was the immersion, that I nearly
lost my seat; but I had a tight grasp on his halter
and mane, and with him I came to the surface. His
speed was now checked, and I thanked God for it—
for I knew he must be swimming a river—and I
resolved to leap from his back when he should gain
the opposite shore, toward which he was struggling
with energy unrelaxed. Fierce was his contest with
the swollen stream—which sent its waters past us with
a hoarse murmur, gurgle and roar—as if, resolved not
to give us up to life and liberty, it were already
chanting our funeral dirge.
At length, after a long, violent struggle with the
watery element—which, on my part, was attended
with an intense, painful anxiety—I felt the feet of
the gallant beast touch the ground; and the next
moment, with a strong leap, he rose clear of the
stream. Now was my time; and instantly springing
from his back, I alighted among some bushes; while,
with a quick bound and a snort, he disappeared,
rushing away like the wind.
I was now safe on terra firma; but on what precise
point of the great globe, I could not tell. Judging
from the speed at which I had been borne from my
friends, and the time which had elapsed since leaving
the camp, some twenty miles now lay between us;
and if my course had been westward, it was
reasonable to suppose I was now on the western, or
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rather southern, bank of the far-famed Pawnee Fork—
for I had heard this stream described as broad, deep,
and rapid after heavy rains, and just such a stream I
had crossed.
But what was to be done now? I got upon my
feet, with my water-soaked garments clinging to me,
like a second skin, and felt for my weapons—but not
one was to be found. Rifle, pistols, knife, all had been
left upon the prairie, and I had nothing with which to
defend myself against an enemy—or, what would probably
be of more importance, to kill game for food,
till I could find some human being of my race. This
was not a very agreeable discovery; but I had made
so many remarkable escapes, since leaving the States,
that I felt rather like trusting to my good fortune
than giving away to despair. Why borrow trouble
that might never come in any other shape?
I pushed through the bushes, ran against the trunks
of two or three trees, and then found myself once more
on the open prairie—the rushing river hoarsely murmuring
behind me. There was no change overhead;
the clouds were as low and black as ever, the night as
dark as the fabled realms of Pluto, and the rain still
falling. Which way to go I did not know; but any
way seemed better than sitting down or standing still—
although every step I took caused me to remember
the rough journey I had made at the heels of the horse
which had since borne me hither; and so, after some
debate with myself, I turned to the left, which led
down the stream, and continued to walk very slowly
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for something like an hour, keeping the roaring river
within hearing.
I was thus proceeding carefully, and thinking of
poor Varney, and what a state of excitement would
follow his discovery of my loss, when my foot struck
against some object, which seemed to spring away
from it. Surprised and alarmed, I made a quick
backward step; but at the same moment my legs
were seized, and jerked from under me; and as I came
heavily to the earth, a hoarse voice said:
“White or red? yelp her out! afore I let daylight
clean through ye!”
eaf462n3* The lasso is a long rope, generally made of hide or hair, with
a noose at one end, and is thrown with great precision, by Mexicans
and Indians, over the head of the object they wish to secure.
CHAPTER XV. AN OLD COMPANION.
“White, Sam Botter!” exclaimed I; for there was
no mistaking that voice, by one who had heard it as
often as I had.
“Why, chaw me up fur a liar, ef it isn't Freshwater,
kim down in the storm!” exclaimed Sam, in a tone
of surprise. “Ef I didn't take you fur a— sneaking
Injin, why was the devil painted black? Augh!
Why, boy, I'm glad to see you—or feel ye, rayther—
for what's the use of talking 'bout eyes on sich a night
as this hyer? Whar d'ye kim from, anyhow?”
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“I have been riding a John Gilpin race, Sam,”
said I.
“What's that?”
“Let me explain. About twenty miles from here,
as near as I can judge, providing this is Pawnee
Fork—”
“Wall, hoss, it ain't nothing else,” interrupted
Sam.
“Well, then, about twenty miles from here, on the
other side of this stream, is a military camp, where
your friend and fellow-traveller, in the shape of the
present narrator, undertook to go to sleep; but being
attacked by Indians, he got up, got his head into an
Indian lasso, was dragged by the neck too far to be
agreeable, cut the lasso, killed the savage, mounted
his horse, was run away with, and here he is. Now
what do you think of that for an adventure, eh?”
Sam ripped out an oath, and exclaimed:
“Freshwater, this hyer old one-eyed nigger hain't
got the sense some people has, and I'll jest trouble
you to go over that thar agin.”
“Certainly, Sam, and I will be more explicit;” and
I mentioned the prominent events which had occurred
since we parted at Council Grove.
“Wall,” said Botter, interjecting an oath, “you're
one on 'em, Freshwater—chaw me! Why, ef this
hyer last fun of yourn don't beat the d—l, why was
wolves growed? Augh!”
“But now,” continued I, “pray tell me how I find
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you here, whom I thought many a league away? and
where is your partner?”
“Wolfy's gone under!” returned Botter, with a
long, deep sigh.
“Dead?” exclaimed I, with a start.
“Yes—he war rubbed out by the Pawnees, the infarnal
devils!”
“Explain!”
“It's wall you didn't kim with us,” continued Sam,
in a doleful tone; “fur Shadbones would hev been
made meat on, sure, and it's like you wouldn't hev
kim out no better—though you seem to hev the
nine lives to the cat. I'll jest tell you how it war,
Freshwater; but you kin gamble on to it, that it'll
make this hyer old nigger feel as watery as ef he war
peeling inyuns. Augh!”
After a pause, the old trapper proceeded with his
story, which I shall take the liberty to abridge and
give in my own language. He and Stericks had met
with no misfortune, till after passing Cow Creek;
when, one night, as they were encamped upon the
bank of a small stream, they were set upon by a large
party of Pawnees, who killed and scalped Stericks,
and made a clean sweep of all their animals, traps,
“possibles,” etc.—Botter himself barely escaping in
the darkness, after shooting two of the savages, by
secreting himself under the muddy bank of the creek.
Since then, he had travelled on foot and alone,
and was so far on his way to Bent's Fort, where
he hoped to meet with some friends who would help
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him to another outfit. All he had been able to save
of his property, were his weapons, and the garments
he had on—even the money I gave him at Council
Grove, being in the possession of Stericks, had fallen
into the hands of the plunderers when they stripped
the body. He had met a small hunting party, however,
and traded a clasp-knife for a blanket, in which
he invariably rolled himself at night, heads, hands,
and all, in order to protect himself against rattlesnakes,
which, as I have shown, sometimes intrude upon the
sleeper in a very unceremonious manner. He was
thus deposited on the wet earth, soaking in the rain,
when I stumbled upon him. But I did not “catch
him napping,” as the phrase is—for your true mountaineer
seldom sleeps sounder than a cat, and Botter
had had good cause to keep his one eye on the watch.
He had heard my approaching footsteps; but knowing,
by the sound, I had no companion, he had resolved,
if I crossed his camp, to capture me; and, should I
prove to be an Indian, to take my scalp, in revenge
for what he had already suffered from the hated race.
The result the reader has seen.
“Well,” said, I when he had concluded, “I am
sorry for your loss, and will cheerfully do something
toward giving you another outfit.”
“Thank'e!” returned Botter; “and it's like I kin
do you and Shadbones a good turn, ef you go to the
mountains.”
“Why, yes,” said I, “the very thing! he will
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require a guide and companion, after reaching Bent's,
and why not take him with you?”
“I reckon we kin fix it,” replied the trapper.
“Poor old Wolfy's under, and I hain't got nary human
now to hurry me along, and so I'm jest agwine to
take my time—chaw me! I never knowed nothing
kim of hurrying; and so I used to tell Wolfy; but he
knowed better, he said, and now he don't know
nothing. So we go—one arter to'ther gits rubbed
out, and thar's the end on't. Augh!”
“I think myself,” said I, “as events have turned
out, you gained nothing in parting from us. If we
had continued in your company, you would have
traveled slower perhaps; yet who knows but by that
very means you would have avoided the consequences
you now lament?”
“Wall, wall,” returned Sam, philosophically, “thar
ain't no use in talking about what mought hev been—
bekase we humans can't see into the futur', any
more nor ef it was a sand-bank; all we kin do is, to
do what we think's best, take what kims, and let the
rest go. We can't al'ays float—we's all got to gin in
and go under some time—and so what's the use kicking
agin it. Thar ain't none—chaw me! Freshwater,
of all the boys I knowed, twenty year ago, up to the
mountains, thar ain't three living 'cept me, and I'
spect my time ain't fur off. Wall, when it kims,
this hyer old beaver'll see the end of a heap of hard
tramps, you kin gamble on to that. Augh!”
“There is a Power above us, Sam, that has guided
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our steps when we have walked in dangerous paths,
else should we never have seen the present!” said I,
solemnly.
“Expect,” rejoined Sam, musingly; “leastways,
this hyer old nigger once heerd a preacher say some'at
to that; and ef he didn't know, why was gospeling
diskivered? Augh!”
“Then, considering that our steps are guarded and
guided,” pursued I, “why should we ever shrink from
what our conscience tells us is right?”
“We shouldn't, Freshwater—nary once—chaw
me!”
“Then, if you think so, why may I not count on
you to meet danger in a good cause?”
“What's the sign, Freshwater?”
“I am thinking of the girl that was captured by
the Indians,” said I; “and that she ought to be rescued;
and though I know the attempt would be one of peril,
yet I am far from feeling satisfied it should be avoided
on that account.”
“That thar would be jumping into the fire, and
expecting to git out without being burnt,” said Sam.
“To continue your simile,” returned I, “we might
get out alive, even if scorched.”
“You still hev the notion of taking a tramp arter
that thar gal, hey?” rejoined the old trapper.
“I have resolved never to return to the States until
her liberty is regained, or I have made at least one
attempt to rescue her.”
“That's said like a lad of speret,” pursued Botter;
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[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
“but you'll find it one of the wost jobs ever you tried—
ef you don't, jest chaw old One-Eyed Sam up fur a
liar! Augh!”
“But can I not persuade you to accompany me,
Sam, if I pay you well for your time? You can but
die once, you know; and your life is continually in
peril, go where you will, do what you may.”
“Thar's some'at in to that,” said Botter, reflectively;
“but we ain't so sartin of losing our ha'r out hyer, as
we would be to the Injun's own stamping-ground—
no sir-ee.”
“With one of your experience, in Indian ways, I
think we might succeed,” said I, hopefully. “Remember,
the lives of those females are as valuable as
our own.”
“To them!” returned Sam, emphatically; “'spect
they is to them! but not to us—chaw me!”
“The life of one,” I returned, “I at least consider
of as much value as my own; and I would willingly
peril mine to save hers, if certain it could be saved in
no other way.”
“She's some'at to you, I reckon?” said Sam.
“You can judge from what I have said. But to the
question. Will money, or any other consideration,
or all combined, induce you to make the venture with
me for her release?”
“Jest us two, Freshwater?”
“If I can engage no more; but I will do what I can
to get others to accompany us.”
“I'll think about it,” replied Botter; “I'll think
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about it, Freshwater; old One-Eyed Sam 'll think about
it, boy; I will, chaw me! Augh!”
“Well, take your time, and think over the matter
seriously. I will not urge you to a hasty decision—
but I will give you something to consider besides the
danger. If you go with me, I will, before starting,
deposit, with any person you may name, an amount of
money sufficient to purchase you a complete outfit for
your business; and the moment these female prisoners
are safely lodged in any fort, this money shall be
yours.”
“You take away the chances, most powerful, when
you say two on 'em,” said Sam.
“Well, say one then—the girl. I should like to
rescue both—but the younger shall be my first care.
Let me add, however, that there may be no misunderstanding,
that I have already spoken to a military
officer concerning their rescue, and he has promised to
report to his superior; and should a military force be
sent against the Indians, I may not need your services.
Of that, however, we will speak hereafter.”
I squatted down on the wet earth, and spent the remainder
of the night in conversation with the old
trapper. The rain continued to fall gently, so that it
would have been difficult to kindle a fire, had we not
even been in a part of the country where it would
have been dangerous to expose ourselves to its light—
so we sat in mud and darkness, and talked till daylight.
I suffered some from my bruises and swollen
neck, and my wet garments made me chilly; but
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after my wonderful escapes, I felt I had no reason to
complain of trifles—though I hailed the break of morn
with a sensation of gladness I had never before experienced
from the same cause.
As soon as we could fairly see, Sam set to work, as
only an old woodsman knows how, to start a fire of wet
materials; and after laboring for half an hour, he succeeded
in getting up a cheerful blaze, which filled me
with delight. He now approached a tree on the
river's bank, and cut down a large piece of buffalo
meat, which he had suspended there the night before;
and this we sliced, and toasted, and devoured, without
bread or salt; and I do not know that I ever ate a
heartier meal, or one that I relished more.
By the time we had finished our breakfast, the sun
was fairly above the horizon, though not visible to
us—for low, dark, humid clouds shut in the upward
view, and the rain continued to fall steadily.
“Thar, now, Freshwater,” said Sam, wiping his
mouth with his hand, and smacking his lips, “don't
you 'spect we'd best begin to tramp a bit?”
“Why,” said I, alluding to a previous conversation,
“I thought you had decided to remain here, and
wait for our friends!”
“Not right plum on this spot, did I?”
“No, but in this vicinity.”
“Wall, we kin tramp a heap, and not go fur; and
it's the opine of this hyer old beaver, that you'd best
stretch your legs a little, fur fear they'll spyle, all
doubled up, arter the infarnal scraping they has had.”
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“There may be something in that,” replied I; “but
where shall we go?”
“Why, we'll put out and fotch a buffler, or deer—
you is jam up, plum center to deers, you know—
wagh! hagh! wagh!—and then we'll kim back to
fish.”
“Better set me to fishing at once, if you have hook
and line,” said I—“for you see I have no weapons for
the hunt.”
“That's a fact,” rejoined Sam, “I'd forgot you is
woss off nor me—chaw me! But s'pose we take a
short tramp fust! I'll kill so'thing, you kin bet high;
and then we'll kim back, fix up my old blanket on
sticks, fur kivering from the rain, start a fire, cook
our meat, and hev one of the times to loafing.
Augh!”
“Very well—lead the way.”
Botter had managed to keep his rifle pretty dry;
but to have it in good order, he now discharged and
reloaded it; and then we set off northward—I being
compelled to walk rather slow—though I did not
find my limbs so stiff and sore as the night previous.
We had not gone far, when the old trapper suddenly
stopped, and pointing with his finger to some objects
in the distance, inquired:
“What's them, Freshwater? My one eye ain't
what it used to was on to a long sight.”
“I think they may be deer,” I replied—“or perhaps
young buffaloes; but I cannot see very distinctly,
for a steam-like vapor rises from the wet earth.”
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“Wall, boy,” returned Sam, after a long, steady
look, with something like exultation, “bad as this
hyer old nigger's peeper is, it kin jest beat any two
you've got, or else I'm a — old sinner. Them is
mules, Freshwater, and thar's more humans about,
you kin gamble on to that.”
“I hope they are not Indians.”
“Nary once.”
“How do you know?”
“Seed 'em, younker.”
“Where?”
“Kim along, and I'll show you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Expect.”
“Do not make any mistake—I can see no one.”
“Sam, you old one-eyed hoss,” said Botter, apostrophising
himself, “you is good yit, bad as you think
you is—you kin jest take down these hyer settlement
chaps a heap—ef you can't, why was 'bacca growed?”
and the old trapper ended with a hearty laugh.
As we approached the animals, I not only discovered
they were mules, but that Sam was right in
all his observations; for at a little distance to the left,
were two persons, seated, a la Turque, upon a large
water-proof cloth, larger than a blanket, which, being
drawn up around them, kept their feet and legs
perfectly dry; while their heads and bodies were
protected from the falling rain by black, glazed,
conical-shaped, broad-brimmed sombreros, and sarapes
impervious to the liquid element. They were both
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quietly smoking pipes, and showed no fear at our
approach, though they did not fail to eye us sharply.
As I drew near them, I was not a little surprised
to perceive that one was a white man and the other a
negro—though the face of the white man was dark
and bronzed, and both had long, black beards, which,
at a distance, gave them much the same appearance.
Little did I think, however, as I eyed them with
curiosity and speculation, how closely the destiny of
one would be linked with mine in the yet unexplored
future which lay before us.
CHAPTER XVI. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
“I give you good morning, gentlemen!” said the
white man, making a slight inclination of his head,
and speaking with a foreign accent. “You see my
boy* and myself are making ourselves as comfortable
as we can in the rain.”
“You've got the nigger to a tighter fit nor I'd like
on a juicy day like this hyer,” returned Sam, bluntly.
“Howsomever, every body to his likes, and this hyer
old one-eyed hoss has his notions. Augh!”
As Botter spoke, the negro darted upon him a sharp,
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angry glance, and then turned his head away; and
the countenance of the white man slightly changed,
as if he considered the remark injudicious and illtimed.
Perceiving all this, I hastened to say:
“You are certainly comfortably fixed; and let my
plain-spoken friend here say what he may, I for one
should feel myself the gainer by an exchange of situations.
If I had had forethought enough to have
provided myself with such water-proof garments as
yours, I should not at this moment be such a miserable
victim of Dame Nature's hydropathic treatment;
but I am young—my friend Sam, here, thinks me
green—and so, doubtless, with age and seasoning, I
shall get wisdom.”
The stranger smiled, and rejoined, with pleasant
irony:
“But your friend here, with all his experience—
and it is quite evident, from his damaged figure-head,
he has been over rough places—with all his experience,
I say, it seems he has not learned the mode of
keeping a dry skin any more than yourself.”
“Augh!” grunted Sam, contemptuously—“what's
a little water to a old beaver as has seed snakes in his
time?”
“Why, water is everything to a beaver,” pursued
the stranger, good-humoredly; “and if you are a
beaver, it is quite reasonable you should like to soak
in your favorite element.”
“What's the sign?” said Sam, a little testily.
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“One sign of the beaver is a dam,” replied the
other, quietly, his dark eye twinkling with humor.
“Wall, then, d—n beavers, and you too, ef you
can't answer a civil question!” rejoined the old trapper.
“I suppose,” pursued the other, taking a strong
pull at his nearly extinguished meerschaum, and puffing
out quite a volume of smoke—“I suppose I ought
not to take any offence at your coupling beavers and
myself in your malediction—because, by your own
showing, you are one of the broad-tailed quadrupeds—
and I do not think any one can curse himself and
seriously mean what he says.”
“Wall, as I'm a living nigger—” resumed Botter;
when the other interrupted him with a loud laugh,
and the exclamation:
“A nigger? Why what, in the name of all the
saints, will you be next? First a horse, then a beaver,
and now a nigger! Good sooth! you will turn out
to be a whole menagerie if you keep on! Cato,
(turning to the black,) he claims to be of your race
now!”
“Well, I's doesn't own him,” replied Cato, with a
malicious chuckle.
Sam looked puzzled, and was evidently at a stand
whether to get up a fight, or laugh the whole matter
off as a joke. I was determined there should be no
quarrel, if I could prevent it; and I hastened to turn
the conversation into another channel.
“Badinage aside,” said I, addressing the stranger,
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“have you any news of our mutual enemies, the Indians?”
“Nothing personal to relate, sir; but on my way
up here from the South, I met a company of Santa Fe
traders, who said they had been attacked, and had
lost five men killed, and two females taken prisoners.”
“Alas! I know that tragical story too well!” said
I; “the news reached me at Council Grove the day
following the sad event, and was brought by four
young men who were in the fight. But did you hear
any mention of the names of those who were captured
and killed?”
“I did not—or if I did, I have forgotten them.
Being all strangers, I felt no interest in names.”
“And was there no talk of trying to rescue the
prisoners?”
“No mention was made to me of such a design.”
“Would to Heaven,” returned I, “that I could collect
together a dozen, or even half that number, of
brave, determined, experienced men! I would make
the venture.”
“Are the female prisoners related to you?” inquired
the stranger.
“No! but one of them is a beautiful girl, of seventeen,
in whom I am deeply interested.”
“Seventeen!” repeated the stranger; “young and
beautiful! what a horrible fate is hers!”
“And of your country, too, if I mistake not!”
said I.
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“How, sir?”
“Pardon me! are you not a Spaniard?”
“I am, sir! And is this girl, you speak of, Spanish?”
“I cannot say positively—for she herself knows not
what country gave her birth; but, from her earliest
recollection, she spoke the Spanish language.”
“Indeed! you interest me!” returned the stranger,
earnestly. “Pray tell me all you know of her? But,
I beg your pardon! I have kept you standing in the
rain, when I might have had the courtesy to provide
you with a dry covering, to say the least. Cato, get
my other sombrero and sarape from the mule-pack,
and let the gentleman take your place! I have just
let my morning fire go out; but you seem to be chilly,
and I will have another kindled. Here—step in
here!” he continued, throwing back the oil-cloth covering
around his feet, as the negro hastened to obey his
orders.
I did as directed, and squatted down by his side,
when he continued:
“Doubtless you are surprised to find me provided
with an extra sombrero; but the truth is, on one of
my jaunts through Mexico, I lost the one I had on,
in a river; and was obliged to go a long distance,
through a heavy rain, before I could get another;
and since then I have always taken care to be prepared
against accidents. But how shall I provide
for your friend here? although he says he does not
mind water. I have an extra oil-cloth baggage cover,
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stranger,” he continued, addressing Botter, “and suppose
you wrap yourself in that, and smoke a pipe
with me!”
“You git this hyer old one-eyed”—Sam stopped,
with a look of some perplexity, and then added—
“white gintleman, a heap, when you talk about 'bacca—
for I haint had a smell for two days—but cuss the
kivering! for my old hide is as tough as bufflers is,
and water won't spile it, you kin gamble on to that.
No! jest you gin me some 'bacca, I've got a pipe, and
you and Freshwater kin spread yourselves fur a big
talk, while I go to make buffler kim. Augh!”
“You shall have a pound, my worthy friend, and
no hard thoughts between us!” rejoined the Spaniard,
with a laugh. “Cato, give the white gentleman—for
he is no longer a horse, beaver, or `nigger'—a pound
of the best tobacco; and then (he added this in
an under-tone) the menagerie will depart on a buffalo
hunt.”
In a few minutes I found myself very comfortably
situated indeed—that is to say, comparatively speaking.
Although with wet garments next to my
skin, I was now protected against the falling rain,
and my outside coverings brought warmth to my
body, which for many long hours had been shivering
with cold.
“You will, of course, join me in a smoke?” said
my new acquaintance, producing another meerschaum,
as he prepared to refill the one in his mouth.
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“Thank you! I never use tobacco in any shape,”
I replied.
“Ah! sir, you know not how much pleasure you
lose!” he rejoined. “It may seem incredible to you—
but, sir, I have actually found more real enjoyment
in a pipe of tobacco, smoked in the wilderness, alone
with my thoughts, than I have, at other times, surrounded
by a circle of friends. It calms the nerves—
it soothes the mind—it gives the imagination a
dreamy play; and you live over the past, or go into
the future, and pictures of happiness, with well known
forms and faces, float around you in the gently curling
vapor.”
“But all end in smoke,” said I, laughing.
“As what does not, sir!” he quickly rejoined. “It
is happiness for the time; and I have lived long
enough to be satisfied there is no earthly happiness
more durable than the smoke which floats above my
meerschaum.”
“You may be right,” said I; “but I should be
miserable to believe you.”
“Better for you to believe me now, than to suddenly
awake from your youthful dream of future
delight, to the bitter, heart-blighting reality! You are
young, healthy, sanguine — all before you seems
bright and beautiful—but you only see the glaciers
of far-off mountains sparkling in the sun, which a
near inspection will prove to be crags of ice—cold,
dreary, and unattainable—or valueless when attained.
I saw with your eyes once; but alas! I have lived to
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stand upon the Alpine peaks, and shiver in my desolation.”
As my new acquaintance said this, he drew a long,
deep sigh, and, casting down his eyes, appeared to
become absorbed in a painful reverie. While he thus
sat silent, I eyed him closely, and with that feeling
of romantic curiosity which we involuntarily attach
to a high-bred, intellectual stranger, whose history is
to us unknown, and whose air is one from which our
fancy weaves a mystery. He seemed to be about
forty years of age, and his dark, Castilian features
were handsome, expressive, and intellectual. His
hair was long, black, and of a wavy curl; and a thick,
black beard, neatly trimmed, covered the lower part
of his face. His profile was straight, with a slightly
acquiline nose; and when his thin lips parted with a
cheerful laugh, he displayed two rows of white, even
teeth. His eyes were rather hazel than black, and
their general expression was soft and winning; but
varying with every mood of their owner—from the
twinkle of humor, the gentleness of affection, to the
fiery fierceness of passion. His height, as I afterward
ascertained, was a trifle under six feet, and his form
athletic, flexible, and graceful. Of his character,
temperament, and intellect, I need not speak, as the
reader can form his own idea of the inner man and
his abilities from what will follow in the course of my
narrative.
“I crave your pardon!” said the stranger, suddenly
looking up: “I have been letting my memory recall
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a painful scene. Sometimes, sir, I wish my memory
were blotted out with my hopes; and then again, it
gives me a kind of twilight pleasure—bringing back, as
it were, the evening of a glorious day, without the
day itself. You will not understand all my similes,
and metaphorical expressions, and allusions, perhaps—
but it does not follow that you will thereby be the
loser. Well, well, what a world this is! and what a
curious life we live in it! Here now are two persons,
of different countries, different races, and born thousands
of miles apart, sitting quietly down in a savage
wilderness, to enjoy a tête-à-tête, and without even so
much as knowing each other's names. I am called
Juan El Doliente.”*
“My name, sir, is Roland Rivers,” I replied.
“By-the-by, how is it I find you without weapons?
it did not strike me before.”
I gave him a brief account of what had occurred
the night previous.
“A very remarkable escape,” he rejoined, as I concluded;
“but you spoke of this old woodsman as an
acquaintance—had you met before? You see I am
curious to know all I can of you!”
“Then I had better begin at the beginning,” returned
I; and I briefly informed him where I was
from, why I came to leave home, and narrated the
prominent incidents of my journey, with the exception
of my adventure with Loyola and Adele.
“You are anxious to rejoin your friend, I suppose,”
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he pursued, “and I can appreciate his feelings at your
loss. He will look upon you as one risen from the
dead. If agreeable to you, we will remain together
in this vicinity, and wait for this military party to
come up.”
“You could not propose anything to please me
better,” I replied.
“And as I have no particular locality in view, suppose
I keep you company for a few days?”
“Better still, sir,” said I.
“Confess, now, you are curious to know something
of my history?”
“I certainly am.”
“You wonder why I am here, with no companion
but my servant, and with no particular destination in
view?”
“I cannot deny I am curious on that point too,”
said I.
“Suppose I tell you I am traveling merely to kill
time?”
“Then I think you have chosen a locality where
you are most likely to be killed yourself,” returned I.
“Well, what of that? Man dies but once, and life
has but little pleasure to me now. It was not always
so, my young friend. There was a time when I should
have shrunk from the King of Terrors, as Death is
called—not because of personal fear—but because I
was surrounded by those I loved, and was happy.
They are all gone now,” he added, in a tremulous
voice, brushing a tear from his eye; “and I stand
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alone, a blasted oak. By and by, perhaps, I will give
you a sketch of my history; but not now—I am not
in the mood now.”
“If you are traveling to find relief to an aching
heart,” said I, “I am surprised that you seek it here
in the wilderness.”
“Where then?”
“Among the haunts of men.”
“You left the haunts of men and came hither for
pleasure, did you not?”
“But I had met with no misfortune.”
“And therefore had never tried human sympathy
for consolation,” he replied. “There are sorrows
which human sympathy can assuage; but, sir, the
heart may hold a grief so terrible, so crushing, that it
can only find relief in undisturbed communion with the
God who made it; and Healways seems to me to be
nearest in the solemn solitude of the pathless wilderness.
But aside from this, the man who has a natural
desire for travel, likes variety; and having seen all
that the genius and art and skill and learning of man
can produce, he turns to the wilderness for novelty,
and studies the almost infinite beauties of nature with
fresh delight. How forcibly your great English poet
expresses this sentiment!
“`There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
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From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.'
“Ah! Byron! Byron!” he added, after repeating
the foregoing stanza with great effect—“what genius
and misery united in him! I can appreciate him, for
my own heart has experienced some of his desolation.
But come! we must not forget the subject which drew
us together. You were about to tell me something of
the history of one whom you now suppose to be a
prisoner among the Indians! I have all the time
been eager to hear your story, and yet have purposely
delayed the narrative—can you understand this contradiction?”
“I cannot, sir.”
“Well, no matter, the human heart is full of contradictions.
Go on—I am ready now! tell me all you
know of this girl's history. Stop! a question first!
Where did you make her acquaintance? since you
say you are recently from Philadelphia.”
“The first night after leaving the last western settlement,
I chanced to get lost,” I replied, “and found
my way into the camp of the Santa Fe traders. She
was the first person I spoke to; and her sweet, sad
face made such an impression upon my sympathetic
heart, that, after some preliminary conversation, I put
such questions as drew from her the statement which
I will now repeat.”
The reader will perceive that I thus avoided
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speaking of my encounter with Loyola; but I described the
man as a villain, and gave my reasons for supposing
him not the father of Adele. I told the story of the
girl, as she had told it to me; and the Spaniard sat and
listened, as one paralyzed—his dark, expressive eyes,
which he fastened upon me, and kept there riveted,
seeming to pierce my very soul. His countenance,
too, during the narration, assumed such a wild, singular
expression, that I felt almost terrified, and
began to wonder if he were subject to fits of insanity.
I cannot better convey an idea of his look and appearance,
than to let the reader imagine a person, suddenly
surprised and startled, and in the act of gasping for
breath, being transformed into a figure of wax. Except
some slight twitchings of the muscles around the
mouth, a quivering of the lips, and short, gasping
respirations, he did not move; but occasionally—as I
paused in alarm, thinking he must be ill—dry, husky
articulations, seeming to issue from his throat or
chest, bade me go on.
For some time after I had finished my story, he
kept his eyes fixed upon me, with the same wild expression;
and then he sprung up, dashed down his
meerschaum, and set off on a run. Cato was near, in
the act of kindling a fire; and calling to him, I exclaimed:
“Quick! quick! follow your master! he has lost his
senses, and may do himself an injury!”
Cato looked up in surprise; and then turning to me,
with a leer, said:
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“I guess, mas'er, you is trying to fool dischile—eh!
mas'er?”
“No! no! don't you see he is mad?—look how he
runs!—after him, in Heaven's name!”
The tone of my voice, and the anxious expression
of my features, convinced the negro more than my
words; and starting to his feet, with, “Golly! dat's
queer!” he darted after the Spaniard, with the speed
of an Indian runner.
I watched the chase with intense anxiety. But it
lasted not long; for after running some two or three
hundred yards, El Doliente, as he styled himself,
suddenly came to a halt, and, facing about, began to
retrace his steps at an ordinary walk. He was met
by the negro, who of course had to explain why he
had followed him, and the two came back together.
As they drew near, I was pleased to observe that the
features of the Spaniard had resumed their natural
expression, though somewhat paler than usual.
“So you thought me mad, my friend?” he said,
with a grave smile, as he came up to me.
“I certainly did, sir.”
“Well, I was a good deal excited, I must admit;
and I felt very strangely—as if I must run to get my
breath—a singular way of doing it, doubtless you
think.”
“But what excited you so, if I may ask? You
had a very strange, wild look while I was speaking,
which somewhat alarmed me; and I should have
stopped, only you insisted upon my going on.”
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“As to what excited me, perhaps I should say, my
own fancy, acted upon by your story; and I bade you
go on, because I wished to hear the whole, without
interruption. Now tell me—what kind of a looking
man was this Loyola?”
“Tall, sinewy, forbidding, and villanous—with very
dark skin, a low forehead, large, bushy eye-brows, and
black hair and eyes.”
“His age?”
“From thirty-five to forty, I should judge.”
“He is dead, you say?”
“He was killed by the Indians, at the same time
Adele was taken prisoner.”
He stood a short time, with his eyes cast down, as
if reflecting upon what he had heard, and then
abruptly inquired:
“Are you sure the girl's name was Adele?”
“She said she had no remembrance of being called
by any other.”
“And she was educated at the Convent of Santa
Maria, in the interior of Mexico?”
“That was her statement, sir.”
He drew a long deep sigh, and mused again.
“Are you certain of the tribe that captured her?”
he at length inquired.
“My informant, who was present at the attack,
said they were Arrapahoes.”
“Had he any particular knowledge of the different
tribes?”
“I think not,” I answered.
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“Then he might easily have been mistaken.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed I—“so he might; and
if so, then is the poor girl lost indeed! Strange, I
have never thought of this! and now it weakens my
hope. Did you not hear the party you met say what
tribe attacked them?”
“They thought they were Arrapahoes,” he replied,
“but were not certain; for it is almost impossible to
distinguish one tribe from another in the night, even
by those who would recognize their distinctive traits
and dress by daylight—at least I have been told so.”
“Alas! then, what hope is there for the poor
girl?” I sighed. “With any doubt as to her present
locality, if living, I could not ask, with any show of
reason, for Government troops to be sent to her
rescue; and if I did, I should expect my application
to be refused.”
“Then we must act on our own account,” he
replied.
“We?” said I, inquiringly.
“Yes! you have awakened my interest in the girl—
and, if living, I am determined she shall be found
and rescued. If money can procure sufficient aid to
render an expedition in quest of her comparatively
safe, I have enough of that, and will use it for that
purpose.”
“Say you so?” cried I, springing up and grasping
his hand. “God bless you for the noble resolve!”
eaf462n4* It is customary with Southerners to speak of their black
male servants as “boys,” without regard to their age.
eaf462n5* Anglice—The Sufferer.
-- 264 -- p462-241
CHAPTER XVII. REJOIN MY FRIEND.
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
The more I saw of my new acquaintance, the better
I liked him; and, all things being taken into consideration,
I looked upon the event as fortunate which
had brought us together. If my gallant steed had
not borne me to a throne, as did the steed of Mazeppa,
he had at least assisted me in the accomplishment of
one great object I had in view, by placing me in a position
to come in contact with one who could and
would materially aid me, and for this I humbly and
sincerely thanked Providence.
Juan El Doliente was a man of somewhat remarkable
parts. Learned in books, in the study of nature
and art, and the ways of mankind—a gentleman, a
scholar, and a traveler who had visited almost every
portion of the habitable globe—he could converse on
every subject with an ease and freedom that was truly
fascinating; while his reflective, philosophical, satirical,
and humorous modes of expression—sometimes
all commingling, as it were, in a single sentence—
gave continual zest to everything that passed his lips,
and rendered him, without exception, the most delightful
and brilliant conversationalist I have ever
seen.
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We spent the day in company, removing our camp
to the point where the Santa Fe Trail crossed the
Pawnee Fork, so as to intercept the military train,
which we expected would make its appearance before
night. Botter came in about noon, bringing the most
delicious portions of an antelope which he had shot;
and on this we had a regular feast—El Doliente furnishing
salt, and Cato making us a cake of corn meal,
which had been brought from below to be used on
special occasions. The Spaniard had six mules—two
for himself and servant to ride, and the others to
carry his baggage, camp utensils, and whatever else
he might find necessary or convenient on his journey—
and therefore he had taken a certain amount of provisions,
to serve him during a scarcity of game, or to
vary the regular hunters' fare of meat alone.
I was in hopes El Doliente would feel in the mood
to give me a sketch of his life during the day—for I
was quite curious to learn something of his history—
but he made no further allusion to the subject; and I,
not wishing to be thought inquisitive, made no inquiry.
He talked much of Adele, and asked a
hundred questions concerning her, many of which I
could not answer, and seemed much distressed at her
hard fortune—more so, I thought, than could naturally
result from mere sympathy for the sufferings of one
never seen, and supposed to be an unknown, or unheard
of stranger. He inquired about her height, her
size, her tout ensemble, the color of her hair and eyes,
the peculiarity of her features, and even the
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expression of her countenance, when in repose and when
animated. At last, recurring to his excited manner,
while telling him the history of the girl, and taking
all his questions into consideration, I inquired:
“Have you fallen in love with this Adele, from
my description of her? or do you fancy you really
know who she is?”
“Perhaps neither,” he replied, evasively; “at least
I shall not be your rival for her hand.”
“Why, you must not suppose me her suitor,” I
replied, with a laugh.
“Do you not love her?” he asked, quickly.
“Really, I have had so little experience in matters
of the heart, that I cannot decide in my own mind
whether I do or not. But grant I do love her, it does
not follow I shall wish to marry her, even if I succeed
in restoring her to life and liberty.”
“You would attempt nothing dishonorable?” he
quickly demanded, a dark shade of suspicion, or distrust,
passing quickly, over his features.
“Being a stranger,” returned I, rather coolly, “I
shall permit you to ask that question, without taking
mortal offence thereat; but had you known me for
years, instead of hours, doubtless you would have
thought twice before putting it in such a serious
mood.”
“Forgive me!” he rejoined, grasping my hand;
“I do know you. I have already penetrated into
your very soul; and I am chagrined that I allowed
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my lips to speak without proper reflection! Pray
forget the hasty words!”
“They are forgotten,” said I, cordially returning
the pressure of his hand.
It continued to rain till toward night, and then
cleared up, with a chilling breeze from the west—a
breeze that seemed to have passed over icy mountains
on its journey. The extremes of heat and cold, in
midsummer, are not among the least remarkable
features of the Grand Prairies. You may retire at
night, almost panting, as you inhale and exhale the
close, sultry air, and, in less than six hours, require
thick blankets and a fire to render you comfortable.
The cause of these changes is easily explained. The
high mountain peaks to the westward are perpetually
covered with snow and ice; and when the current of
air sets in from this direction, it takes a wintry coldness
to the plains below; while a breeze from the
south brings the breath of the tropics; and without
either of these currents, a summer sun, pouring down
upon a flat, sandy surface, generates a heat that is
almost unbearable, and which only a mountain wind
can dissipate.
Before night, I was delighted to perceive the command
of Lieutenant Parker arrive on the opposite
bank of the stream; but the creek was too high and
turbulent to admit of any one crossing; though so
anxious was I to see Varney, and assure him of my
safety, that I think I should have attempted to swim
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it, had not El Doliente and Botter interfered to prevent
me.
“I insist you do not make the trial!” said the
Spaniard, in a positive tone; “for I will not stand idly
by and see you throw your life away.”
“But I am a good swimmer,” I replied, “and I
think I could reach the opposite shore without much
difficulty.”
“You've got the nine lives to the cat,” said Sam;
“and hyer's what's said it afore; but ef you'd got
fifty more, you'd want 'em all into that thar drink, or
else I'm a — old woodchuck—chaw me! Augh!”
I did not make the attempt—nor did any one else
that night—and so Varney and I still remained apart,
though not more than three hundred yards divided
us. On the following morning, the stream not having
subsided any during the night, Lieutenant Parker
ordered a raft to be constructed; but it was not till
late in the afternoon that it was considered launched
and ready for a cargo; and as there was now only
sufficient daylight for one passage back and forth, it
was resolved to defer the transportation to another
day. As a matter of course, my friend and I remained
another night apart, and I keenly felt the dis-appointment
of not seeing one who was all this time
mourning me as dead.
On the second morning, the transportation began
about sunrise; and when the raft returned, after
taking over the first freight, I returned with it, to the
astonishment of all who saw me. Before I reached
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Varney, some one informed him that I was alive, and
well, and had returned; and he came running forward
to meet me, almost doubting his senses. The next
minute, with the exclamation, “Great God! it is
true!” he threw himself upon my neck, and fainted
in my arms.
I pass over the congratulations which I received
from all parties, who looked upon me as one from the
dead—nor did their astonishment cease when they
heard the story of my thrilling adventures. From
that moment I became a sort of lion among men who
might, in one sense, be said to have hair-breadth
escapes for a pastime; but besides the startling facts
in my case, there was a wild, romantic interest attached
to them, which bore off the palm.
Two men had been killed in the fight, and one or
two others slightly wounded; but it was supposed the
Indians had lost some fifteen or twenty of their party—
though the number could not be accurately ascertained,
as they took care to bear off their dead and
wounded, with only a few exceptions. Our party had
also lost several horses—but Varney's and mine were
safe.
Considering the stormy weather, and his grief at
my supposed death, Varney had suffered less in
health, during my absence, than might have been
expected; and my return so raised his spirits, that for
several days he seemed to forget his physical ailments
altogether; but after that his system took a sudden
reaction, and he began to decline so rapidly that I
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feared he would not reach Bent's Fort alive. From
being able to ride his horse for six or eight hours at
a time, he soon became so weak and prostrated that
he could not sit up without support, and was obliged
to keep to his rude bed in the jolting wagon. His
cough grew more and more troublesome, keeping him
awake the greater part of the night, exhausting all
his vital forces, and leaving him too weak to speak
aloud till after sleep. I did all I could to render his
situation, not comfortable, but bearable; and looking
to death as his only relief, I almost wished for the
hour when he would be at rest.
After passing Pawnee Fork, our route lay along the
valley of the Arkansas. Millions of buffaloes now
surrounded us; and often, as far as the eye could
reach, we saw nothing else. Occasionally we espied
small bands of wild horses—but they never suffered
us to approach very near them. The deer, the elk,
and the antelope, sometimes diversified the scene;
but the buffalo seemed lord of the domain—attended
by his enemy, the wolf—which, though apparently
on friendly terms, never failed to take advantage of
the misfortunes of his good-natured, indulgent neighbor.
There is a species of wolf that always accompanies
the buffalo, to prey upon the disabled and young;
but the nobler animal, so far as I could discover, has
no fear of his sneaking, insiduous, blood-thirsty foe,
and no suspicion of his design, till too late to save
himself from his cruel fangs.
The remainder of our journey was not without
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[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
incidents, but none of sufficient interest to deserve special
notice. Several of the men fell sick on the route—
two died, and were buried on the way—and I at one
time suffered severely from an attack of bilious colic;
but my disease yielded to medical treatment, and I
was confined only one day to the wagon, which bore
along the wasted form of my suffering friend. El
Doliente, his servant, and Botter accompanied the
military train; and on the last day of June, 18—, our
eyes were greeted with the waving of the stars and
stripes above the walls of that wilderness stronghold
known as Bent's Fort.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE PARTING AT BENT'S.
Bent's Fort stands on the left bank of the Arkansas,
near the stream, which here flows over a pebbly bottom,
and is easily forded, the water seldom being
over two feet in depth. The fort itself, is a large,
square building, constructed of the Mexican adobes,
or sun-dried bricks. It is flanked by circular bastions,
loop-holed for musketry, and is entered through a
large gate, which opens upon a corral or yard.
Fronting upon this inner court, are the dwellings,
rooms, shops, offices, stables, etc., of the different
occupants of the station.
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Great is the variety of character to be found in one
of these western fortresses; for in this respect they
are much alike—from the Yellow Stone to the Gila—
from the Missouri to the Columbia. Being the trading
posts of whites and Indians, they often present a curious
mixture of races. Here, in a group of twenty, you
will not unfrequently find an American, an Englishman,
a German, a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a Mexican,
an African, and Indians from different tribes; and of
these whites—unless Government troops, with perhaps
an occasional traveler—nine-tenths will be traders,
trappers, hunters, teamsters and guides—always excepting,
of course, the parties of emigrants halting on
their way to and from more distant regions.
Many of these whites, too, these mountaineers, are
but little removed from savages—having been all
their lives in the wilderness, away from the refinements
of civilized society—and, as a natural consequence,
if they marry at all, they generally find them
Indian wives; and if they settle, select some well
known trading post, and pass the remainder of their
days afar from their native soil and beyond the reach
of law. I saw numbers here who had Indian wives,
and appeared to be contented and happy—many of
their children being bright, active, and beautiful in
form and feature.
On arriving at this station, I immediately made the
best provision I could for poor Varney. During the
last few days of our journey, he had regained a little
strength, so that he could walk a short distance, and
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sit up for an hour or two at a time; but no one who
saw him, believed he would live to reach the mountains,
which were still many leagues distant. He met
kindness and sympathy from every quarter, and I had
no difficulty in procuring him the best accommodations
which the station afforded; and I also secured
him a faithful attendant, in the person of a half-breed,
who promised not to leave him till his health should
be restored or death should end the scene. My
reasons for this course of proceeding, together with
some matters of interest to the reader, and the disposition
I was about to make of myself, will be gathered
from the following conversation, which took place
between Varney and myself about a week after our
arrival at the fort.
The room assigned to Varney was small, but
comfortable. It contained a good bed, a deal table,
a couple of chairs, and had chintz curtains to its
single window, which, together with the door, looked
out upon the corral. These little things, trifling in
themselves, gave the apartment a cheerful appearance;
and this, I think, is seldom without its effect upon
the occupant, especially if he is suffering from a
disease which at times causes him great depression of
spirits. It was not without its effect, I am certain,
upon my friend, who seemed to brighten a little
every-day, and gradually regain the hope he had recently
lost. It was to this room I repaired one night,
about nine o'clock. I found Varney in bed, expecting
me, with a lamp burning upon the table. I drew up
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a chair to his side, sat down, and took his thin hand
in mine; but it was perhaps a minute ere either of us
broke the solemn silence.
“So,” he said at length, with a deep sigh, and in
a tremulous tone—“the hour I have so long dreaded
has come at last—the hour in which we must part,
perhaps to meet no more on earth!”
“Let us hope otherwise, my dear friend—let us
hope otherwise!” said I; “we should never despair
of the possible!”
“No, Roland, I will not wholly despair; and
though this separation is painful to me, I will try
and bear it like a man—trusting in God—for I think
it is for the best.”
“Ah! my dear friend, it gives me joy to hear you
speak thus,” said I; “for I have all along been
afraid you would not be able to take leave of me with
anything like composure.”
“Nor should I now, Roland, had I not in a great
measure prepared myself for the trial; and did not
my comparatively comfortable situation here—even
here, in the wilderness—render me better able to
bear the parting than at any time since our first
meeting.”
“And I can the better leave you,” said I, “that I
feel assured you will be well cared for, and receive
every attention and kindness which your situation demands.
All I have spoken with here, deeply sympathize
with you, and there seems to be one universal
wish for your recovery. Besides, your attendant,
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Panto, the half-breed—recommended to me by Bent
himself, as kind and faithful—has already formed a
strong attachment to you—and, if you go to the
mountains, will go with you. As a hunter and guide
he has few superiors. He knows the ground—is
well acquainted with Indian wiles and stratagems—is
companionable and prudent—and can serve you better
than I could.”
“But can never take your place in my heart, for
all that,” sighed Varney. “However, it is well; and
with the exception of losing you, I know not that it
could be better arranged. Two weeks ago I had no
hope of reaching the mountains; I was looking for
death; but now I am so much improved, that I trust
a couple of weeks more will again see me on my way;
so let me thank God for the blessings I have, and look on
the bright, rather than on the dark, side of the picture.”
“And it is possible, ere two weeks expire, I may
rejoin you,” I replied.
“If I could only be assured of that, I should be
happy; but you will not return in two weeks, Roland;
though I pray God you may some time return, and
find your journey has not been made in vain! All is
arranged, I suppose, for your departure?”
“Yes—we leave to-morrow at the break of day;
and, thanks to the noble Spaniard, we have a strong
party of experienced men, all well armed and well
mounted.”
“How many do you number?
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“Fourteen in all, including the negro, and two
Indians who will act as guides and interpreters.”
“And where do you expect to find this Arrapahoe
village?”
“That we cannot say, as this is the season when
they are continually on the move. Two weeks ago,
I understand, the grand village was within fifty miles
of here—now it may be two hundred distant—we
must search for it.”
“And you are not sure the girl is their prisoner
after all?”
“Alas! no—would I knew even that!”
“You are still resolved, I suppose, to try mild measures
first?”
“Yes, we shall take three mules, loaded with such
articles as Indians prize; and if we find the girl and
her companion, we shall endeavour to purchase them;
but if we fail to get possession of them peaceably, let
their captors beware of blows!”
“But fourteen is a small number to attack a strong,
warlike tribe!”
“What we lack in numbers we must make up in
valor. But I do not apprehend we shall come to
strife; for Indians, everywhere, hold their female
prisoners at some price, and we are prepared to pay
even a high ransom.”
“And does this noble Spaniard bear all the expense
of the expedition?”
“Nearly so. He would have taken the whole expense
upon himself; but I insisted on fitting out
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Botter, and paying him; and nothing but want of means
prevented my claiming the right to pay at least half
of all the rest. As it is, I am forced to content myself
with the intention of reimbursing him after my
return to the States—though he has positively declared
he will never accept a single coin from me for
such a purpose. We shall see.”
“What a noble, generous soul!”
“He is indeed, Alfred—a man among a million.”
“And you are well mated, Roland.”
Thank you for the compliment.”
“Rather thank God for the fact, my friend,” said
Varney, earnestly. “How soldom it is,” he continued,
reflectively, “that we find a human being who acts
for the good of others, without some motive of self
being at the bottom.”
“There may be none entirely devoid of self,” I
rejoined; “but there are a few who, when compared
with the many, appear so—the distinction between
them and the generality of mankind is so marked—
the difference so great. But a word of yourself. You
have improved so much during the last few days, that
I trust, as you say, a couple of weeks will see you
able to resume your journey; but I would advise you
not to set out till you feel strong enough to ride at
least twenty miles a day; and at that rate you will
soon reach La Puebla de San Carlos, whence you can
gain the mountain heights, in the vicinity of Pike's
Peak, with very little difficulty. I suppose, if you
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live, it is your design to spend the winter in this
quarter?”
“Yes, my friend, such is my hope.”
“Well, if I come back from this expedition, it
shall be my care to visit you ere I return to the
States.”
“Say you so!” cried Varney, eagerly. “Oh! the
very idea gives me joy! Oh! Roland, if I could have
you with me, and regain my health, I should be the
happiest mortal living! What a delightful time we
could have in hunting along the valleys of the mountain
streams—where, I am told, game of all kinds can
be found in abundance, from the buffalo to the coyote—
including deer, elk, antelope, bears, wolves, and
mountain goats. But the dream—and it is a dream—
is too bright for a reality. It is your intention to
return in the fall, and I would not persuade you to
remain longer away from those who love you, and
have the first claim upon you. But you will see me
again—promise me that!”
“Providence permitting, I certainly will, Alfred;
and though I will make no promise of remaining with
you for any length of time, yet we will talk over the
past, and speculate on the future; and perhaps your
bright dream, as you term it, may not prove all a
dream. Take care of yourself, my dear friend—be
ever cautious and never rash—and always remember
your life is valuable to more than yourself.”
“It is sweet to think so!” said Varney, grasping
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my hand, while tears filled his eyes; “it is sweet to
think that when we die we shall be mourned!”
“And you would be sadly mourned, by two at least,
Alfred—by him who now stands beside you, and by
her who is far away.”
“I believe it, Roland—God bless you both—I
believe it!” returned Varney, so stirred with emotion
that he could scarcely articulate the words “And
pray take the advice you have given me, to yourself,
my dear friend! for you will not perish unwept; and
you—pardon me, Roland! you are more rash than I—
and you are about to start on a perilous expedition.
I sincerely pray you may be successful; for aside
from an earnest desire that these poor prisoners may
be reclaimed, I know success would render you happy,
and your happiness lies at my heart.”
We conversed a few minutes longer; and then,
with a melancholy depression of spirits—for it was
very uncertain if we should ever meet again—I said,
in an unsteady tone:
“And now, Alfred, it only remains for me to bid
you farewell.”
“Must we then part?” cried Varney, with a flood
of tears.
“It is even so,” said I, with dim eyes and quivering
lips. “It is getting late—I have some matters to
arrange before I sleep—and I shall leave too early to
see you in the morning. Let us hope all may turn
out as we could wish; and we must remember, that
the same Power which has preserved us during our
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perils, is around us still; and that we cannot perish,
except it be by the will of Him who gave us life.
Trust in God, my dear Alfred, and hope! Farewell!”
“God bless and preserve you!” he rather gasped
than said. “Farewell, my friend—farewell!”
In an instant we were locked in each others arms;
and for perhaps a minute we stood sobbing, but
without speaking another word. Then gently disengaging
his arms, I laid Varney carefully on the
bed, and rushed from the apartment, feeling as if
stifled for the want of air. So we parted.
wl
CHAPTER XIX. THE EXPEDITION.
It wanted more than an hour of day, when I
arose, from an unrefreshing sleep, and found my way
into the corral. All was quiet—no one was yet
stirring. The night was clear and serene, and the
moon, now near its full, and far toward the west, threw
its silvery light against the walls of the fortress, and a
portion of its rays just kissed the ground on the
eastern side of the court. In the blue concave above,
a few bright stars were visible; and fixing my eyes
upon these, I stood and wondered if either would be
my home, when my spirit should part from its mortal
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tenement and wing its flight into the realms of
eternity.
And when would that event occur? Would it be
soon? or had I many years of earthly pilgrimage,
earthly joys and sorrows, before me? Who should
say? What of that mysterious future, which now
lay before me as a wall of darkness, into which no
human sight might penetrate? I was about to set
out on an expedition of peril, to rescue one sweet
being who occupied my thoughts by night and by
day. Yes—disguise the matter as I might, even
almost to the deceiving of myself—my mind continually
evoked the image of the sweet, lovely Adele
as I had seen her; and her voice of silvery sweetness
was ever ringing in my soul in sad and plaintive
tones. She seemed to conjure me, by all that is
sacred and holy in human sympathy, to come to her
aid. And I was going—was even now on the point
of departure. I had already bidden my bosom friend
farewell, and experienced a painful separation, that I
might fly to her rescue. Yes, I was going. But
whither? and to what end? I was going—but
should I ever return? Should I find and save her,
and return happy in the knowledge that to me she
owed her deliverance? Or should painful disappointments
greet me, and perils end in death, and my
body lie lonely in an unknown grave, afar from my
native land, my kindred, and my friends? The
future held all; the result was in the future; but
who, save Him who is past, present, and to come,
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could look beyond the veil, and say what destiny was
there marked out for Roland Rivers?
While I stood lost in thought, a hand lightly
touched my shoulder. I turned, and encountered
Juan El Doliente.
“You are up betimes, my friend,” he said.
“I could not sleep,” I replied. “I last night took a
solemn leave of Alfred Varney, and the parting was
not without its effect upon my nervous system. And
add to this, my fancy would perforce run before me
into the future, and endeavor to reveal the result of
this expedition.”
“And with what success?”
“None to rely on. Hope says we may succeed—
Fear says we may fail.”
“I have had a singular dream on this very subject,”
said El Doliente, thoughtfully; “a dream, bright,
beautiful, ecstatic, glorious! I am not a credulous
believer in dreams as omens; but there was something
about this resembling rather a prophet's vision
than a wandering fancy, and it made me so very,
very happy. It is possible for it to be fulfilled,
exactly as I beheld it; and God grant it may be fulfilled,
even though it now seems as if its realization
would drive me mad with joy.”
“May I know the dream?”
“If it be fulfilled, yes—but not now.”
“Hello, boys!” exclaimed the voice of Sam at this
moment. “I thought as how old One-Eyed war the
fust nigger up; but I sees I aint—chaw me! Wall,
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Cap'en, (a title bestowed upon the Spaniard, as the
leader of the expedition,) I spose we're off in a jiffy,
hey?”
“It is my wish to be on the way by daylight,” replied
El Doliente.
“Them's 'em!” said Botter, taking his way to the
stables, whither we followed, to see that our animals
were properly cared for.
In a few minutes, one after another of our party
assembled in the corral, and then we all become busy
with our preparations for an early start. The mules
were brought out and packed by a Mexican who was
to have charge of them during the expedition; and as
the process of mule packing may be interesting to the
uninitiated, I will give a brief description of it in this
place.
It is well known that the mule is the most stubborn
of all animals; and to manage him well, requires no
little art and experience, to say nothing of a vast
amount of patience. True, Varney and I had had no
difficulty with ours; but this was rather the exception
than the rule, and those of the trappers were exceptions
also; but we had witnessed some rather trying
and ludicrous scenes, and, in western parlance, had
heard some “pretty tall swearing,” occasioned by the
freaks of this intractable quadruped. But wilful,
wayward, and stubborn as this animal is, it can be
mastered and brought under due subjection; the
means, however, become almost a science, which none
better understand than your true Mexican muleteer—
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who, in catching, packing, driving, and unpacking,
flourishes in the full glory of his ambition. If the
mule, from high feed and idleness, takes it into his
head to become refractory, on being required to resume
his labors, as was the case with one of El Doliente's,
the lasso of the muleteer immediately tightens
around his neck, and he is instantly brought to the
ground, and chocked into the belief that he is no longer
his own master. The moment he is subdued, he is
permitted to rise; and if about to be packed, a blind
is thrown over his eyes; and then the saddle-cloth,
with a thick pad of stuffed leather, in shape like an
open book, is placed upon his back, and strapped
down by a broad belt, which is drawn so tight, with
the strength of two men, one on either side of the
animal, as to cause the latter to bellow with pain;
and to one who sees it done for the first time, it appears
as if the beast were about to be cut in two. This,
however, is a necessary proceeding—for it prevents
chafing, and causes the mule to travel with more ease.
On this saddle is placed the pack, containing the
articles to be transported, weighing anywhere between
fifty and four hundred pounds; and this is lashed on
by a rope, passing tightly around the beast, and is
covered by a square oil-cloth, or matting, to protect
the whole from the rain.
Our mulada consisted of three of these animals—
one packed with provisions, camp utensils, and sundries,
and the two others with blankets, knives, ammunition,
and trinkets for Indian trade. Neither of
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the three were heavily laden—for it was our design to
travel with some speed—and each man, well armed
and equipped, was mounted on a strong, fleet horse.
As daylight fairly absorbed the silvery rays of the
declining moon, we rode through the gate at Bent's
Fort, a picturesque looking party of fourteen, with a
crowd of spectators, among whom was Lieutenant
Parker, wishing us God speed and a happy termination
to our hazardous undertaking. Our party consisted
of El Doliente and his servant Cato, two Mexicans,
two Indians, three American mountaineers, three
French voyageurs, Botter, and myself; and though we
were of mixed races, care had been taken to get men
of experience and undoubted courage.
We shaped our course to the northward, and by
noon we had, to the best of our judgment, put some
fifteen or twenty miles between us and Bent's, notwithstanding
the mules had several times proved refractory,
one of them kicking and plunging till he
relieved himself of his pack, which had to be again
put on, the whole causing at least an hour's delay.
We were now once more on the broad prairie, but
not on the buffalo range of the present season, for not
one of these animals was in sight. We saw a few
antelopes; but they were too wild to come within
rifle range; and so we made our noonday meal of
dried meat, and a small allowance of dry corn-bread,
which we had brought with us, washing the whole
down with some brackish water, which we procured
from a slimy pool—the first water, in fact, we had seen
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since within five miles of the station. We had no
shade, for there was not a tree in sight, and the bright
sun poured down upon us its piercing rays of heat, with
scarcely a ruffle of the air to relieve us. Our animals
appeared to suffer as much as ourselves; and having
drank in turn, and drained the pool of its unwholesome
contents, without their thirst being quenched,
and some of them showing little disposition to feed,
we thought it best to remount and push on till we
could find a suitable place for our night's encampment.
The view before us was now monotonous in the extreme.
A flat, sandy, arid plain stretched away to the
horizon, in almost every direction, bearing only a few
sage bushes, and the short, brown, crisped-looking
buffalo grass, so sparsely planted as to give nothing
of an ordinary turf-like appearance to the soil. Not
a tree, not a bush, not a stream was in sight—the
earth seemed parched—and the hot rays of the sun,
descending and reflecting, almost scorched and stifled
us.
We advanced about ten miles further, shaping our
course more to the eastward, when we came upon
several holes containing water, and fearing we might
fare worse, if we sought anything better, we encamped
here for the night. Soon after turning our animals
loose, Botter espied some three or four antelopes, far
in the distance; and being the first to discover them,
he said he should claim them as his meat; by which
he meant, that no other hunter of the party—which
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was already divided into three or four messes—should
go in quest of them; but if they wanted game for
their supper, they must seek it elsewhere for themselves.
“Freshwater,” he said to me, “you're some to deer,
you is, and this hyer old coon got a good wet on't to
Bent's; but what d'ye think of them thar skeery
critters yonder, hey? D'ye think you could fotch
one, boy—hey?”
“If I could get near enough, perhaps I might.”
“If they'd only stand till you got up to 'em,
hey?”
“A hundred yards might do, Sam, bad shot as you
think me.”
“Wall, I'd like to knock over two; and so 'spose
you kim along, and twig old one-eyed coax 'em up to
shooting distance.”
I assented, and we set off at once—though I did not
understand what he meant by coaxing so wild and
timid an animal as the antelope. We made a circuit,
so as to get to the leeward of them, that the slight
breeze now stirring might not betray us by our scent;
for so acute is the sense of smell in nearly all wild
animals, that it is almost impossible to approach the
more timid to the windward within rifle range. Having
got the breeze in our faces, we advanced slowly and
cautiously, till we reached a thick cluster of sage
bushes, distant from where the animals were feeding
some three hundred yards.
“Now,” said Sam, “ef everything goes right, we'll
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hev decent meat inside of us to sleep on, ooy—you
kin gamble on to that! Lay down, and keep yourself
quiet as a nigger stealing corn.”
“But we cannot shoot them from here?”
“Yes, we kin, hoss!”
“Well, if you can, blaze away; but as for myself, I
fancy I have too much good sense to waste my powder
upon an antelope at three hundred yards.”
“I'll tell you what, Freshwater,” pursued Botter,
“old One-Eyed Sam 'll gamble on to it—chaw me!
This hyer nigger 'll jest bet you a pound of 'bacca that
he'll throw one of them critters from this hyer cache
afore sundown.”
“Done!” said I—“fire away!”
“Not yet—nary once—not so green. I'll hev to
fotch 'em up nigher. But a bet's a bet, you know—
else what makes parsimmons pucker? Augh!”
“Certainly, a bet is a bet; and you must shoot one
of those antelopes from here, or lose.”
“Expect.”
“I shall be happy to see you do it.”
“Lay low then, and twig this hyer old beaver.”
As he spoke, Sam produced a strip of a red blanket,
which he proceeded to fasten to the end of his wipingstick,
and then elevate above his head and wave to
and fro. It was almost instantly perceived by the
antelopes—which, to my surprise, instead of running
away, took a long, steady look at it, and then began
to approach us, slowly and cautiously.
“Them thar antes,” said Botter, as he lay on his
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back, chuckling at the success of his stratagem and
my surprise, “has got more curiosity nor any other
critter I knows on, 'cept 'tis a woman; and she beats
the hind sights off o' the d—l; ef she don't, why does
dogs bark? Augh! Lay low thar; they musn't see
you, or they'll quit to once; for no matter how nice
you look to your gal, you're no beauty to them—chaw
me! Yes! ye see, they twig this hyer old rag, and
they don't know what to make on't, and so they're a
kimming to see; and when they has seed, I 'spect one
on 'em to stay to meat; and ef you kin shoot to sixty
yard, plum center, may be two on 'em won't travel
no furder. Augh!”
“And they are really approaching us from curiosity?”
said I.
“They aint doing nothing else, Freshwater.”
The whole proceeding was full of novelty to me, for
it was my first acquaintance with the hunter's stratagem
for luring the timid antelope to his destruction.
Slowly the animals approached us, stopping occasionally
to consider the danger of advancing toward an
object which had so strong a hold upon their curiosity,
but always ending their cogitations with a fresh resolve
to make a closer inspection. Meantime Botter had
stuck one end of the wiping-stick into the ground,
and brought his rifle into range, so that he could sight
and fire at a moment's notice.
“Fix your shooting iron, Freshwater,” he said,
“and see what you kin do fur your living. You is
good to a hundred yard, you say, and they aint much
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furder off nor that; but as long as they don't git
skeered, we'll let 'em kim up powerful nigh. D'ye
see that chap with a white spot over his nose?”
“I think I do.”
“Wall, he's the fattest, and he's my meat, you kin
gamble on to that.”
“I have, you know—do not forget the pound of
tobacco.”
“Me forgit?—nary once—chaw me. 'Spect you'll
be more likely to do that nor this hyer coon; but ef
you does, I'll ax you for't—don't be afeard.”
“You talk as if you had already won.”
“Thar—hush now—keep quiet; pick out your
critter, but don't take mine. They ain't more'n
seventy-five yard, and this hyer old beaver is gitting
a desperate hanker for some of thar meat. Got your
sight plum center?”
“One moment! There—I am ready.”
“Let her rip, hoss.”
We fired together, and had the pleasure of seeing
two of the animals fall. I was for springing up and
rushing forward, to make assurance doubly sure—but
Sam restrained me.
“Hold on a bit, and lay low, Freshwater—the fun
aint over yit. You done well for a greenhorn—chaw
me; but thar's a smart chance left—don't you see?
Them fellers as fell can't run away, and you see the
others is looking on and wondering what it's all about.
Load up, boy—load up—and we'll throw a couple
more, and that'll gin the whole camp some'at to chaw.”
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What Sam said, to my surprise, I saw was true.
We had killed, or mortally wounded, two of the
animals; and the others, some five or six in number,
instead of running away, as I had supposed they
instantly would, had gathered around their fallen
companions, and were evidently wondering at the
cause of their prostration. We reloaded our rifles,
keeping our horizontal position on the ground, and,
at a given signal, fired together again, and killed two
more. The others now took fright, and disappeared
with the fleetness of the grey-hound.
“This hyer one-eyed old nigger ain't a-gwine to
forgit the bacca, Freshwater!” said Sam, as we returned
to camp. “No, I ain't—chaw me—wagh!
hagh! wagh!”
CHAPTER XX. TAKEN PRISONER.
For three days we continued our journey without
any incidents worthy of note; but on the fourth day
we met a small party of Pawnees; from whom we
learned, through our Indian interpreters, that the big
village of the Arrapahoes was supposed to be somewhere
in the vicinity of Platte River—at least a
hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty, miles from
where we now were. This was not the most agreeable
news, as we had hoped to find them somewhere about
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the Smoky Hill Fork; but there was only one thing
to be done under the circumstances, and that was to
push on, as rapidly as possible, till we should discover
them.
On the sixth night from leaving Bent's Fort, we
encamped in a beautiful grove of ash, maple and
cottonwood, which shaded the banks of a tributary
of the Republican Fork. We had passed over flat,
sandy, almost barren prairies, scarcely seeing a tree
or a stream on our route; and therefore the sight of
this beautiful grove was refreshing indeed—more
especially, as it was filled with birds, whose sweet
songs enlivened the scene. Near us was a shallow
stream, flowing over a sandy bed; and on either side,
the grand solemn prairies stretched away as far as the
eye could reach. In the valley here was excellent
grazing for our weary animals; and as we had succeeded
in killing a buffalo, whose nutritious flesh was
now before us, we were in good spirits; and around
our fires that night, as we toasted and ate our meat,
washing it down with pure water, or coffee, we voted
to name the place Camp Delightful.
“It's a purty name enough,” said Botter, in his characteristic
way—as, having filled himself, he lighted
his pipe at the fire, and threw out smoke like a miniature
volcano; “yes, it's a purty name enough, is
Camp Delightful; but when this hyer old beaver seed
this spot afore, he had some'at to make him remember
it without putting sich a fixing to it—ef he hadn't,
why does fishes swim. Augh!”
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“So, my friend, you have been here before?” said
El Doliente, inquiringly.
“Wall I has, hoss; and ef I didn't see some red
niggers that thar night, then chaw me up fur a liar!
Augh!”
As he said this emphatically, he drew the attention
of the whole party, and El Doliente rejoined.
“Suppose you tell us the story; it will serve to
while away the time till our pipes are all smoked out.”
“What does you say to that thar, Ebony?” inquired
Sam, turning to the negro, who had edged his way
up as near the old trapper as he considered prudent.
“Me, mas'er?” returned Cato, in surprise, at being
thus appealed to.
“Yes, you've got a tongue into your head as red as
a biled lobster; and what's the use on't ef you don't
say nothing? Your pealed-inyum eyes shows you're
in fur the gist on't—else why was niggers made? So
what d'ye say now?—blurt her out and don't chaw!
Augh!”
Cato looked inquiringly at his master, who said,
with a laugh:
“The white gentleman (nodding to Sam) would
like to know if you wish to hear his story?”
“Golly! if dat's it, den dis chile say yes, sah!”
replied Cato, with a grin.
“In course that's it,” pursued Sam; “and the man's
a — fool as thinks it aint.”
“We all verree mushe like you tell him to hear,”
said one of the French voyageurs.
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“Wall, squat around, boys, and hyer goes, plum
center,” said Sam.
We all formed a half circle around the old trapper,
who proceeded to tell us the following thrilling story.
“Me and a chap called Stag-Horn,” began Sam,
“kim over here one winter, 'bout ten year ago, on our
way to the mountains. We started with three
muleys; but thar kim along one of the infarnallest
snow storms as ever froze ha'r, and every bone on 'em
went under, leaving us afoot and clean froze. We
had our shooting irons, and we tumbled through the
snow, without seeing nary splinter fur a fire, nary
once. For two days we tramped without sleeping,
with our ha'r froze stiff, and our skins feeling like
fishes' scales, which means they didn't feel at all.
Augh! Wall, the third day, jest as we was 'gwine
to gin in to freezing, and gin the wolves a taste, we
kim to a dog town, whar the wind had blowed the
snow off, and we burnt powder and got half-a-dozen.
We hadn't had nary chaw sence the night afore, and
the first two went in without cooking, for we knowed
death war about, and felt cantankerous. Arter that,
we pulled forward, and got to this spot, jest as the sun
war squatting over the icykels of the Rocky.
“`Hyer's wood,' says I to Stag-Horn—for the
snow'd drifted and left a bare spot—`and we'll make a
fire kim, and feast on dog to-night. Hooray!'
“`Ef we wont, tell me I'm han'some,' says Stag-Horn;
and that 'ud been one of the lies, fur he warn't
nary beauty, no how.
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“Wall, you kin gamble on to it, we fotched a fire,
and tuk a thaw; and then the way them thar dog
went in, every thing 'cept skin and ha'r, war a caution
to old sinners! Hello, nigger! (to Cato) don't grin
that thar way, or you'll cut off the top of your head—
chaw me!”
“You—you'll 'scuse me—but—but you is so berry
funny!” roared Cato.
“Wall, jest open your meat-trap then; but ef you
lose your wool, don't say old One-Eyed Sam didn't
tell ye better.”
Botter now took a long and strong pull at his pipe,
and, rolling out a heavy volume of smoke, proceeded:
“Boys, the way me and Stag-Horn sot up to that
thar fire, was like to courting a sugar-planter's
darter; we fairly hugged it; yes, chaw me up fur a
liar ef we didn'nt! Augh! Arter we'd got thawed
out, so as we felt human, we piled on more wood, and
lay down to it, not 'specting ary skunk of a Injun
would be so froze fur ha'r as to be out on sich a night—
nary one; but we didn't do the infarnal thieves
justice; for jest as we'd got asleep—whiz, whiz—
bang, bang—kim arrers and bullets right among us,
with the tallest screeching and yelling ever a white
nigger heerd. Me and Stag-Horn jumped up like
mad—me with a ball plum through my left arm, and
him with two arrers sticking into his fodder pan; and
we went in and throwed two on 'em cold powerful
sudden. The rest on 'em kim down on us, with
Satan's yells, and this hyer old beaver broke fur
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darkness and a snow-bank. I tumbled into a hole,
and lay thar, and the devils passed right over me,
hunting my ha'r—which they didn't git—no-sir-ee!
“You kin gamble on to it, boys, old One-Eyed Sam
had a cool time on't that thar night; but I didn't dar
to stir a peg. Afore daylight, I heerd the wolves
growling and fighting right night, and I knowed
some'at was up. Arter it got to be day, I peeped out
of my hole, and not seeing nary red nigger no whar,
I ventur'd out. Augh! the first sight I seed froze
my blood wosser nor the cold; fur thar, right down
whar the camp was, lay the bones of Stag-Horn, white
and shining, picked clean by the wolves. Says I,
`Sam, you old fool, what's the use of your gwine to
the mountains this hyer way, afoot and alone? Ef
you've got ary sense, put back;' and you kin gamble
on to it, that this hyer nigger made some back'ard
tracks, and fotched his skin and bones to Independence,
to take a fresh start. That's all. Augh!”
“You certainly have had cause to remember the
place,” said I.
“Kinder—chaw me!” grunted Sam.
Botter's story was not without its effect upon all
who heard it; and the result was, that we picketed
our animals close around the camp, and set a double
guard. The night, however, passed off without any
disturbance; and by daylight we were again in our
saddles, laying our course due north. At noon we
halted under some trees, on the bank of a wide, shallow
stream, which we conjectured to be the Republican
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Fork of the Kansas. Here we were overtaken by one
of the most terrible thunder-storms it has ever been
my fortune to witness. The wind blew a perfect hurricane;
the rain fell in torrents; the lightning seemed
to set the earth ablaze; and the thunder crashed and
roared around us, with a sound that might be likened
to the falling of an Alpine avalanche. We considered
it too dangerous to remain under the trees; and so we
withdrew from the little protection they might have
given us, and faced the storm, in all its fury, on the
open plain. We had no reason to regret our precaution;
for two of the trees, under which we had been
sitting, were shivered with lightning before our very
eyes, and the horse of Botter was prostrated with the
concussion, and lay as if dead.
“Afoot agin, or I'm a wood chuck!” cried Sam,
with an oath. “But hyer's a nigger as aint alone!”
he added, in the next breath, as, at the moment, all
the rest of the animals broke away in a regular stampede.
“You is verree moshe better off as nobody,” said
one of the French voyageurs, pointing to the old trapper's
animal; which not only showed signs of life, but,
getting upon its feet, and giving itself a shake, looked
around with an air of surprise. “Oui, Monsieur—by
gar! ze lightzing sav you hos, and trive ze tam rest
to ze whole universe—sacre!”
“You're right, old frog-eater!” laughed Sam.
“That thar hoss is one on 'em—ef he aint, chaw me!
He stands lightning like a nigger does hot weather.”
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“It's a critter I'd like to own jest now, being as
mine is scattered,” said a tall Missourian.
“But you haint got tin enough to buy him,” rejoined
Botter—“case nobody has. A hoss as stands
lightning like him, suits old One-Eyed; and he aint
agwine to gin him up to any nigger 'cept death.
Augh!”
The storm lasted for two hours; and until its fury
was spent, we made no attempt to regain our animals,
which were now scattered far and wide over the broad
prairie, scarcely any two of them remaining together.
This caused a similar division of our party—each
man seeking his own—but we agreed to make the
spot whence we started the general rendezvous.
Thus it was I gradually became separated from
each one of my companions; and at length I found
myself about two miles from the starting point, upon
a gentle swell of the prairie, where I could overlook
a wide stretch of country in every direction. I could
occasionally perceive, here and there, one of the company,
quite distant—and occasionally, also, one of the
strayed animals. To the north, near a small cluster
of willows, I fancied I espied my own horse, quietly
feeding, and I set off on a run to catch him. As I
drew near, I saw, with delight, I had made no mistake—
that it was indeed my gallant steed—and for
fear of alarming him, I slackened my pace, and approached
him slowly.
Suddenly, from a thick grove, on the bank of a
creek, some quarter of a mile distant, there burst forth
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a small band of mounted Indians, and bore straight
down for me with lightning speed. The moment I
perceived them, I made a desperate effort to get to
my horse before them; and I might, perhaps, have
succeeded, had he not taken fright and sprung away
from me. The next minute I was surrounded by some
fifteen or twenty almost naked, howling Indians, who
pranced around me with fiendish delight, seemingly
anxious to take me alive. I had my loaded rifle in
my hand, and a brace of loaded pistols in my belt, and
my first resolve was to sell my life dearly—but a
moment's reflection caused me to abandon so desperate
a design. I might kill one of the savages—perhaps
three—but I knew I should be killed or captured
in return; and why exasperate my foes, when, by a
different course, I might save my life? Although
armed with bows and arrows, they had not as yet
made a single shot at me—and this led me to hope
their intentions toward me were friendly.
Acting on the impulse of the moment, I dropped
the breech of my rifle, and held up an open palm.
Instantly each one extended an open palm; and one
fine, athletic warrior, riding up to me, struck his breast
with dignity, and exclaimed:
“Arrapaho!”
“So,” thought I, “I have stumbled upon a portion
of the very tribe I was seeking; but I meet them
under circumstances which I would were otherwise.”
The next thought was—“Is Adele their prisoner? and
shall I soon behold her sweet, sad face again?”
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“Where from?” demanded the warrior, who had
just proclaimed himself Arrapaho, and who was in
truth a chief of the nation.
His enunciation of the words was guttural; but I
was surprised and delighted that he could understand
English at all, and I quickly replied:
“I and my companions, who are not far distant, are
from Bent's Fort, and we are on our way to seek your
nation, to make them some presents.”
“Ugh!” grunted the savage. Present much good.
Injun like present. Where present?”
“With my friends,” I answered.
“Where friends?”
“We encamped away yonder; but my horse having
run away, I followed him here alone.”
This was the truth, but not the whole truth—for
I did not wish the Indians to know the company was
scattered, lest they might capture the whole in detail,
and get possession of our goods.
A consultation now took place among my captors;
and as soon as it ended, two of the party dismounted,
deprived me of my weapons, and bound my hands
behind my back. They then placed me on a fine
horse, in front of a grim savage, who threw an arm
around my waist, and dashed away over the plain,
accompanied by only one other of the band. The
direction taken by those having charge of me, was
directly opposite to that which led to Camp Rendezvous;
and I conjectured I was being conveyed to the
Grand Village, perhaps to undergo a trial and be put
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to the tortures. The possibility of such a termination
to all my fondest hopes, made me wretched; and I
almost regretted that I had not kept to my first resolve
of defence, and taken the chances of liberty or death.
I asked my guard whither he was bearing me—but
he returned no answer. I looked back, and saw the
party left behind darting away in a body over the
prairie, in the direction of my scattered friends, and
doubted not that some of them, perhaps all, would
meet with death or captivity. I would have given
half of my remaining days, to have had them in a
mounted body and been at their head; but fate had
made me a helpless prisoner, and it was vain to wish
for other fortune.
On, on we dashed for hours, not a word being
spoken. Many a long league was passed over, night
gradually closed around us, and yet no sign of a halt.
At last we gained the bank of a stream having
some high bluffs, and, turning short around these,
came upon a pleasant valley, over which was scattered
a large Indian village, the different fires flashing their
ruddy lights upon the neighboring huts, and upon the
grim, dusky, half-naked forms of their owners, who,
to my excited senses, appeared rather like spectres
from the infernal regions, than human beings of flesh
and blood. With loud, triumphant whoops and yells,
my guard bore me into the very center of the village,
and deposited me on the ground, at the door of a
large lodge, which I afterward ascertained belonged
to one of the principal chiefs of the nation. Here the
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whole village speedily collected around me—men,
women, children, dogs and all—and such screeching,
yelling, and barking, as then and there greeted me, I
pray God it may never be my fortune to hear again.
Hundreds crowded around me, each anxious to have
a near inspection of my person; but no one offered
me violence, and in a few minutes the tumult subsided.
A consultation among the principal chiefs and warriors
now took place—at the end of which I was
conducted into a lodge near by, thrown upon the
ground, and my legs tightly bound. This done, my
captors withdrew, and I was left alone to my own
unpleasant ruminations and conjectures. What of
the future?
CHAPTER XXI. THE LOST FOUND.
I shall make no attempt to describe my feelings, as
I lay upon the ground, bound hand and foot, beneath
an Indian lodge, the captive of a savage foe. A few
hours since, and I was free, and full of hopes and
bright anticipations—a few hours hence, and what
would be my fate?
While I thus lay pondering, in a painful position,
hungry, and almost choking with thirst, a small,
slender figure glided into the lodge, and a sweet,
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silvery voice, that made my blood leap with a wild
thrill, said, in a tone of holy sympathy:
“I pity you, sir, whoever you are! and though a
prisoner myself, I have obtained permission to visit
you. I cannot release you; but if you are thirsty, I
think I may be allowed to bring you a cup of water—
and food, perhaps, if you are hungry.”
There were firelights outside the lodge; and from
one came a ruddy gleam through the open door, and,
falling upon the fair visitant, revealed the outlines of
form and feature. I could not be mistaken; the
senses of hearing and seeing could not both deceive
me; to say nothing of that sympathetic, magnetic
thrill, which seemed to pass the grosser material of
body, to bury itself, as it were, in my very soul!
No! I could not be mistaken! It was the being I
had seen once to remember ever; it was the being I
had mourned as lost; it was the being for whose
safety and happiness I had often prayed; it was the
being I had sought through difficulty and danger; it
was the being whom my wildly beating heart now
assured me I loved with a love that would no longer
be disguised under the colder term of friendship: in
a word, she who now stood before me, in the form of
a ministering spirit, speaking her sympathy in the
voice of an angel, was Adele Loyola.
My first impulse was to call her by name, and
reveal my own; but ere I spoke, the whim seized me
to try her first; and disguising my voice, I replied:
“I am very thirsty.”
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“You shall have water, sir,” she said, and disappeared.
In a short time she reappeared, bringing a gourd
full of the pure element, which she held to my parched
and feverish lips. I drank eagerly, and never in my
life had I tasted a draught so refreshing. Had my
cup-bearer been old and ugly, I could have loved her
for her kindness; could I do less than love the fair,
sweet, beautiful being before me?
“I thank you from my heart!” I said; and my
voice, made tremulous by emotion, must have convinced
her of my sincerity.
“I would I could give you more cause to be thankful,
by releasing and setting you free! but this I cannot
do,” she rejoined. “But here is some food, if you are
hungry,” she added, producing a kind of wooden
platter, containing boiled maize and a piece of cooked
meat. “The chiefs have permitted me to bring you
this sustenance. Will you eat?”
“I am somewhat hungry,” I answered; “but at
present my curiosity gets the better of my appetite.
Will you permit me to ask you a few questions?”
“I will, sir; but I may soon be called away; so I
pray you speak at once, and briefly, that I may have
time to place this food to your lips, since you cannot
feed yourself.”
“You say you are a prisoner here as well as myself?”
“I am, sir!”
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“Where were you captured? and how long
since?”
“I was captured a few weeks ago, at a place called
Turkey Creek. My father and myself belonged to a
company trading between Missouri and Santa Fe;
and while encamped one night at the place mentioned,
the Indians attacked us, and killed my father and
several others; and myself, and the wife of an emigrant
who was traveling with us, were taken prisoners.”
“And is this other lady you speak of still a prisoner
with you?”
“No, sir—she was killed the same night.”
“Accidentally, or intentionally?”
“She had the misfortune to offend a chief, who
buried his tomahawk in her brain.”
“Did you witness her death?”
“I knew when it took place; but it was dark, and
I did not see the awful deed done.”
“How did it affect you?”
“I almost wished it had been myself.”
“But how is it that you have so much liberty
among such a savage people?”
“It is, perhaps, because a powerful chief has signified
his intention of making me his wife; and by
treating me with marked favor, even above others of
my sex, he hopes to win my regard—so at least he
tells me in broken English.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed I; and my changed voice
nearly betrayed me. “And is it possible you can
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consent to become the wife of one of the murderers of
your father and friends?”
“Alas! sir, what can I do? I am a poor, helpless
girl!” and she burst into tears.
“But you certainly have a choice between the monster
and death?”
“Would you have me die by my own hand?”
“No! no! for that, we are told, would entail eternal
misery hereafter. I see! unless the savages put you
to death, or you escape, you have no choice.”
“Oh! would to God I could escape!” she said.
“Do not despair! your friends may even now be
seeking you.”
“Alas! sir, I have no friends.”
“No friends? are you sure? It is hardly possible
that one like you can be without friends.”
“But I have none, sir, that would seek me here,”
she replied, in a tone of sadness. “I never knew any
relation but my father, and he is dead.”
“But surely there must be some one who will not
be indifferent to your fate!
“It is possible I may be pitied by some who knew
me—but I have no hope that any will seek me here;
and even should any venture here, for the purpose of
releasing me, you see how vain would be the attempt,
while I am surrounded by so many warriors who are
enemies of my race!”
“But could not your freedom be purchased?”
“And who will offer to purchase the freedom of a
poor, friendless girl?”
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`Did you never see any one that would take
interest enough in you to do so, if your misfortunes
were known to him?”
She hesitated, and at length replied:
“There was one, sir, whom I met under painful
circumstances, who did profess warm friendship; but
he was a stranger, seen only for a brief hour, and has
doubtless forgotten me. I have sometimes hoped he
would hear of my fate; though I know not why I
should wish him to learn of my misery, since it could
not benefit me and might give him pain.”
“Permit me to inquire the name of this stranger?”
“It was Roland Rivers, sir.”
“Indeed!” said I; “I know him.”
“Do you, sir? do you?” she cried, eagerly.
“I do; and it is not a week since I saw him.”
“Was he well, sir?”
“At that time he was.”
“And where do you think he is now?”
“Somewhere among the Indians, I have reason to
believe.”
“Oh! sir, not a prisoner, I hope!”
“I cannot say he is not. When I saw him a few
days ago, he was on his way, with a small party of
armed men, to seek a large and powerful tribe, for
the purpose of procuring the release of a female
captive, a young and beautiful girl. Ah! good sooth!
now I think—perhaps it was you of whom he was in
search.”
For a short time Adele made no reply, during
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which she seemed much agitated. At length she
murmured, in a low tone, evidently not intended for
my ear:
“God and all holy saints bless and preserve him,
wherever he is!” And then she said to me: “Will
you let me give you this food now?”
I could maintain my assumed character no longer;
but allowing my voice to take its natural tone, I said:
“Adele—do you not know me?”
Instantly she sprung aside, so as to admit the light,
and, bending down, peered eagerly into my face.
“Holy Virgin!” she exclaimed; “it is Roland
Rivers himself!”
“It is no other, Adele,” I replied. “I was on my
way, with several others, to effect your release, when,
having become separated from my companions, I was
surrounded and taken prisoner.”
“Oh, Heaven! this is terrible! and I have been the
unlucky cause of your misfortune!”
“Let that give you no pain, my dear Adele—for I
feel it a kind of pleasure to suffer in your behalf.
You must forgive me for not making myself known
the moment I recognized you; but I could not resist
the desire to know if I still lived in your memory.”
“Oh! sir, how could I forget you, if I would!” she
rejoined, with perfect naivete; “you who spoke such
words of kindness to one who has had but little kindness
to remember! And now to see you here, bound,
a prisoner, in the hands of a savage foe, makes me
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sick at heart indeed! I was miserable before—I am
more miserable now.”
“But perhaps I shall soon be free.”
“Oh, Mr. Rivers, do you think so?”
“I hope so, Adele—for I have done nothing to
excite the animosity of the Indians.”
“Why then are you bound and placed here?”
“I cannot say—do you not know?”
“I do not.”
“Have you no idea what they intend to do with me?'
“I have not.”
“But if they had any design against my life, would
they have permitted you to visit me?”
“Indeed, sir, I cannot say—for you are the first
prisoner I have seen in their hands since they killed
my companion, Mrs. Mason.”
“But what do they say of me among themselves?
we may judge by that.”
“You forget, Mr. Rivers, I do not understand their
language.”
“Pray call me Roland, Adele—any other name
from you sounds too cold and formal. You say you
do not understand their language—pray how do you
converse with them?”
“Partly by signs; but there are three or four in the
village who understand a little English, and can
speak a few words. Waralongha, the chief I have
mentioned, speaks the English tongue rather plainly—
but he is now away.”
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“Ha!” said I; “the chief of the party that captured
me could converse in my native tongue.”
“Then you were taken by Waralongha himself,”
said Adele. “How is it that he sent you here before
him? for he has not yet returned.”
“I think he and his party went in pursuit of my
companions,” I replied; and I proceeded to give her a
brief account of the whole affair.
“Oh, Roland, I hope your companions will not be
made prisoners also!” cried Adele.
“I fear some of them will,” said I.
“I think you will be kept here till Waralongha
returns,” she rejoined.
“And what then?”
“Alas! I do not know. Should your companions
resist, and he lose any of his men, I fear your life may
be taken in revenge; and should he be unsuccessful
in getting your goods into his possession, he may vent
his rage on you for that.”
“In any event, then, my life is in danger!”
“Alas! I fear so.”
“But can I not escape?” I said, in a low whisper;
for if there were any who could understand our conversation,
I thought it possible they might be within
hearing, perhaps listening.
“How, Roland?”
“With your assistance, Adele. But tell me first
how you obtained permission to visit me? and why
I am left unguarded?”
“You are not unguarded, Roland—would to Heaven
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you were! for then I might assist you,” she replied.
“There are no less than four warriors watching this
lodge.”
“Indeed! where are they?”
“They are lounging on the earth outside, at no
great distance; but are so disposed, that, by the lights
of the different fires, they can see completely round
your prison.”
“But why are you permitted to visit me, and bring
me food and drink, since they have seen proper to
treat me so roughly, and offer me none?”
“I do not know, unless because you are a prisoner
of Waralongha, and they think it might offend
him to refuse my request.”
“You requested to see me then?”
“Yes! I was one of the crowd that surrounded you,
after you were brought in; but I only got near
enough to see you were a white man; and I spoke to
one who can understand the most simple English
words, and requested him to ask leave of the chiefs
for me to visit you. He did so, and I came to you as
soon as my request was granted. Arguing from this
permission, that I should be allowed to bring you
food and water, I took the liberty to do so, and so far
I have been unmolested and unrestrained; but how
much longer this may continue I cannot say; and
this reminds me you have not yet eaten: pray let me
give you some of this food now, before I am called
away.”
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“I would rather talk than eat, Adele, for the time
is precious.”
“You can do both,” she said, putting some of the
frugal fare to my lips. “Eat, Roland, I pray you! I
shall feel better to know you have taken sustenance.”
I hastily ate a few mouthfuls, took another drink
from the gourd, and continued:
“You have been treated well by the Indians?”
“Better, at least, than others of my sex.”
“But you are suffering mental torture?”
“Oh! yes, Roland—I would rather die than remain
here, the wife of a savage. Great God! what a fate!”
“What a fate indeed!” said I. “I heard of your
capture while at Council Grove; and I afterward
resolved to set you free, or die in the attempt; and I
now fear the attempt will cost me my life. What is
to be done? I am here, a more helpless prisoner than
yourself even; and I fear my companions are, or will
be, overpowered—in which case we shall all be at the
mercy of the savages.”
“Alas! what is to be done indeed?” cried Adele,
wringing her hands.
At this moment a grim-looking savage appeared at
the door of the lodge, and made signs to Adele that
she must follow him.
“There,” she said; “it is as I feared; we must part
now, perhaps never to meet again.”
“Farewell, and God bless you!” said I. “Keep up
your spirits, and hope! all may not be so bad as it
seems.”
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She put her hands to her eyes, as if to restrain her
tears, and in a choked and trembling voice murmured:
“Adieu! I will come to you whenever I can. God
bless you! God bless you! If it had not been for
me, you would not now be here. The heart of the
friendless orphan shall ever pray for your deliverance,
prosperity, and happiness!”
With this she hurried out, the savage glided away,
and I was again alone.
CHAPTER XXII. FLIGHT AND PURSUIT.
Soon after Adele left me, two Indians came and sat
down in the door of the lodge, and for an hour kept
up a low, but to me unintelligible, conversation. Then
one of them went away; and the other, whistling a
large dog to him, stretched himself out, as if to sleep,
leaving his canine companion on the watch. Finding
my position extremely painful, I now ventured to address
the savage, to inquire if a stronger guard could
not be put over me, and my aching limbs be freed
from their bonds.
He raised his head, looked at me, and saying, “Me
no Engles,” laid down again.
He added something to the dog, which immediately
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took up a position where his eyes could rest upon
mine; and there he remained through that long night,
growling every time I moved. Well may I call it a
long night—for to me it seemed an age—and all the
good and evil of my life appeared to come up before
the mind for review.
Morning came at last; and with the rising of the
sun my guard left me, calling off his dog. Soon after
this my angel, for she looked to me like an angel, reappeared.
“Oh! what tortures you must have suffered through
the night!” she said, compassionately, her soft eyes
filling with tears, as she gazed upon my haggard features
and corded limbs.
“Oh! Adele,” I replied, “it is Heaven to look
upon your sweet face once more! But pray tell me
what you have learned concerning me? for this awful
suspense is one of the greatest tortures I have to
bear.”
“Ah! sir, I have learned nothing, except that your
fate will be decided when Waralongha returns. Ha!
he has come now, I think!” she added, as at the moment
a series of loud whoops, from a distance, broke
upon the ear. “I will go and see, and return and tell
you;” and she hurried out and disappeared.
I lay there for some minutes, listening to the unpleasant
noises without, which announced the arrival
of a party of warriors, and felt much as I suppose a
prisoner must feel awaiting a decision which will set
him free or consign him to death. At length Adele
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suddenly burst into the lodge, pale and breathless,
and exclaimed:
“I fear it is all over with you, my dear friend!
Hark! do you not hear those wild cries of Indian
women lamenting the loss of some of their friends? I
have only seen enough to know that Waralongha has
returned with two white prisoners, and three Indian
corpses, and the rage of the nation will demand you
for a victim. Oh! my God! that I could die for
you!”
“You can do better!” cried I, from that strong impulse
of the mind which often acts with the force and
certainty of instinct. “Quick! cut my cords, and let
me take my chance!”
“But surely you cannot escape!”
“I may escape torture, if not death. Oh! Adele,
by the love of Heaven, I conjure you to cut these
bonds, ere my enemies come upon me!”
“I will,” she cried, “if I die for it! One moment!
I have no knife—but I just now saw one at the door
of an adjoining lodge;” and she darted out.
She was gone but a moment indeed; and as she
hurried back to me, and severed the cords that bound
my limbs, she fairly gasped out, under the wildest
excitement:
“Oh! Roland, perhaps you may escape! Oh, my
God! give me strength to speak! The whole village
has gone out to meet Waralongha. Only a few old
men and women are near you. Some chief or warrior
has left his horse, with a Mexican bridle and saddle
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upon him, standing only a few rods off. Great God!
if you could reach him and escape! Oh! I faint to
think! There! there! you are free. Up! quick,
and away! and Holy Mary and all the saints protect
you!”
“And you, Adele?” returned I, as I hurriedly
chafed my limbs, which fortunately were not so benumbed
as to be useless.
“Think not of me; but fly! fly! and save yourself,
if in God's holy Providence you may be so permitted!”
“But come you with me! you must not, shall not,
remain behind!”
“No! no! no! Roland—fly and leave me! for the
love of holy angels, fly! I should only be a burden
to you; I should only retard your flight; and you
would be retaken; and then death by tortures would
be your fate. It is your only chance; the whole
village of chiefs and warriors will soon be here; do
you not hear them coming? And yet you stand!
“Oh, God! Roland, if you would not see me sink
dead at your very feet, fly, and save your precious
life!”
I looked at the slight, slender, beautiful girl before
me—dressed much as she was when I first presented
her to the reader—her dark hair, now somewhat disarranged,
floating around her neck and shoulders—
her black eyes, wild and sparkling, fixed beseechingly
upon mine—her upturned features picturing forth the
full agony of a soul upon the rack of desperate fear
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and desperate hope—the contending emotions almost
tearing her spirit asunder: I looked at her, I say, as
she thus stood before me, and my resolution was instantly
taken. We would live or die together—or at
least I would not escape alone. The chances were all
against us—but Heaven might be on our side. She
was small, slight, and light—I was large and strong—
and suddenly throwing an arm around her slender
waist, I lifted her from the ground, and darted out
into the open air.
“This is my answer, dear Adele,” I said; “you
must go with me; I will not leave you; and if you
resist, I shall remain a prisoner. Quick! where is the
horse?”
She pointed to where he stood, too much excited to
speak; and I darted to his side, bearing my lovely
burden with the same ease that I would have borne
an infant. I looked around and saw the whole village,
with only a few exceptions—men, women, and children—
collected in a body, some four or five hundred
yards distant, and surrounding the returned warriors,
who were marching into the village in Indian state,
whooping and howling alternately—this for a loss—
that for a triumph. Most of the lodges were between
us and them, which concealed our movements and
favored our design; while fortunately, their attention
was occupied with matters in their immediate vicinity.
A decrepit old Indian, in a lodge near, perceived us,
and uttered a peculiar yell, intended to alarm his
distant friends, and bring them down upon us; but
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luckily his lungs were weak, and his voice did not
reach far; and ere he had thrice repeated his cry, I
was upon the back of as fleet and noble a steed as
ever bore man from captivity, with the lovely and half
fainting Adele clasped in my arms.
I could scarcely restrain a shout of exultation, as I
jerked the reins, and struck the beast upon the flank
with the flat of my hand. Unused to such treatment,
he reared and plunged, and the next moment was
bounding away with a velocity that made my heart
leap with hope and joy. But we had scarcely gone
twenty yards, when, from several parts of the village,
arose those peculiar yells, which told us we were discovered
by the aged and infirm who had not gone out
to meet the returned warriors; and ere we had
advanced a hundred rods, the same fearful cry of
discovery came borne to our ears from the more
distant crowd of warriors.
“God help us!” I murmured; “it is life or death
now!”
As we cleared the last hut, and dashed away toward
the west, over the seemingly boundless prairie, I
looked back, and saw a great commotion among the
excited crowd; and the next moment some five or six
mounted warriors burst through the throng, and bore
down for us with all speed.
“There, the fiends are after us!” cried I, giving my
high spirited steed another blow with my hand, which
caused him to bound away with the speed of the
rushing wind.
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“Holy Virgin, help us! holy saints, help us! Great
God, help us!” cried Adele, clinging shudderingly to
me. “Oh! Roland—can we—can we escape them?”
“God only knows!” said I, tightening my arm
around her waist. “This gallant beast seems fresh,
and their animals may be more or less fatigued. They
have not gained on us yet,” continued I, glancing
back, after a few minutes of breathless silence—“nor
can I perceive we have gained on them. God help
us!”
“He will, Roland—I feel He will!” replied Adele,
suddenly turning her sweet, sad face, and soft, dark,
speaking eyes up to mine. “Heaven certainly favors
us, or we should not be here now. Was not this
horse a Providence, my dear friend?”
“It seems so indeed,” I answered. “Who could
have dreamed, a short half hour since, while I lay a
bound prisoner, in the hands of a tribe numbering
several hundred warriors, that I should now be
mounted and flying from them, and bearing away the
captive I came to seek? Who knows, dear Adele,
but my very misfortune, as I supposed it to be,
was one of the mysterious ways of Providence for
your deliverence?”
“Oh, I am unworthy!” she replied—“I will pray.”
It was a fearful race—and seems now, as I recall it,
rather like a wild, terrible dream, than a reality. On,
on, we sped, over the seemingly boundless prairie,
with not a hill or tree to obstruct the view, and with
our enemies, yelling like fiends, in hot pursuit. For
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two long hours we maintained the distance which
divided us on setting out, and many a long league
now lay between us and the Arrapahoe village. The
day was bright—the sun shone clear—and earth and
sky would have looked beautiful to our eyes, could
we have viewed them in peaceful freedom; and even
as it was, with the soft breeze from the west we drank
in hope, and felt our hearts beat with returning joy.
Oh! how I loved the noble animal beneath us! which
neither flagged nor faltered—but strained every nerve
to save us—and still sped onward with lightning
speed.
The sun was perhaps two hours and a half above
the horizon, when, glancing back, for the hundredth
time, I fairly shouted:
“Joy! joy! we shall escape! we shall be saved,
dear Adele! your prayers are heard!”
“Saved!” she murmured, clasping her hands—
“saved!”
“Yes, we are gaining on our pursuers; already
their animals begin to falter; while ours seems no
more fatigued than if his muscles were of iron.”
“And shall we be saved, dear Roland? Oh! what
joy! my heart is too full to speak! Oh, God! let the
gratitude which fills my soul be my offering to Thee
for this unexpected deliverance!”
During the next quarter of an hour, we gained
perceptibly on our foes; and at the end of that time, a
distance of more than half a mile divided us; and as
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every moment increased it, they at length came to a
sudden halt and gave up the chase.
“There! see!” cried I—and my heart leaped to my
throat for joy; “our boldness and daring, under God,
have given us life and liberty!—our foes are turning
back.”
Adele clasped her hands, and burst into tears,
being too deeply affected to utter a single syllable. I
now gradually checked the speed of our foaming
steed; and, a few miles further on, curbed him down
to a quiet walk.
We were still upon the broad, almost barren
prairie, with a clear, blue sky overhead, and the
bright, warm sun rolling up the heavens in glory.
Save a small herd of buffaloes away to our right, our
retreating foes already dim in the distance, and a few
birds sailing high overhead, apparently bound on a
long flight, not a single living object met our view.
The prairie, covered with the short, brown, buffalo
grass, was almost as level as a floor; and away to the
north, away to the south, away to the east, away to
the west, as far as the straining eye could reach, it
drew its even line against the horizon. The scene
was grand, impressive, solemn; and as the first excitement
of rejoicing at our escape from captivity and
death began to die away, and the mind began to stretch
from the present into the future, I shuddered to think
what an awful fate might yet be ours. We were alone
upon this great desert, afar from the settlement of a
white man, in the territory of our enemies, surrounded
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by foes, both animal and human, almost helpless as
infants, with nothing for defence and protection but
our fleet and gallant steed. I had not a single weapon
of any kind, and knew not which way to steer to reach
the nearest station; and any deviation from the right
course, might carry us far beyond, entangle us in new
difficulties, and prove fatal at last.
Adele observed the change in my features, as these
startling facts and fearful uncertainties pressed upon
my mind; and she said, with anxiety:
“You seem troubled, Roland?”
“I am, dear Adele—I am.”
“Oh, speak! what is it?”
“We have just made a narrow escape from our
foes behind—but what is before us?”
“What do you fear, Roland?”
“Everything. Where are we now? whither shall
we go? and how support life?”
“Ah! what do you mean?”
“I do not wish to startle or alarm you, Adele; but
I must tell you the painful fact, that I have not a
single weapon; even the knife with which you cut
my cords, was forgotten in my haste.”
“Well, we may not henceforth be menaced by man
or beast.”
“There is a danger greater still, dear Adele.”
“Indeed, Roland—what is it?”
“Starvation!”
“Ah! I did not think of that.”
“How are we to live?” I cried, despondingly,
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“we may starve in sight of game; and even were
it killed, we have nothing with which to cut the flesh
asunder, and therefore could not use it.”
“It is dreadful!” returned Adele, with a shudder.
But the next moment she added, with a kind of
cheerful vivacity: “Let us not despair, Roland! but
trust something to that Providence which has so
signally delivered us from a fate worse than death.
We are, in one sense, dependent, helpless creatures,
be we where we may; and after what has just taken
place, surely we ought to leave the future to God, and
not despond till we have certain cause.”
“You are right,” said I, struck with admiration at
such noble sentiments of consoling reliance on Divine
Power—and which, as the stronger sex, and under
the circumstances, should rather have come from me
than her. “You are right, dear Adele; and I thank
you for teaching me better than to give way to sad
forebodings, at a moment when my heart should be
filled with rejoicing at our wonderful escape. And
wonderful—nay, almost miraculous—it seems, all
things being taken into consideration. How indeed
came this noble horse, saddled and bridled, to be
standing there, at the only moment of all others when
he could have saved us?”
“I do not know,” replied Adele; “but I think he
had been harnessed for some scouting expedition,
which his master temporarily deferred on hearing the
signal shouts of the returning warriors.”
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“But is it not strange he did not ride out to meet
them?”
“It seems so to me, and I am almost superstitious
enough to regard it as the design of a superior intelligence.
Perhaps I should have no lingering doubts of
such being the case, did I not know myself unworthy
of superhuman aid.”
“And if you are unworthy, dear Adele, what can
be said of me? But this saddle and bridle—where
could the savages have procured these?”
“Doubtless taken from some victim, in one of their
marauding expeditions to the south; for these Arrapahoes
sometimes join the Camanches in their descent
upon caravans and the frontier towns of Mexico, and
sometimes the two tribes war against each other.”
“I would I knew the fate of my brave companions!”
I pursued; “if any, and how many, escaped—and
who were those you saw brought in prisoners. Poor
fellows! their's, at least, I think, will be a horrible
doom. And doubtless I should have suffered with
them, had it not been for you, my dear Adele.
Trust me, I shall not soon forget your devoted heroism.”
“The heroism is yours, Roland, not mine,” returned
Adele, quickly. “I only saved my noble deliverer
by a timely word, and can lay claim to no merit.
All the devoted heroism of the whole affair belongs
to him who ventured hundreds of miles, through
perils, into the country of the white man's foe, to set
the friendless captive free—risking fortune and life
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[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]
for one who can never repay him. May God ever
bless my noble preserver, Roland Rivers! And surely,
sir, if you do not meet your reward in this world, you
will in the next.”
“I have it already,” I replied, in a low, tender tone;
“in clasping here, in freedom, the form of a being
which my heart tells me I love. Ah! my dear Adele,
I must confess it—all that I have done for you has
been more selfish than you seem inclined to suppose.
The impression which our first interview made upon
my heart, was too deep to be erased; and time and
circumstances have only increased it,
`As streams their channels deeper wear.'
I did not then think I loved you—for I scarcely knew
what love was; but now I feel as if we were born for
each other; and I know that in your absence I could
not be happy. I then felt I could be a brother to
you—I now feel that I must be more. How is it with
you, Adele? You are now alone in the world—without
home, without relations, without friends—will
you look upon me as a protector? as something more
than a brother? In a word, are you willing to share
my fortune, be it good or ill?”
“Oh, Roland!” sobbed Adele; “I only know your
words make me happy, and I was never happy before.”
“God bless you!” cried I, impulsively straining her
to my heart, and venturing to press my lips to her's
for the first time. “You shall be mine! and my life
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[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]
shall be devoted to making your happiness complete.”
It was a strange place, and time, and occasion—
there, on that wide prairie, just escaped from our foes
behind, and looking forward to new dangers—to
make such an avowal of my love; but the very scene,
and time, and circumstances, called it forth; and I
allowed my feelings to have full sway, and have not
lived to regret that my words then made happy the
heart of the being I truly loved. And what time and
place could have been more appropriate? Love sometimes
springs up in a moment; peculiar circumstances
may develope a passion stronger than mortal life;
affection, once seated in the heart, may never leave
it; and when such is felt to be the case, the sooner
there is a mutual understanding between two beings
who seem born for each other, the sooner will each
heart feel the influx of a holy joy which we trust will
be endless. Adele was alone with me—weak, friendless
and dependent—and was it not a virtue to let her
know it would make me happy to be allowed to
devote my time to her happiness?
After a pause of a few minutes, during which we
continued to ride slowly along, I resumed:
“But, my dear Adele, let me not in this happy
moment forget the noble generosity of one, a stranger
to you, without whose assistance I might not have
been in a condition to render you a service. I am
not the only one who has periled life, and used the
means in his power, to free you from a terrible
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captivity. The name of the noble Juan El Doliente must
be remembered in your prayers; and if in this world
now, I fear, alas! he needs the interposition of Heaven
to save him from an awful death.”
“What do you mean, Roland?” inquired Adele,
looking up in surprise.
Hitherto I had only mentioned my companions in
general terms; but now I proceeded to speak of the
Spaniard in particular. I gave her an account of our
meeting, and the conversations I had at different
times held with him concerning her; told her of the
deep and apparently unaccountable interest he had
taken in her welfare; and clearly stated how much
we were both indebted to his noble generosity for the
events which had placed us in our present positions.
“Were he indeed your father, brother, or long-tried
friend, Adele,” I continued, “he could not have
shown more sympathy for your misfortunes, or have
done more for your rescue; and now I have reason to
fear that he has either been killed or made a hopeless
prisoner himself. As I before informed you, I left
the party separated, each going in pursuit of his
horse; and you yourself have seen enough to know
that there was subsequently a fight between them and
the Indians, under Waralongha, and that two at least
were made prisoners: it may be our noble friend was
one of these.”
“The saints forbid!” cried Adele. “Oh, Roland!
what can be done?”
“Nothing by us, dear Adele. We can, alas! do
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nothing for him, or the rest of my brave companions;
if we can save ourselves, it is all we can hope for. I
only felt that justice required you should know that
not to me alone do you owe your deliverance.”
“You call him Juan El Doliente—Juan The Sufferer—
it is a singular name, and I will remember it in
my prayers. It is strange he should take such an
interest in me. Do you think he fancies he knows
anything of my early history?”
“I do not know what to think; he only said what
I have repeated.”
“Oh! I would that I could see him—perhaps he
does know something—and I am so eager to learn
anything. Was I ever blessed with the affection of a
mother? and where is that sweet being now? on
earth or in Heaven? For years, Roland, during my
lonely life, I have pondered this mystery by day, and
dreamed of it by night; and yet all is dark and
mysterious. Oh! if I could but see this stranger,
perhaps he could throw some light upon the subject!”
“I had hoped to see you meet, but I fear now you
never will—at least on earth.”
“Ah! it would be something if I could only have
one moment's interview, to offer him my poor thanks,
and tell him how grateful I feel!” she rejoined, with
a deep sigh. “But in this, as in all else that befalls
poor human nature, we must say, with resignation,
`God's will be done!”'
“Even so,” said I solemnly; “and blessed are they
whose hearts can add, `Amen!”'
-- 329 -- p462-306
CHAPTER XXIII. THE PARCHED DESERT.
[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
For some two or three hours we now rode forward
at an easy pace, keeping due west. By this time
the sun had well advanced toward meridian, and the
heat began to be oppressive, both to ourselves and our
noble steed; yet nowhere could we perceive any signs
of shade; but everywhere the same level, dreary,
monotonous aspect; while the heated atmosphere,
stretching over this arid waste, seemed to tremble
and quiver in the bright light. Our gallant animal
now began to show symptoms of thirst, and our own
tongues and throats began to grow dry and parched.
“Oh! for a good draught of cold water!” at length
exclaimed Adele.
“Are you hungry also?” I inquired, with considerable
uneasiness.
“Not so hungry as I am thirsty,” she replied.
“But you, dear Roland,” she pursued, with anxiety—
“you are both; you feel faint. I see it—do not deny
it. You have not tasted food to-day, and you ate but
little last night.”
“If we could only find water,” said I, “I could get
through the day very well; but you are not so strong
as I, and I tremble lest you may be overcome by heat,
excitement, fatigue, and the want of sustenance.”
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“I am not physically strong,” she replied; “but I
can bear more fatigue than you suppose. Oh! if we
could but find water! and yet I can discover no signs
of it in all this vast region.”
“Merciful Heaven!” cried I, shuddering at the
thought; “it is possible we are on one of those
great prairie deserts, of which I have read, and not a
spring or stream may be within fifty miles of us. I
now recollect that, save a small run, near the Arrapaho
village, we have not seen water since we set out
this morning on our fearful race; and from our speed
for the first two or three hours, it is reasonable to
conclude we have passed over some forty or fifty
miles of arid territory.”
“Alas! what will become of us, Roland?”
“God only knows; but let us not despond.”
We rode on for half an hour longer, and drew near
a small herd of buffaloes, which, on perceiving us,
bounded away to the north. Oh! what would I not
have given for a rifle, or a holster pistol even, with
plenty of amunition, that I might have followed and
slain one for food! As it was, even, I felt tempted to
follow them, in the hope that their course would lead
to some spring or stream; but as I hesitated about
turning from the point I had fixed in my mind, Adele
suddenly exclaimed, with great animation, pointing
directly westward:
“Look yonder, Roland! look yonder!”
“What is it, Adele?”
“Far away yonder, as far as I can see, a dark
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object rises against the clear back-ground of the blue
sky.”
“I see something; but what is it?
“I think it is a small grove, Roland; and if so, the
trees grow upon the bank of a stream, and we shall
soon find water.”
“God forbid that we should be disappointed in the
hope!” cried I, not a little excited; and forthwith I
began to urge our gallant beast forward at as fast a
pace as I thought prudent.
Fixing our eyes on the distant dark object, and
keeping them there revited, as if fearful it would
disappear, we pushed on for another hour, under a
burning meridian sun, scarcely exchanging a syllable,
and at times almost suspending our breath with an
intense excitement, which continually alternated between
hope and fear. As we gradually neared the
dark object, it rose more and more distinctly against
the horizon, till, with feelings of joy I cannot describe,
we beheld the outline of a cluster of trees. Our noble
horse now seemed to share our feelings of exultation,
and bounded forward with increased speed; and in a
short time I reined him in to a halt, panting and
trembling, under the shade of a small cluster of cottonwoods.
Great Heaven! what language can do justice to the
awful, prostrating sense of disappointment and despair
we now experienced, on looking around and discovering
that we stood on the bank of a water-course
whose bed of mingled sand and clay was hard, dry
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[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
and cracked! For some time neither could speak;
but after one quick, hurried, painful glance around
us, we turned our feverish eyes upon each other, with
a wild, startled expression—an expression which conveyed
from soul to soul the terrible consciousness of
our appalling situation.
“Oh, God!” murmured Adele, covering her eyes
with her hands, as if to shut out the agonizing reality.
“Let us dismount,” said I, in as calm and quiet a
tone as the trembling state of my nerves would
permit. “Our poor beast is weary; we must let him
rest.”
As I spoke, I slid from his back, received Adele in
my arms, and gently deposited her upon the earth.
The noble animal, covered with perspiration, was now
trembling and panting; but, turning his head to me,
as I stood despairingly by his side, he uttered a
mournful whinny; and by a look, which haunted me
for days, seemed to appeal to me to relieve him of
his sufferings. Never had I beheld, on the face of a
brute, such a mournful look of helpless dependence;
and I could not but fancy he comprehended his
situation, with something akin to human intelligence.
I remembered how nobly he had saved us, by bearing
us so swiftly from those who were friends to him, if
foes to us; and the reflection that it was now beyond
my power to show my gratitude, by relieving him in
the slightest degree of his sufferings, caused the hot
tears to fill my aching eyes. Under the half-parched
cotton-woods, that stood scattered along the banks of
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the arid water-course, the short grass, if not greener,
seemed less burnt and withered than on the open
plain; and in the hope that our poor beast might be
induced to feed, and thus in some measure recruit his
wasted strength, so as to be able to bear us on another
journey, I removed the bridle from his head and
turned him loose. He looked wistfully around, and,
hurrying down to the bed of the water-course, put his
nose to the hard-baked earth, and snuffed, and whinnied;
and then, finding that he could get nothing to
slake his thirst, he came back, and seemed to appeal
to me in the same mournful manner as before. I was
so deeply affected, as for the time to think more of
his sufferings than my own; and had I at that
moment been the fortunate possessor of a few gallons
of the liquid element, I should have divided it between
him and Adele, with perhaps nothing more
than barely moistening my own parched lips.
Our situation was now in a high degree alarming,
and was every moment becoming more appalling.
Cast adrift, so to speak, upon an ocean-like desert—
parched and fevered by a burning sun—without water—
without food—with no cheering prospect of either
before us—surrounded by enemies—a hundred miles,
perhaps, from the nearest habitation of any one of our
race, even were we certain where to seek it—what
could we look forward to but death in one of its most
terrible forms?—perhaps a lingering death of starvation,
preceded by insanity! As I cast my eyes upon
poor Adele who now stood before me, with clasped
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hands, leaning against the trunk of a tree for support,
her sweet face the very picture of hopeless despair, it
seemed as if my very blood was curdling in my veins—
a faint, sickening feeling came over me—and, with
a groan of mental anguish and physical suffering, I
sunk down upon the earth.
“Oh, Roland, you are ill!” cried the poor girl, in
a frightened tone, as she sprung to my side, bent down,
and seized both of my hands. “Oh, Roland—dear
Roland—you are ill!”
“I feel faint, dear Adele,” I replied, in a feeble
voice; “but do not be alarmed; I trust I shall soon
be better.”
“Holy Virgin! you are dying of thirst!”
“No, my dear Adele, it is not that. I am thirsty,
it is true, and perhaps a little faint for the want of
food; but neither of these causes could produce so
great a prostration in so short a time. It may be that
riding in the hot sun has affected me.”
“Ah! yes! yes! I did not think of that! Then
your case is so much the more alarming. Oh, holy
saints! what is to be done?”
“Try and be calm. I think I shall soon be better.”
“And I have nothing to offer you—not even a drop
of water, to allay the fever of a burning thirst. Come,”
she continued, “for my sake, dear Roland, make an
effort to ride a little further—for you will certainly
die here! Perhaps if we follow this dry bed, it will
conduct us to a running stream.”
“Your advice is good, dear Adele,” I feebly replied,
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making an effort to get upon my feet, which, with her
assistance, I succeeded in doing; but the next instant
all seemed to grow dark around me; and merely
adding, “I think I am dying,” I again sunk down
upon the earth, and my senses deserted me.
When I returned to consciousness, after the lapse
of perhaps a couple of hours, I found Adele sitting
by my side, weeping and wringing her hands, the embodiment
of despair. I spoke to her, and the sound
of my voice seemed to infuse new life into her fevered
veins.
“Oh! Roland,” she cried, “you still live! I was
afraid you would never speak to me again!”
“God bless you, poor girl!” I murmured.
“How do you feel now?” she inquired, with trembling
eagerness.
“A little better, thank Heaven!”
“The saints be praised! Are you able to resume
your journey?”
“I soon shall be, I think.”
I still felt weak and sick; but my involuntary sleep
had slightly refreshed me, and in a few minutes I was
able to stand alone. Our poor beast was still with us;
and catching and bridling him, Adele led him to my
side. I managed, with some assistance from the poor
girl, to crawl upon his back; and Adele getting up in
front of me, we turned his head down the water-course,
and started him forward in search of water.
For two or three hours we rode slowly along, under
a hot, summer sun, which by this time had far
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descended toward the western horizon. Suddenly now
our noble animal pricked up his ears, snuffed the hot
air, and set forward at an easy gallop.
“God be praised!” cried Adele, joyfully—“the beast
scents water!”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, I am almost certain of it, Roland. The senses
of these animals of instinct, which live upon the
prairies, are far more acute and unerring than those
which belong to reasoning man. They will, when
famishing, scent food and water at an incredible
distance; and they are often the first, likewise, to warn
their more intellectual companions of approaching
danger.”
To our unspeakable delight, the result proved that
this time Adele was not wrong in her conjecture concerning
the proximity of water. Our noble animal
gradually quickened his pace as he went on, till at
last I was compelled, for our own safety, to check his
furious speed. Still keeping down the dry bed of the
water-course we found its junction with a similar
water-course, about a mile from where our horse first
snuffed the air; and in the bed of this latter we beheld,
with emotions that language has no power to describe,
a tiny stream—a mere silvery thread, of not more
than two hands breadth, which ran gurgling over
white sand and bright pebbles—its sweet music
bringing to the soul a beatific rapture, which in effect
might be likened to the heavenly strain which greets
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the weary spirit, long sunk in despair, as it floats to
the shore of life in eternity.
Once in sight of the liquid element, it was no longer
possible for me, in my weak state, to hold in check
our almost maddened beast; and therefore I gave him
the rein; while we both clung to the saddle, till he
leaped into the run, and began to slake his thirst;
when we slid from his back, and were soon following
his example. Oh! that first draught of something far
beyond the ambrosial nectar of the gods! What language
can describe the sensations of rapture we
experienced as it passed our parched and swollen lips,
and spread its seemingly life-giving power through
all our veins! Never before had I the faintest conception
of the ecstactic thrill which might reach the
spirit through the single sense of taste; and were it
possible for all our senses to receive each its highest
pleasure, in the same degree and at the same moment,
I do not think it possible for the mortal portion of man to survive the event.
Having with a few draughts found immediate relief
from our intense sufferings, we fortunately had sufficent
self-command to avoid drinking our fill too
suddenly; and we sat by the purling rivulet, looking
at each other, expressing our joy and gratitude in
fervent words, and ever and anon bathing our hands
and faces, and taking another and another delicious
draught, till nature became satisfied, and we found ourselves,
as if by magic, with renewed life, and strength,
and hope.
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“You are better, dear Roland!” exclaimed Adele,
joyfully. “I see it in your sparkling eye and animated
features.”
“We are both better, thank God!” I replied; “for
I can see the same happy change in you which you
perceive in me.”
“Oh! we cannot be too grateful to an over-ruling
Providence for our second happy deliverance!” rejoined
Adele; and as she spoke, she lifted her eyes in
silent prayer to the great Unseen—a prayer of thanksgiving
in which my own heart joined.
But our perils were by no means past; our
difficulties were not yet all surmounted; and all too
soon this painful conviction forced itself upon us—coming
like the black storm-cloud in the serene heavens,
to shut out the sun of hope—or like the dark pall of
death, to cover the body of our joy. We were still
in the great wilderness, surrounded by dangers, and
grim starvation still stared us in the face. Our burning
thirst quenched—our weary bodies filled with
new life and strength—we now, alas! began to experience
the sensations of hunger in a marked degree;
and the fact that we could not look forward with
certainty, scarcely with hope, to timely relief, was the
cause of sad, painful and prostrating forebodings—
forebodings, indeed, which sharpened our desires, and
rendered the cravings of nature more keen. We were
not at this moment actually suffering for the want of
food; but we knew we could not long exist without
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it; and this fearful knowledge caused us mental, at
least, if not physical pain.
What was to be done? and how and where should
we pass the night? The sun was far on the decline,
and darkness would soon overtake us; and yet the
place where we were, devoid of trees as it was, did not
seem suitable for an encampment. Away in the distance,
toward the west, we perceived a small cluster
of cotton-woods; and after a brief consultation we
decided to ride thither, and trust the rest to that
Providence which had so kindly watched over us.
Our weary beast, which was now eagerly cropping
the nutritious grass, having drank his fill of pure
water, was readily caught; and again mounting him,
we were soon pursuing our unknown course along the
banks of the tiny stream, which we had resolved to
keep in view until we should reach its head waters or
find it necessary to alter our course.
Just as the sun, in a blaze of glory, was sinking
below the western horizon, we reached the cotton-wood
grove; and somewhat to our delight—for their
very presence seemed to cheer us—we found a few
gay birds fluttering among the tremulous leaves, and
twittering away as gaily as if there were no such
thing as human misery on the great earth, above
which they daily winged their flight and sung their
songs. My first care was to unsaddle our gallant
beast and hopple him—which latter I did by means
of straps taken from the bridle and saddle, which I
buckled and joined together as best I could. One
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buckle, with a sharp-pointed tongue, I made use of,
in lieu of a knife, to sever some strips from the saddle-cloth,
which I tied together, to serve as a tether;
and driving a short, dry stick into the ground, I felt
quite relieved to know I could picket the animal near
me, after allowing him a reasonable time to feed,
while the remainder of the saddle-cloth would serve
in some measure as a blanket for Adele.
Having thus, as well as my straitened circumstances
would permit, made my preparations for
passing the night, which had already begun to spread
its dark mantle over the earth, gradually shutting in
the monotonous view of the mighty desert around us,
I threw myself down on the ground by the side of my
gentle companion, and, encircling her with my arms,
drew her fondly to my heart. For some minutes we
sat in gloomy silence, each busy with painful thoughts,
which neither felt disposed to make known to the
other. We were both much fatigued with our long
ride, and both somewhat faint for the want of food,
while the prospect before us was far from cheering.
With plenty of game, and means for lighting a fire
and cooking it, we should have been comparatively
happy in the present, and could have looked forward
to the future with hope and joy; but as it was, the
thought of the morrow increased our gloom.
“We are fortunate in one thing, dear Adele,” said
I, at length, speaking abruptly from my train of
thought; “we shall not suffer from the cold, even
though we have no fire.”
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“We are fortunate in many things, dear Roland,”
she replied, in a low, tremulous voice, which she
evidently sought to render calm, so as not to betray
her secret emotions. “We are fortunate in many
things. We have escaped from our enemies; we have
been permitted to quench our burning, feverish thirst;
we are here in peace and comparative health; and
though wanting food, we are not yet positively suffering;
and who knows but the morrow may bring us
all we desire?”
“Who knows?” said I. After another long silence,
I resumed: “If we pass the night in safety, our
gallant steed will be refreshed, and be able to bear us
on with ease and speed toward the mountains; and
if we can only reach them before we are completely
exhausted, it is possible we may subsist on roots and
berries till we can find some one of the several stations
which here and there dot the great wilderness. To
the best of my judgment, we must now be within one
or two days' journey of St. Vrain's Fort; but not
knowing the proper course to pursue, we may never
find it. However, my dear Adele, let us not despair,
but trust the future to God. You are fatigued; pray
lie down here, and get what rest you can; the ground,
fortunately, is dry, and this saddle will serve you for
a pillow, and this cloth will keep you from the dew,
should any fall.”
“And you, dear Roland?”
“I will sit by your side and watch.”
“But you will be worn out!”
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“No, I feel quite strong now.”
“But you must sleep too! You must let me watch
a part of the night at least!”
“Very well; if you will sleep now, I will consent
to let you watch toward morning.”
With this understanding, Adele laid her head upon
the saddle, and I covered her with the saddle-cloth;
and in a few minutes nature asserted its mastery, and
her wandering thoughts became involved in peaceful
dreams.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WOLVES OUR FRIENDS.
There was a kind of subdued, melancholy pleasure,
in sitting there, by the side of one I loved, and listening
to her gentle breathings, while “nature's sweet
restorer” set a quiet, peaceful seal upon her external
senses. Minute succeeded minute, hour followed
hour, and yet she continued to sleep as tranquilly as
if upon a bed of down, her gentle respirations being
barely audible to her lonely listener. Had the future
opened serenely to the mind, without the dark shadows
which fancy now placed in the vista through which it
looked forward to a distant point of time, those hours
of lonely, solemn watching would have been among
the happiest of my life; but it was impossible to
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divest myself of a fear of approaching danger in some
form, or think of coming hours without an undefinable
dread. Happy sleeper—happy now, at least, in her
unconsciousness—to what scenes of peril, trial, and
suffering might she not awake! It was pleasure to
see her sleep; it would be happiness to guard, protect,
and provide for her necessities; but it would be more
than death to see her snatched suddenly from me, by
man or beast, without the means of striking a single
blow in her defence; or see her wither and waste
away, like a blasted flower, without the power of supplying
the common demands of nature. It was this
reflection that made me sad, gloomy, and wretched,
even while my heart felt something like joy that she
was still safe and sleeping sweetly under my vigilant
eye.
For hours, I say, I sat by the side of her I loved—
my back braced against the trunk of a large cotton-wood—
my eyes wandering over the dark plain, in
search of danger—and my ears listening to catch the
slightest sound. We were in a lonely region of
country, where wild and savage beasts, and wild and
savage men, were lords and masters of the soil; and
there was no telling what moment we might be
surprised by a foe, against whose fell design, weak
and defenceless as I was, I could bring no opposing
force. The fact that I had no weapons of defence, and
for this reason knew myself almost as helpless as
an infant, rendered me in a great degree a very
coward; and therefore I watched with timid uneasiness,
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often starting at the objects of my fancy, and fairly
trembling at any unusual sound.
While I watched, I gradually fell into that comatose
state, in which the mind acts in the double capacity
of sleeping and waking—when we dream, and know
we dream, and yet are conscious of external surroundings,
but without the power of distinct comprehension.
At length I began to experience a sensation of fear
and dread, as if some dark object were creeping softly
to my side; and arousing myself suddenly, I beheld,
by the light of the moon, which had now risen and
was pouring its silvery beams upon the broad plain,
a large prairie wolf within ten feet of me. I started
to my feet, with a cry of alarm; and taking fright,
he bounded away, with a fierce howl, and soon disappeared
in the uncertain light.
The noise awoke Adele, who also started up in
alarm, exclaiming:
“Where am I? what is it?”
I hastened to explain, and endeavored to persuade
her to lie down again and sleep on; but she declared
she felt quite refreshed, and insisted that I should take
her place, and allow her to watch, according to our
agreement. I was loth to do so; but she held me to
my promise; and feeling the need of rest, to enable
me to make a long journey on the morrow, I finally
yielded assent.
But my first care now was to picket our horse,
which was still feeding at no great distance; and
having accomplished this, I took a general survey of
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the mighty scene, by the pale light of the waning
moon, which shone through a cloudless sky, its silvery
rays falling upon the great desert with a subdued and
solemn effect; and finding all still and quiet, as if
nature herself had sunk to repose, I placed my head
upon the saddle, intending merely to rest my weary
body and limbs, and keep watch with Adele at the
same time. But scarcely had my head touched my
pillow, when my eyes closed, my senses grew confused
and wandering, and in less than five minutes I was
sound asleep.
I slept for hours, unconscious of everything; and
when I at last awoke, I saw, to my surprise, that the
moon was high in the heavens, and that her pale light
was feebly struggling with the first gray of morning.
I started up, and looked around me for Adele; but,
to my dismay and alarm, she was not to be seen. I
called her by name—but received no answer. I
looked for my horse; but he was quietly lying on
his side by the picket, where I had left him before
lying down myself. What could have happened?
Apprehensive of something terrible, though I knew
not what, and with a cold sweat starting from every
pore, I hurried about in search of her, continually
calling her by name. It was not long ere I espied
her fragile form, lying upon the bank of the little
stream, a few rods below the camp. I ran to her side,
bent over her, and seized her small, white hand,
fearful of finding it cold in death. But no—to my
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unutterable joy it was warm—her pulse beat regularly,
and her respiration was gentle as one in sleep.
“Adele!” I cried, still frightened and apprehensive.
“Adele! dear Adele! for God's sake, awake!”
“Oh, Roland, what is it?” she exclaimed, starting
up in terror. “Quick! Tell me what has happened?”
“Nothing, dear Adele, if you are well. I was
alarmed for you. Why are you here? are you ill?”
“Forgive me!” she said, looking hurriedly around;
“forgive me, dear Roland! I am but a poor sentinel,
I see. Ah me! to fall asleep on my post!”
“God be praised if it be nothing worse!” said I,
with a feeling of relief which can better be imagined
than expressed. “I was fearful something terrible
had happened to you. To fall asleep was natural, for
one who had undergone so much fatigue as you, dear
Adele; but pray tell me how it is I find you here?”
“I will, dear Roland, and you must forgive me—it
shall not happen again. After you fell asleep, I began
to grow drowsy myself; and fearing I should give
way to my feelings and lose myself, I got up and
commenced walking to and fro in front of you. Then
feeling thirsty, I came down here to take a drink;
and having drank, I sat down on the bank, and that
is the last I remember.”
“Poor girl!” cried I, clasping her to my heart:
“I am glad you slept, for you were wearied out; but
you should have left me on the watch, for we might
have been surprised and killed. But all is well—God
in his mercy has guarded us!”
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“Oh, dear Roland, I am so grieved and troubled
at this!” she continued. “You will not dare to trust
me again; and you will wear yourself out in keeping
guard, because of my present neglect.”
“Say no more about it, dear girl; perhaps we shall
have no more need of nocturnal vigilance. It was all
for the best, I think; and if you feel refreshed, I am
glad it happened.”
“Oh, yes, I am greatly refreshed, and feel quite
well.”
“But you must be faint, nevertheless!” said I,
despondingly; “for it has now been twenty-four hours
since you have tasted food.”
“And longer since any passed your lips, dear
Roland,” she replied, in a tone of deep feeling. “You
do not seem to think of yourself.”
“God grant we may find some means to allay the
cravings of hunger ere we sleep again!” I rejoined;
“though I confess I have but little hope. But come!
day is dawning; and if you feel able to ride, we will
set off at once; for it is useless to remain longer here,
since our gallant steed has received his proper food
and rest.”
“I am ready, dear Roland; and oh! believe me, I
feel quite strong.”
I hastened to prepare our horse for our second day's
journey; and having watered him at the brook, and
drank as much as we could ourselves, we mounted
him once more, and were soon galloping easily and
swiftly over the plain, still keeping as near as possible
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due west. This course, much to our regret, in a very
short time led us across the little stream—which, on
account of its channel running almost north and south,
we were compelled to leave behind us; but I thought
it more expedient to incur the risk of finding water on
our route westward, than to delay reaching the
mountains by taking another course.
Never did I behold a more grand and glorious
sunrise than on that morning. The atmosphere was
clear and still—not a single cloud dotted the heavens—
and the even line of the eastern horizon, stretching
away north and south, as far as the eye could reach,
allowed every tint and shade to be perceived in its
dimmest and brightest hue, and in its deepest and
broadest extent. First a pale, golden streak shot up
toward the zenith, and gradually spread abroad to the
north and south, till it so perfectly blended with the
serene blue sky that the eye could not mark where it
began or ended. Then came another streak of brighter
gold, and floated away like a thin, transparent
vapor, or tissue-tint, deepening the hue and heightening
the beauty of the first. Then another and another
followed in rapid succession, till the whole east was a
deep golden glow. Then shot up a streak of pale
crimson; and as it floated over the golden background,
the effect was beautiful beyond description.
A few more shades rapidly succeeded each other, each
deeper and brighter than the last; and then the eye
was enchanted with a golden vermillion, which grew
brighter and more bright, with the increasing light,
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till the golden vermillion seemed blended with a flood
of liquid silver; and then the sun burst upon the
scene with a glory beyond the power of language to
portray.
Notwithstanding our trying, painful, and perilous
situation—a condition calculated to withdraw our
thoughts from all things foreign to self-preservation—
we could not forego the pleasure of turning to view
so glorious a manifestation of God's limning on the
canvas of heaven, nor look upon it unmoved by a
thrill of delight that penetrated to the very soul.
“Oh! how gorgeously, gloriously beautiful!” exclaimed
Adele; “and with such a beginning of the
day, can we augur a night of gloom and despair to
follow?”
“We will hope otherwise, dear Adele,” I replied,
with what cheerfulness I could assume.
We rode on, at an easy gallop, for some two or
three hours, when we came to another little run, or
water-course, which was almost dry. Here we stopped
and watered our horse, and drank what we could
ourselves. On casually examining the ground here,
I noticed, with uneasiness and some alarm, the hoof-prints
of other horses, in the yielding sand or clay—
and that they led off in a southerly direction—but
whether they were wild, or carried Indians on their
backs, I could not determine. There were buffalo
tracks here, also, in great numbers; and I thought it
not improbable that a party of Indians had recently
passed here in pursuit of them. The ground here,
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too, I observed, began in a slight degree to change
its character; and looking carefully westward, I perceived,
with feelings of delight, that the surface grew
gradually rougher, more broken, and rolling. I
pointed out the change to Adele, with the observation:
“I think we must be nearing the base of the lower
range of mountains.”
“We are—we are!” she cried, joyfully, clapping
her hands, and her sweet features beaming with animation.
“Look yonder, Roland—I have just made
one discovery more—do you see it?”
“I do not—what is it?” I replied, after a quick,
eager look westward.
“Do you not see yonder mountain peak?”
“No! no! where? where?”
“There—yonder—in the direction I am pointing—
do you not see it now?”
“No, I do not, I am sorry to say.”
“Do you see anything?”
“Ah! now I see some dark objects in the distance,
which appear to be moving—but it is more reasonable
to suppose them buffaloes than mountains.”
“No, no, Roland—higher—farther.”
“I see a white, fleecy cloud, near the horizon.”
“That is it—that is it: it is no cloud: it is the
snowy peak of one of the Rocky Mountains.”
“Are you sure, Adele? Oh, do not let us deceive
ourselves!”
“I am sure, dear Roland—for I always used to
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see similar peaks after crossing the prairies toward
Santa Fe!”
“Heaven be praised! then we may reach the lower
hills before night-fall. Come! come! I am impatient
now: let us remount and press forward!”
“And what shall we do when we reach the hills?”
inquired Adele, despondingly, as I lifted her upon
the saddle, and sprung up after her.
“We may be able to subsist on roots and berries,
till we find some station,” was my reply, as I started
our gallant beast forward at a quicker pace than
usual.
The sun by this time had begun to heat the dry
atmosphere, and our long fast began to cause us
unpleasant sensations. We now began to experience
the keen gnawings of hunger, accompanied with a
feeling of faintness and lassitude, which greatly
depressed our spirits, and created serious apprehensions
that we should not be able to even ride through
the heat of the day, and might consequently be
compelled to pass another night on the open plain.
But we strove to cheer ourselves with hope, and nerve
ourselves with will; and on we dashed, with all the
speed which our poor beast could sustain.
Presently we perceived, by unmistakable signs, that
we were approaching the borders of a buffalo range;
and had I been in possession of any of my weapons,
my weakened and wearied frame would have been
strengthened by the certainty that we should soon be
in possession of life-sustaining food; and even as it
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was, it afforded me some consolation to hope that
some accident among the herd might put a portion
of a carcass at my command. I knew that wolves
followed the buffaloes, and killed the disabled, and
sometimes the calves; and I thought it barely possible
we might come upon the slaughtered game, in time
to frighten away the voracious destroyers, and get
enough for a single meal. The animals I had seen
in the distance, proved indeed to be buffaloes—the
straggling members of a large herd—and the first we
had seen since the few which had fled from us the
morning previous. As we neared them, they took
fright, and ran westward; and we pressed on after
them keeping them in sight, till we had the satisfaction
of seeing them join the main body, which gradually
came into view, stretching away, north and
south, in a long, unbroken line, and numbering thousands,
and hundreds of thousands, and perhaps
millions.
Cheered by the sight, and the hope of soon getting
possession of food, I still urged on our gallant beast,
almost forgetful of our present sufferings in the anticipation
of soon finding relief by some Providential
acquisition. As we neared the body of the herd, which
was slowly moving southward, I eagerly ran my eye
up and down the long line; and with a thrill of joy,
of which no language can convey an adequate idea, I
soon perceived, away to the north, a small band of
wolves, harassing a cow and her calf, which they had
managed to separate from the herd, and were now
-- 353 --
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trying to separate from each other; while she, turned
at bay, was eagerly striving to protect her young
and get back to where she would be protected by
numbers. Instantly I turned my horse in that direction,
but checked his speed, that I might not advance
upon them prematurely, and thus destroy what might
possibly prove our salvation. Gradually drawing as
near to the hungry wolves as I thought prudent, I
made a halt, and watched the operations of the carnivorous
beasts, and their distressed victims, with
such contending emotions of hope and fear as kept
my poor brain in a whirl of painful excitement. Some
idea of our feelings may be formed, when I state
that our minds became gradually wrought up to such
a pitch, as to mentally stake our own lives upon the
success of the canine beasts; and although we could
not but pity the poor mother, striving to protect her
helpless young, yet every advantage obtained by her
foes—which, under the circumstances, we regarded as
friends to us—sent the quickened blood, heated with
joy, to our very hearts.
“Oh, holy saints,” prayed Adele, “assist us in this
our last extremity!”
“Amen!” said I—“if the saints have power.”
“If?” exclaimed Adele, crossing herself, and turning
upon me a startled, reproachful look: “do you
then doubt, Roland, that the saints have power?”
“I believe God has the power,” I replied; “but I
was not, like you, educated in the belief that the
saints have any control over things terrestrial.”
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“Oh, Roland—I thought, till now, your belief and
mine was the same.”
“Will it lessen your estimation of me to know the
contrary?”
“I cannot say now—I must think the matter over
in a calmer moment.”
“That is best, Adele,” I replied; “and it is hardly
proper to enter into a theological discussion while on
the point of starvation. You believe in God—so do
I; and we can in this meet on equal grounds, and
both appeal to the Divine Creator and Ruler of the
Universe, without either doing violence to the educational
doctrines of the other.”
The subject, which was not appropriate to the
occasion, dropped here, and we both directed our
attention to the contest, in which we felt as if our
lives were at stake. Never did moments pass in
which I experienced more intense excitement, than
in watching the issue between the poor buffalo-mother
and her blood-thirsty foes. The former was standing
at bay, bellowing in her anger, fright, and despair,
and making desperate efforts to break through the
line of her snarling, growling persecutors; while her
frightened calf cowered tremblingly behind and under
her, and continually gave voice to its terror, in tones
to excite human, if not brute, commiseration. It was
clearly the design of the wolves to separate the calf
from the cow; and to accomplish this, they would
completely surround both; and while those in front
would arrest the attention of the mother and draw an
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attack upon themselves, the rest would fly at her
offspring, and bite it, and bewilder it with their
savage barks and growls; and would just be on the
point of succeeding in their fell purpose, when the
devoted mother would suddenly wheel upon them,
drive them back, and afford the horrified victim a
temporary relief.
“It is like a war of mankind—the many against
the few—the stronger against the weaker!” said I to
Adele; “but with this difference—that though the
stronger in both cases may conquer, and oppression
be triumphant, man may appeal to the higher tribunal
of eternity, and find justice meted out to him
and his persecutors; while the poor brute suffers
without hope, or after life, or future restoration. It
is my belief—if I may be permitted to mention the
matter in this connection, dear Adele—that each and
every individual will receive equity in the after life,
whatever may be his profession or faith in this; and
so he sin not against the light he has, and the monitor
within, all will be well with him.”
“I know not that we differ in this respect,” she
replied. “But see! is not the contest yonder about
to terminate in favor of the wolves?”
“It is in truth!” said I, joyfully, starting our horse
slowly forward, to be ready for the eventful moment
of victory to them and us. “The poor mother grows
weary—she must soon succumb.”
Scarcely had I uttered the words, when I saw
three or four of the fiercest of the wolves spring
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between the poor cow and her calf—and the next
moment the helpless victim was throttled, and borne
to the earth.
“Now is our only chance,” I shouted; and in less
time than it takes me to record the fact, my fiery
steed was bearing down upon them with all his speed.
The distance was scarcely more than a good rifle
shot, and we fairly flew over the ground; but so
fierce and ravenous were these hungry beasts of prey,
that when we reached the slaughtered calf, and literally
rode amongst its slayers, causing them to scatter
with fear, the body was already torn open to the
entrails, and at least one half devoured. One minute
later and there would have been nothing left.
With a wild cry of ecstacy, I sprung from my
horse, seized the bleeding remains, and threw them
across the saddle; and then, as the joyful truth thrilled
us, that food was once more within our reach—
and that, for the present at least, we were saved from
the horrors of starvation—our very souls poured forth
a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the Great Unseen,
and tears of gratitude dimmed our eyes.
-- 357 -- p462-334
CHAPTER XXIV. THE FAITH OF MY COMPANION.
[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
Being now in the possession of food, our next
immediate want was a fire by which to cook it; for
to devour it raw, with anything like relish, would
require a still longer fast; and besides, it now suddenly
occurred to me, that by means of a flinty stone,
and a buckle, and some dry, tinder-like grass, a fire
could be kindled without much difficulty. But the
place where we were was not the proper one for trying
the experiment; and so remounting my horse,
and disposing of the mutilated and bloody carcass in
such a manner that it could be carried in safety,
without allowing any portion to hang down in tempting
proximity to the hungry wolves*—which were
loping around us, licking their chops, and growling
their displeasure at being so summarily robbed of
their hardly won treasure—I urged the noble animal
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in among the vast herd of buffaloes, determined to
ride through them rather than go back.
It was an exciting passage—that passage through
an almost numberless throng—a mighty stream of
huge, living animals—which shrunk back from us in
terror, smelling the blood of their kind, and plunged
and bellowed around us—and at times, from their
movements, exciting serious apprehensions that we
should be overthrown, trampled upon, and crushed.
In the middle of this living stream, we looked for a
glimpse of the distant prairie; but as far as the eye
could reach, we saw nothing but a compact and
moving body of animal life—a sight that was grand,
sublime, and, in our situation, awful; for should there
chance to be a stampede, we knew our lives hung
upon a brittle thread, that might snap at any moment.
For nearly two hours we struggled through this tremendous
herd, almost suffocated with dust and heat;
and when we finally rode clear of them, on the western
side, we felt we had new cause to be grateful for
another wonderful preservation of our lives.
Fatigued and half famished, faint and thirsty, we
now looked eagerly around for a suitable place to
camp; and it was with feelings of delight we beheld a
charming little grove covering a knoll, or swell of
ground, about half a mile distant, with a clear, tiny
stream of water flowing along at its base. We were
not long in reaching this delightful spot; and removing
saddle and bridle from our noble brute, I hoppled
and turned him loose, that he might rest and regale
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himself on the sweet, nutritious grass that grew beneath
the shadow of the trees. In the bed of the brook, I
found a pebble to answer my purpose; and collecting
some tinder-like grass, I was soon trying an important
experiment with a large buckle. For five minutes I
labored in vain, in my attempt to kindle the dry
grass; but at last a spark caught, which I hurriedly
blew to a flame; and while Adele applied some dry
twigs and sticks, I jumped up and fairly danced with
rapture.
“At last, dear Roland,” cried Adele, clapping her
hands for joy, “we have all that we have prayed
for.”
“Thank God, I feel that we shall be saved!” returned
I, as I plunged my fingers into the tender part
of the mutilated calf, and tore out a portion of the
tempting flesh. “Here, Adele,” I continued, “spit
this with a stick, and broil and eat before you faint!”
I tore out another piece for myself; and the next
moment the two ungainly lumps were hissing and
sissling in the crackling flame. The instant the
savory smell touched our olfactory nerves, our appetites
grew so keen, that it seemed impossible to longer
resist the demands of nature; and yielding to our
desires, we eagerly began to devour the half broiled
flesh. Never before had I tasted food to compare
with that; never before had I known the real enjoyment
of eating; and we ate and broiled, and broiled
and ate, till pound after pound had disappeared, and
an hour had been consumed in supplying the cravings
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of nature. At last we drew back, satisfied, and felt
that we had taken a new lease of life.
So intently had we been engaged with our plain,
but wholesome repast, that, up to the moment of our
hunger being appeased, our minds had been occupied
with nothing more intellectual than a consideration
of the adaptedness of fresh meat to fill the vacuum
caused by fasting, and the conviction that man is at
least half animal, and that a famishing human being
may sink down to only one remove from the brute below
him; but having ate our fill, we proceeded to take
a survey of the scene around us, and turn our
thoughts once more upon the future.
The little knoll on which we were now located, was
one proof, out of many, that we were entering upon
a tract of country materially differing from the great
arid desert over which we had passed; and looking
toward the west, we saw, with delight, that though
the general aspect of the ground was level for a
great distance, the surface had begun to exhibit a
wave-like roll, indicating our approach to a still more
uneven and hilly country; while here and there
could be seen bushy and timbered hillocks, and the
grass had a broader and taller spire, and, if not a
greener, at least a less parched and withered hue.
There was also animal life upon the scene; for
besides the immense herd of buffaloes, through which
we had forced our way to the peril of our lives,
several straggling members of the great body could be
seen in all directions, with here and there the
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light-footed deer, and timid antelope, and bands of ravenous
wolves, prowling around with watchful eyes and
cowardly hearts, ready to attack where they might
hope of success without fear of perilous defeat. The
day, too, as well as the country, was growing more in
our favor; for the atmosphere had begun to thicken,
and fleecy clouds were floating up from the west with
a cooling breeze, and were ever and anon drawing a
temporary veil between the earth and the scorching
rays of a mid-day summer sun.
“Well, my dear Adele,” said I, “what chance have
we now, do you think, of reaching the mountains in
safety?”
“The best, my dear friend,” she replied, with animation;
“and if I could feel assured that reaching
the mountains would put us beyond danger, I should
rejoice in the thought that our troubles are drawing
to a close.”
“We cannot know what is before us, it is true,”
I said; “but if we may augur from the past what the
future will be, we can go on our way rejoicing.”
“We have been wonderfully favored and preserved,
all things being considered,” she solemnly
rejoined; “and God, who sees the heart, knows that
mine is overflowing with gratitude. Oh, Roland,”
she continued, earnestly, “I would that you believed
as I do; for it is such a consolation in times of peril,
to know that we are surrounded by sympathizing,
though invisible, friends, who have already passed
the narrow bounds which separate time from eternity;
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and who are not only sympathizing with us, but
endeavoring to impress upon our minds such hope to
cheer, and such knowledge to relieve, as they, looking
beyond mortal view, may discover; and who not
only sorrow with us in our sorrow, but also rejoice
with us in our joy, as I feel they do now! With all
due reverence for the Great Supreme—who is Lord
and Ruler of all on earth, and beyond earth, in the
material and spiritual world, in time and eternity—I
still feel that I am as much justified in praying to
his ministering spirits for temporal aid, and returning
thanks to them for the aid thus rendered, as I would
be in calling upon you, or any other mortal, and
returning thanks for your assistance.”
“And you really believe that the spirits of the
departed hover about you, and hear your prayers,
and render you assistance?” said I.
“I do solemnly believe,” she earnestly replied,
“that the spirits of our departed friends are at times
hovering around us; that at such times they know
our wants and hear our prayers; that they do then
render us all the aid in their power, by impressing us
to do what will prove most advantageous to ourselves
under the existing circumstances. Have you never
felt, in moments of despondency, almost despair, as
if you knew all would be well?”
“I have, I can truly say.”
“Have you never, in moments of difficulty, had a
sudden thought flash upon you, that came not
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through any known train of reasoning, of a means
by which the difficulty could be removed?”
“I have—but I think that was instinct.”
“And pray what is instinct?” she quickly demanded,
her beautiful features lighting up with an
intellectual flash that I had never seen displayed
there before. “What is instinct, pray tell me?”
“That intuitive faculty by which the lower animals,
and sometimes man, arrive at a truth of the
greatest importance to the occasion, without any
previous thought.”
“And whence comes that intuition of truth, if not
from a superior intelligence?”
“God is a superior intelligence, it is true.”
“All life and truth comes from God, I grant; but
there must be a channel, or intermediate means,
through which He acts upon a creature; and why
may not this channel, or means, be an intelligence
inferior to Him, but superior to us?”
“That it may be so, I do not deny, dear Adele;
but it does not follow I should believe it is so, simply
because I cannot prove the contrary.”
“I would you did believe so, dear Roland; but
belief itself, is, in one sense, this instinct, or intuitive
knowledge, and cannot be commanded by either
reason, will, or desire. Yet, if we earnestly pray for
the truth, we put ourselves in a condition to receive
it. Pray for an inflow of truth, Roland!”
“I always have done so, dear Adele; but my
prayers have always been directed to the Fountain
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of Truth; and in that I feel I have not erred; for if
I am reached by any means, those means are under
Almighty control.”
“You do not err in this, dear Roland; nor do I
think I err in appealing both to Him and His ministering
spirits; but I think I receive a consolation in
my faith which you do not.”
“In what respect?”
“Because we cannot conceive of God, and therefore
cannot realize His presence in a human form,
with human sympathy, as we can conceive and realize
the presence of departed spirits, who were once
human, with all the human frailties which we possess.
Those nearest like us, must, in the nature of
things, be in most direct affinity or sympathy with us.”
“Your belief, I doubt not, is, in some respects, a
happy one, whatever else may be said of it.”
“You say in some respects, dear Roland—is it not
in all?”
“Why, to my mind, there is this drawback. If
you believe in the return of departed spirits, you
must believe in the return of both good and evil!”
“Well?”
“Well, admitting that, you must also admit, that
while the good would strive to do you good, the evil
would strive to do you evil!”
“So much the more need of keeping the heart
pure, and striving, through good, to overcome evil—
for evil cannot mingle with good, any more than oil
with water. This is our necessity—to strive against
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evil influence or temptation; and you know, from
your own experience, that there are moments when
we are thrilled with a holy influence, and moments
when we are thrilled with an influence that is not
holy—the one filling our souls with joy, the other
with gloom.”
“Yes, I have experienced both sensations.”
“Then we only differ as to the cause.”
“You think both proceed from surrounding spirits?”
“I do, to a great extent. And what cause do you
assign for these different impressions, dear Roland?”
“I have never assigned any, because I never
thought on the subject before,” I replied, giving way
to reflection.
The whole idea was new to me, and deeply interesting;
and I was surprised to discover so much intellectual
strength in one, whom, notwithstanding my
attachment, I had supposed to possess a mind not superior
to girls in general of her own age. Yet on every
ground taken by her, there was logic and philosophy
for me to combat; and I secretly acknowledged,
that in metaphysics, so far at least as her own faith
was concerned, she was my equal, if not superior; and
it may reasonably be inferred I did not love her the
less on this account. It was like discovering a mine
of gold where one had been looking only for silver.
After a pause, of perhaps a minute, I resumed:
“If we are surrounded by spirits of departed friends,
and others who once lived in the flesh, it is fair to
presume that all mankind are; and yet for every one
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impressed with an advantageous truth or idea, in a case
of emergency, I think I can find twenty, at least, who
are not extricated from difficulty by any cause but
self-possession, and deliberate calculation, drawn from
a natural course of reasoning—or perhaps simply
through an experiment suggested at the moment by
the circumstances in which they are placed; while, on
the other hand, the failures are innumerable—even
when they try an experiment that they thought right
at the time, but afterward know to have been decidedly
wrong—thus giving evidence, that the idea,
thought, or suggestion, or whatever you may call it,
originated with, and was confined to, themselves—
coming from no superior intelligence, that would have
known the right. Suppose, for illustration, that a
vessel spring a leak in a dark night, near a strand of
which the commander has no knowledge; there are a
hundred chances to one, that he will not take the right
course to reach the particular point where his life
might be saved; or even if he do reach it accidentally,
that some of the passengers will have jumped overboard
in fright; and this I contend would not happen,
if these good, though invisible, intelligences were
around, and had the power to impress the terrified
mortals with a fact, which, under the circumstances,
would, by your showing, be known to them.”
“You seem determined to annihilate the spirits,”
laughed Adele.
“Say, rather, I am determined to maintain the
ground that there are none present, who have the will
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and the power to influence mortals. Come—do you
thus relinquish your position?”
“By no means, sir! and I will now attempt to
answer you; but if I fail to do so, satisfactorily,
attribute it to my own mental dificiency, rather than
assume that my position cannot be sustained—or that
spirits are not present—or if present, that they have
not the will or power to impress those who are in a
receptive condition.”
“Taking you on your own ground,” returned I,
laughing, “if I vanquish you, I shall consider I have
vanquished both you and the spirits, or spiritual
philosophy—since, if spirits are present, and can
impress receptive individuals—of which I hold you
to be one—they are bound to prove their presence by
convincing argument through you.”
“The power of convincing belongs neither to
spirit nor mortal, but depends on the condition of the
hearer to perceive the truth when uttered,” said
Adele.
“Let the spirits then impress both,” laughed I;
“you to utter the truth, and me to receive it as such.”
“Very well, sir. To begin then, I might first
inquire what is the cause of that self-possession, which
you have brought forward as the cause of other
effects?”
“And I might reply, a strong nerve, and a cool
brain—or a general organization that cannot be
daunted by danger—and which allows the possessor
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to reason and act as he would direct others to reason
and act if an unconcerned spectator himself.”
“Well, you spoke of an experiment being suggested
at the moment—by what, pray?”
“By his own brain, most assuredly—influenced, as
it would naturally be, by the circumstances in which
he was placed at the time.”
“But might not the suggestion of that experiment
be the work of spirits?”
“But I showed that the experiment often failed—
which would prove that the spirits are often false
directors, and not to be relied on.”
Adele colored, and grew confused.
“I do not know as I shall be able to convince you
of what I believe to be a truth,” she said, reluctantly.
“You believe it, because it is a part of your education,”
I rejoined. “Had I been educated like you,
and you like me, we might now be arguing upon the
same subject—but inversely—I maintaining, and you
denying, the spiritual hypothesis.”
“True, that might be—and yet the facts would not
be altered!” she said, reflectively. “Education has
much to do with our belief, I know; and therefore, in
matters of this nature, it is important that the child
receive instruction in the true faith.”
“Granted—but which is the true faith? Take a
dozen creeds, and each will have zealous supporters,
and each will be set up by its believers as the true,
and all others will be declared false or erroneous.”
“But I have not yet done with our spiritual
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discussion,” she pursued. “Grant that my spiritual belief
be true—and if I cannot prove, you certainly cannot
disprove it,—grant it be true, I say, it naturally follows
that the pure and good would attract pure and
good spirits; that those who believe in, and desire,
spiritual communion, would be most likely to draw
around them their spiritual friends, and be in a condition
to receive spiritual impressions; so that, in order
to hold the ground taken by you in your illustrative
argument of the vessel, you must prove that those on
board were in a proper state of mind to attract good
spirits, and be influenced by them; for if you admit
that they might attract the evil disposed, it naturally
follows that, if impressed at all, it would be to their
injury.”
“You maintain your position very well,” said I,
“and I give you credit for it, even though I may not
be convinced of its truth. But how are we poor mortals
to keep good spirits in attendance, since both good
and bad have access to us?”
“By living uprightly, with pure motives and a
clear conscience, and calling on them to assist us in
our need, and sustain us in our faith and trust.”
“But why do you pray to the saints, and not to
particular friends you have known on earth?”
“Because the saints have been justified and made
perfect, and we would call around us the good and
pure.”
“Well,” said I, “yours is a happy belief at all
events, and I would not have you change it for one
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more gross and material. You cannot be far from
right, whether you err in the special fact or not;
for whatever teaches us to live uprightly, with pure
and holy aspirations, is of heavenly origin. But
who taught you to support your belief, or religion,
by argument? since I have always understood, that
Roman Catholics were bound to receive their faith,
through faith, without any attempt to justify it by
reason.”
“The communion of saints, and a belief in the
presence of departed spirits, is one of the cardinal
doctrines of our church, which I was taught in the
convent of Santa Maria; and for the rest, if you
think I have sustained my position with more than
my natural abilities, which are not many, then receive
it as a proof that I have been assisted by my
spiritual friends, who are now hovering about us!”
she replied, with a smile.
“You have led a lonely life, my dear Adele, and
have been much alone with your thoughts; and you
have thus thought deeply, meditatively, reflectively,
even beyond your years,” I rejoined: “I shall therefore
give you, not the spirits, credit for all you have
said, which I frankly admit is above the mental capacity
at which I had rated you.”
Adele was about to make a rejoinder, when she
suddenly started, turned pale, and pointing to the
north, exclaimed:
“Look yonder, Roland! look yonder!”
I turned quickly, and beheld, in the distance, a
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great commotion among the buffaloes, which seemed
to be pressing forward toward the south — those
behind communicating alarm to those in front, which
in turn communicated alarm to those before them—the
panic rapidly extending down the long line in our
direction.
“It is the beginning of a terrible stampede!” cried
I: “doubtless there are Indians behind! We must
mount, and fly for our lives!”
eaf462n6* The wolf here spoken of, is not of that large, ferocious, and
dangerous species, which prowls about mostly in the night, and
attacks other than non-resistant animals; but, on the contrary,
is small, crafty, and cowardly; and gains its living by following a
large herd of buffaloes, and preying upon the young, sick and disabled.
These wolves will follow the hunter, like so many dogs,
living on what he leaves; and will frequently enter the camp at
night, and steal what they find edible, without disturbing the
sleepers. They are, in fact, more annoying than dangerous.
CHAPTER XXVI. SURROUNDED BY PERILS.
I ran to my horse, which I caught without difficulty,
and scarcely a minute elapsed before I had him
bridled and saddled. I then hurried him to the water;
and while he drank, we drank also, that we might not
suffer from thirst, as on the day previous. Then lifting
Adele upon the saddle, and securing the remains
of our game, I sprung upon his back, and dashed away
toward the west, bidding Adele keep an eye on the
point whence we had reason to apprehend the appearance
of an enemy, while I watched the ground before
me and guided the swift-footed beast over the now
uneven surface. Occasionally I glanced back, to
observe the progress of the panic among the immense
herd; which, as it came sweeping down the long line—
the cause in one sense being invisible—reminded
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me of a fierce storm, as it begins to roll over a mighty
field of standing grain, its velocity being marked by
its rapidly communicating commotion. As we sped
on, the deer and antelope took flight, the wolves fled
away howling, and the huge, straggling buffaloes
snuffed the tainted air, threw up their tails, and bellowed,
and began to plunge in toward the main body,
to join in the terrific race.
“Had this happened a couple of hours sooner, we
should have been lost,” said I to Adele, as I tightened
my arm around her slender waist, and drew her closer
to my heart.
“Oh! I shudder to think of it!” she replied, with
nervous trembling. “But we are by no means safe
even now,” she continued. “See! yonder they come—
a band of horrible savages. Oh! pray Heaven they
do not see us!”
I looked to the north, and, far away in the dim distance,
beheld one horseman after another come into
view, each plunging furiously forward in the exciting
chase, and all evidently hard at work in the slaughter
of the unfortunate buffaloes in their immediate
vicinity. How many savages there were, I had no
means of knowing; but my eyes rested upon more
than a hundred, ere I dashed through a cluster of
trees and undergrowth, upon a swell of the prairie,
and descended into a long, low swale, or scoup of
ground, which completely shut them from my view.
By this time the great herd was in motion, far below
the point where we had passed through it; and as I
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now somewhat slackened the speed of our horse, we
caught at intervals the sound of the rushing body,
like distant thunder, or the solemn, monotonous roar
of a mighty cataract.
“Do you think the savages have seen us?” inquired
Adele, in a tone of anxiety.
“It is possible they may have done so,” I replied;
“for very little within the range of their vision
escapes their observation; but I do not think we have
reason to be alarmed; for they are too eagerly engaged
in their present pursuit to give chase to a
mounted party, whom they could not reasonably
expect to overtake.”
“Still I hope they did not see us,” she said, uneasily;
“for there might be some who would follow on
our trail for the mere love of adventure, or for the
purpose of ultimately returning in triumph with the
scalp of a foe as a proof of prowess.”
“But at that distance they might not be able to
distinguish us from their own race.”
“Even that might make no difference, as most of
the tribes are at war with each other, and they would
know with certainty that we do not belong to their
particular nation.”
“Have you an impression, dear Adele,” I inquired,
“that renders you so apprehensive of danger?”
“I at least have sad misgivings, dear Roland, that
our troubles are not over.”
We now rode in silence for some minutes, when we
again rose upon a higher swell of the prairie, which
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afforded us a distant view of our natural enemies, who
were apparently all busy among the fright-maddened
buffaloes—though the chase had now led them from
the point at the north, where we first discovered them,
nearly to the line of our trail.
“They have not seen us,” said I, with a feeling of
relief; “or, if so, they have evidently no intention of
pursuing us.”
“Ha! look again!” cried Adele, the next moment.
I did so, and thought I could preceive a small party
riding out from the rest, and darting away toward us,
though an intervening rise of ground soon hid them
from our sight. Whether their object was to pursue
us or not, I could not tell, and did not think it prudent
to wait to ascertain. The distance between us, to the
best of my judgment, could not be less than four or
five miles—a start that would save us in a dead race,
provided our horse could hold out and we meet with
no accident.
“Come, noble brute,” said I, tightening the bridle
rein, “you saved us once in a fearful race, and you
must do it again.”
As I spoke, I struck him on the flank, he bounded
forward, and the next moment we were descending
the slope, and rushing through the swale with lightning
speed. On, on we sped, rising on the waves of
the prairie, and sinking in the hollows, like a vessel
steering across the billows of the mighty deep. On,
on we sped, startling the game, which fled from us in
all directions, and scaring the feathered tribe, which
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flew upward, and sometimes circled round us, uttering
their discordant cries of anger and fear. On, on we
sped, looking fearfully back when opportunity presented,
but gladly looking in vain for a glimpse of
those we fancied might be our pursuers. On, on we
sped, till our gallant steed, already covered with foam,
began to pant, and slacken his pace, and tread unsteadily;
when, warned by these unmistakable signs, that,
without rest, he would soon be a victim in our cause,
I checked his speed, and finally brought him to a halt
on the summit of a rocky, bush-covered ridge; which,
being still higher than any one of the swells we had
passed, commanded a view of the country to the eastward
for ten or fifteen, and perhaps even twenty,
miles.
We now dismounted, to relieve the noble animal of
his heavy burden; and while Adele clambered up a
high, steep rock, to keep a sharp look-out for our
foes, I led the panting, drooping, and trembling beast
about by the bridle, that his overheated blood might
not cool too suddenly. The character of the country
had changed materially during our last ride, and
even within the last hour. The wave-like swells
rolled off to the eastward, in a succession of gentle
undulations; but from our present elevation, we
could look far enough away to perceive that we had
gradually been rising, and that we now stood at least
a thousand feet above the point where we had broken
our fast; while, to the westward, the eye rested upon
a still more undulating and even hilly country, with
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several white peaks in the distant view, and a dim,
long, narrow, rugged line at their base, which we
hailed with delight, as the summit of one of the lower
ranges of the Rocky Mountains. The breeze, which
still blew from the west, had a cool, invigorating
effect; and we knew it had passed the region of eternal
ice and snow, and been tempered with the freezing
airs of those lofty and desolate heights.
“We are nearing the mountains rapidly,” said I;
“but the sun is far on the decline, and we shall hardly
reach them to-day.”
“Will our poor beast be able to take us any
further to-day?” inquired Adele, anxiously.
“Yes, I think we may soon resume our journey—
but we shall be compelled to ride slowly—for our
horse has been taxed beyond his strength.”
We rested here for an hour, keeping a sharp lookout
for any sign indicating danger; but not seeing
anything during that time to create fresh alarm, we
resumed our journey at a moderate pace. Some five
miles further on, we came to a suitable place for a
night's encampment; and as the sun was by this time
within an hour of the horizon, and our horse much
fatigued, we resolved to remain here till another day.
Moreover, the spot we had pitched upon had some
advantages, both in the way of convenience and
security, which we might be unable to find further
on. A small stream of clear water flowed through a
fertile valley; and not far distant was a steep, conical
hill, surmounted by trees, among whose tangled
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branches it struck me we could, by a little contrivance,
pass the night in safety. To effect this, I
immediately set to work; and by means of the saddle
and bridle, including all the straps not required
to hopple and tether our beast, I had by sunset
constructed a comfortable sitting and even sleeping
place, among the interlocking branches of the trees,
where we should at least be safe from the attack of
wild beasts, and run less risk, we fancied, of being
discovered by any chance prowlers of the human
species. As we had eaten so heartily in the middle
of the day, we decided not to cook our meat before
morning; and then to broil or roast the remainder of
it, in order to preserve it without taint, till our appetites
should demand the whole, which would probably
occur before another sunset.
As the sun went down, even though shaded by
clouds, it threw the mountains into bold relief; and
we could distinctly trace the uneven edges of the
snowy peaks against the darker background, showing
we had reached such a proximity that every
mile would bring us nearer in perception as well as
reality. I assisted Adele to mount to what I facetiously
termed her hammock; and having sprung up
after her, we sat and conversed in low tones, and
listened to the plaintive notes of a neighbouring
whippoorwill, the booming of the nighthawk, the
shrill screeches of the owl, and the various chirpings
of different insects, while we watched the gradual
blending of the day with night, till the deepest
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shadow had been drawn over the face of the surrounding
scene. We now thought it safer to remain
perfectly quiet and silent—or, if we spoke at all, to
converse in low whispers. One cannot long remain
silent and inactive, under cover of night, after a day
of unusual fatigue, without experiencing feelings of
somnolency; and notwithstanding the night-breeze
felt quite chilly, as it pressed through the openings
of the trees, it rustled the leaves to a drowsy tune;
and before either of us was aware that sleep was
fairly stealing upon us, we were lost to a consciousness
of external things.
We were both suddenly awakened by fierce growls
and howls, sounding so near as to cause the greatest
alarm; and had I not at the instant put forth my
hand and caught hold of Adele, who was trembling
like an aspen, I think she would have fallen to the
ground. The night was now intensely dark—the
floating clouds having joined, so as to spread a thick
veil between us and the heavens—and, from our leafy
covering, we could literally see nothing.
“God and the holy saints preserve us!” cried Adele,
grasping my hand nervously. “Oh! dear Roland,
what is it? what has happened? what new and terrible
danger threatens us?”
Her voice was almost drowned by a furious snarling,
growling, and howling, immediately below us.
Fortunately, I retained my presence of mind; and
though at first a little confused and bewildered, by
being so suddenly awakened from a calm and peaceful
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sleep, I was soon able to comprehend our true situation,
and the cause of the unwonted disturbance.
“There is a flock of ravenous wolves below us,”
said I, “which have been attracted hither by the scent
of our game.”
“And cannot we scare them away?” she eagerly
demanded.
“I will try,” I replied; and instantly I shook the
branches of the trees, and shouted, and imitated the
yells of the savages; but though we could tell, from
the rustling sounds below, that they drew back in
fear, yet I soon became satisfied, from seeing their
shining eye-balls formed around us in a broad circle,
and hearing their fierce and angry responses, that we
had not to do with any of the small, cowardly crews
that roamed the prairies in daylight and followed the
peacefully disposed buffaloes, but with a larger, fiercer,
more courageous and dangerous species.
“These are mountain wolves,” said I, uneasily,
“and cannot be frightened away.”
“Oh! Roland, what shall we do? we have no weapons.”
`We must either permit them to remain till dawn,
when they will peacefully depart to their lairs, or take
the sad alternative of throwing down the remains of
our game, whose bloody scent has attracted them here,
and renders them bold and furious.”
“If you think that will appease them, let us throw
it down to them at once,” she replied, in a tremulous
voice.
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“And starve ourselves,” I rejoined.
“Perhaps not; we must trust the rest to Providence;
but oh! let us get clear of them, if possible—
for they make me faint with terror. Oh! Roland, do
you hear them? I fear they will attack us!”
“Undoubtedly they would, if within their reach,”
said I; “but I think we are safe here.”
“I do not know—oh! I do not know—I do not feel
safe even here, with such a band of horrible monsters
immediately under us, almost within our reach.”
“And yet the alternative seems like purchasing a
short reprieve.”
“But that reprieve may be our salvation,” said
Adele. “Oh! Roland, let us give them the meat!”
“It will be only a mouthful apiece,” returned I;
“and I fear the taste of blood will render them more
furious.”
“Let them have it—let them have it!” she pleaded;
“perhaps they will then leave us—and I am so terrified.”
“Ha! our poor horse!” cried I.
“What of him, Roland?”
“Do you not hear him snorting in terror, and evidently
struggling with his bonds? Oh, that I had left
him free! perhaps some of them are about to attack
him!”
“Quick! quick! Roland—throw down the game!”
cried Adele.
Impulsively I seized upon the remains of the poor
calf, our only food, and hurled it through the branches.
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It scarcely reached the ground, ere it was pounced
upon by the fierce, carnivorous beasts, which savagely
fought among themselves for a bare morsel, tearing it
in pieces, and devouring it, in less time than it takes
me to record the fact. The effect of whetting their
appetites by a mere taste, seemed to render the half
famished beasts more ferocious, just as I had feared;
and looking down through the leaves and branches,
we encountered a dozen or twenty glaring eyes, all
fixed upon us; while our ears were saluted with such
outbursts of hungry rage and desire as sent the blood
with a fearful rush to our very hearts.
“Oh! dear Roland, they will attack us even here!”
cried Adele. “Heaven preserve us! we had better
climb higher.”
“It may be best,” said I, much alarmed, though I
strove to appear calm. “I do not think they can reach
us here, dear Adele; but perhaps, by removing to a
greater distance, they will be less liable to make the
attempt. Yet we must do so with great caution,
dearest—for one misstep might be fatal. Remain
quiet, Adele, till I can ascertain if our design be
practicable.”
As I spoke, I fixed my feet firmly upon a strong
limb, and, with my arms and hands grasping the
trunk of the tree, I was already in the act of stretching
my body upward, when my progress was arrested by
a most strange, and at the time unaccountable, occurence.
The hungry and maddened wolves—which, up to
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the moment in question, were snarling, growling,
fighting, howling, and dancing around below us—
stretching up their heads, and glaring at us with their
fiery eyes, and every now and then making short
springs from the earth, as if preparing for a bolder
attempt—these ferocious beasts of prey, I say, suddenly
stopped their hideous noises, and for a moment
remained perfectly quiet. It was but for a moment,
however; and then a wild, unearthly, half-shriek,
half-yell, seemed to burst from every throat; and ere
the breeze had borne this cry of terror a hundred
yards, they were rushing away in a body, as if flying
from some known and terrible foe, leaving us in
trembling apprehension of a more fearful danger than
any we had escaped.
CHAPTER XXVII. NIGHT OF HORROR.
For perhaps a minute we remained in breathless
silence, as if paralyzed, striving to catch the slightest
sound, and moving not a muscle; but the dull, dreary
rustling of the leaves, with an occasional sigh and
moan of the breeze, as it swept with a varying current
through the little grove, was all that we could now
distinguish with the sense of hearing. My first
movement was to quietly return to the side of Adele,
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and steal an arm around her. As she felt my touch,
she began to tremble, and the next moment said, in a
whisper:
“Oh! dear Roland, what is it?”
“I do not know,” I replied, with the same caution.
“I trust it is nothing to occasion further alarm. Our
noisy enemies may have scented other game, and fled
in pursuit.”
“But their's was a cry of terror,” she rejoined. “I
never heard any thing like it before. Perhaps the
savages are stealing upon us!”
I involuntarily shuddered—for I knew myself in a
condition to offer no resistance—but I combated her
fears as well as I could.
“They would hardly have fled so suddenly from
anything human, since they did not seem to fear us.
It is possible that, as has sometimes occurred to us,
they may have fancied danger when there was none
in reality.”
“I cannot think so, dear Roland; I feel strongly
impressed that there is a terrible foe near us: let us
remain quiet and listen.”
We did so for a while—but heard only the breeze,
with its sighing, moaning, rustling accompaniments.
“It is nothing, thank God!” said I at length, with
a feeling of relief.
“Hark! what is that?” inquired Adele, as at the
moment a distant howl of the hungry wolves came
floating on the breeze.
“It is an assurance that our fierce enemies are far
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away,” I replied. “Depend upon it, they are seeking
other game, and we have reason to rejoice at the
cause which drew them from us so unexpectedly.
I wonder if they attacked our noble beast. I think
not, or we should certainly have heard his cries of
terror and pain. Perhaps he has broken his bonds
and fled! I will steal down and see; and if still
hampered, I will release him, that in case of an
attack, he may save himself by flight.”
“Oh! no, Roland—do not stir from my side! I am
so terrified!” returned Adele, grasping me nervously.
“But I will only be a moment, dearest; and we
certainly owe this much to the noble animal, which
has more than once saved our lives.”
“I know it, dear Roland—I feel he ought to be
released—but I fear to let you go.”
“Do not fear—I will only be a moment—and it
now occurs to me, that should Indians be prowling
around, and chance to find him hampered, they will
know his riders are near, and that very fact may lead
to our discovery.”
“Be quick then—and oh! Roland, be very, very
cautious!”
“Trust me, dearest Adele, I will be very cautious,
if only for your sweet sake.”
As I spoke, I gently disengaged myself from her
trembling grasp, and quickly and quietly slid down
the trunk of the tree. I stood for a moment, peering
about me in the darkness; and then gently parting
the underbrush, I stole out from under the deep
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shadows of the trees, to a point whence I could overlook
the valley where the animal had been feeding.
The night being cloudy, and the moon not being yet
risen, I could not distinguish an object six feet from
my eyes; but feeling my way carefully, I was in the
very act of descending to the hollow, when I suddenly
heard a rushing sound, accompanied by a shriek or
scream, so wild and terrible that I felt my blood
curdle and my hair stand on end. The next moment
there came another sound, entirely different from the
preceding—but so frightful, and unearthly, that I
fairly sunk down, paralyzed with fear. Then immediately
arose a succession of the most horrible noises
I ever heard—sounds of a deadly struggle just below
me—with snarlings, growlings, and gnashings of teeth,
commingled with yells, and groans, and bellowings of
pain, terror and despair. Hardly conscious of what I
was doing, I staggered to my feet, when the shrieks of
Adele reached my ear and recalled me to myself. As
quick as my trembling limbs could bear me, I ran
back to our retreat, and clambered up to her side.
“Oh, Roland!” she cried—“are you really here?
are you safe?”
“I am here, dearest, safe and unhurt,” I rather
gasped than said.
“And what are those terrible noises? Oh, God
help us! I am so frightened I can scarcely speak.”
“I hardly know myself,” said I, “for I could distinguish
nothing in the darkness; but I fear some
wild beast has sprung upon our poor horse.”
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“Oh, yes—I have it now!” she cried; “it is a
panther. Yes, I have heard them scream before; but
I was so terrified I did not recognize the sound. Holy
saints preserve us! what a narrow escape you made!
Give me your hands: I must grasp them, to realize
you are still with me. Yes, it is a panther, Roland;
and the keen-scented wolves knew of his approach,
and fled. Thank Heaven it is no worse! for had you
been killed, dear Roland, what would have become of
me.”
“It is bad enough as it is,” said I, gloomily; “for
now we are without food, without weapons, without
any means of protection, and must make our journey
on foot through a dreary wilderness.”
“God help us!” exclaimed Adele, bursting into tears.
Instantly I regretted what I had said—though I
believed it to be a painful truth, and that she must realize
it sooner or later. I made some effort to console
and cheer her—but I felt too sad and dispirited myself
to render my words effective. For some ten or
fifteen minutes we heard the fierce beast snarling and
growling, as he tore the flesh from his prey; and as
I remembered how gallantly our noble steed had
saved us from more than one fearful peril, and thought
upon his present condition—an awful return for his
noble deeds—it seemed as if a human, rather than
brute, friend had been snatched from us, and so
deeply affected me that I wept like a child.
Oh! that long, dismal, eventful night—would that I
could forget it! for even now I can only recall it
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with feelings of horror. At length the glutted panther
left his bloody work, and all became quiet—but
there was no sleep for us. Side-by-side among the
branches we sat, and listened to the sighing and
moaning breeze—which, to our excited senses, seemed
the solemn requiem of our hopes. The moon rose at
length, and shed a dim light upon the gloomy scene;
and soon after it began to lighten in the west; and
the heavy booming thunder came rolling along at
intervals, like peals of distant ordnance, gradually
increasing in volume, as the shower approached, till
at length the lightning flashed vividly, and the roar
or crash followed quickly, and the rain poured down
in large streams, drenching us completely, and chilling
us to our very bones.
I will not longer dwell upon that night of horror
and misery. Suffice it to say, that when the morning
dawned, dreary and rainy, we descended to the
ground, weak, benumbed, and absolutely wretched.
Though the shower had long since passed on, yet
the wind had changed, and was now blowing steadily
from the northeast, accompanied by a cold, drizzling
rain, that we knew from the signs would continue
through the day, and perhaps for many days together,
and this was anything but cheering. Our first proceeding
was to ascertain if our worst fears were realized;
for though we scarcely doubted, yet we had
tried to hope, even from the depths of our despair;
and accordingly, with a kind of timid haste, we
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approached the spot whence we could look down into
the valley below. One glance was enough to reveal
the worst in its most heart-sickening aspect; for there
indeed lay the mutilated remains of a large animal—
his fell destroyer having torn out his entrails and
eaten to satiety.
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Adele, bursting into
tears, and turning her head away.
I tried to keep from weeping, but tried in vain. I
could not look upon that poor brute, and remember
what he had done for us, without feeling that we had
lost the only friend we had had near us in all that
great wilderness; and giving way to my emotions, I
sat down on a stone, and paid a second and as sincere
a tribute to his memory as if he had borne the human
form.
“It is right to weep over him, dear Roland,” said
Adele, drawing close to my side, and throwing her
arms around my neck; “for in life he saved our lives,
and again in his death.”
“How in his death, dearest?”
“God works mysteriously,” she solemnly replied,
“and this noble animal was but an instrument in His
hands to turn the ferocious destroyer from human
prey. The panther drove off the wolves—but we
should have been his victims, perhaps, had he not
found one here which satisfied his ravenous desires.”
“You may be right,” said I, shuddering. “But
come—we must do something besides weep now. We
have a long journey, to be performed on foot, before
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we can reach the mountains; and though I know you
must be weak, faint, and perhaps sick, yet necessity
compels me, much against my will, dear Adele, to urge
you to set out now.”
“I am ready,” she rejoined; “and so let us hasten our
departure from this horrid place.”
“Ere we go,” pursued I, “I think stern necessity
demands of me one act, which, under any other circumstances,
would be revolting in the extreme; and
even as it is, I contemplate it with repugnance.”
“What is that, dear Roland?”
“I must tear off some of the flesh from yonder
carcass, and take it with us, to guard against starvation.”
“What! eat the flesh of our noble friend?” exclaimed
Adele, shuddering: “it seems like turning
cannibal. But it is not human,” she immediately
added, “and we are not in a condition to reject any
food which can satisfy the cravings of hunger. I
could not touch it now, it is true—but the time may
soon come when we both shall be glad to eat it.”
“Well, do you remain here, while I go down and
perform this unpleasant duty.”
Saying this, I hastened down the hill, to where the
carcass was lying—but I approached it with a sense
of loathing—for my appetite was not keen enough, at
this time, to render the flesh of our horse desirable
food. The morning, as I have mentioned, was dark
and rainy—and there was, besides, a kind of cloudlike
mist pervading the whole range of vision, which
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rendered it impossible to see any object with distinctness
at more than fifty or a hundred feet from the
eye. As I drew near the carcass, I naturally turned
my sight from what, under the peculiar circumstances,
I considered a revolting spectacle—nor did I again
look at it, till it became absolutely necessary for me
to do so, in order to perform my disagreeable task.
It was thus I reached the body without inspecting it;
and, in fact, I was in the very act of bending over it,
when, with a kind of nervous desperation, I suddenly
turned my gaze full upon it. At the first glance I
started, and the next moment I was jumping up and
down, clapping my hands, and shouting like a madman.
Adele, who had been watching me, on perceiving
my singular and unaccountable manœuvers, came
bounding down the hill, in the utmost alarm, fearing
I had indeed lost my senses.
“Oh! Roland,” she cried, “what has happened?
Have you been bitten by a rattle-snake? or are you
mad? For the love of Heaven, if you know me,
speak! and tell me the worst!”
“There! there!” cried I; “look there!” and I
pointed to the mangled carcass, and fairly laughed
aloud.
“Merciful Heaven! what is this?” cried she, looking
down, as directed, for the cause of my supposed madness.
“As I live, this is not the body of our horse,
but of a buffalo!”
“You have the secret,” I fairly shouted almost
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delirious with a sudden transition of powerful emotions—
the sudden transition from despair to joy. “Our
noble friend has escaped! Do you hear, dear Adele?
he is not dead—but has escaped—Heaven be praised!”
Perhaps the reader may think I had small cause
for such powerful demonstrations of delight; and to
fully appreciate my feelings, it might be necessary
for him to pass through similar scenes of peril, trial
and suffering; and then to realize that the living
thing which had saved him, and one more dear to
him than his own life, had groaned out his deathagonies
in his very ears—seeming to call on him, in
turn, for that aid in distress which he was powerless
to render; and then, withal, to believe that, with the
noble brute, had perished his main hope of escaping
with life from a dreary wilderness. Place him in my
situation, let him experience the horrors of one such
eventful night, and I think the veriest stoic would
show the common feelings of humanity, and mourn
the loss, and rejoice at the escape, of his brute friend,
with outward demonstrations not unlike those of
mine.
“How has this happened, dear Roland?” at length
inquired Adele, when the first powerful excitement of
both had begun to subside.
“God only knows!” said I; “but I feel that His
goodness and mercy have been manifested here.”
“They have, indeed!” rejoined Adele, solemnly;
“and it becomes us, as intelligent beings, to show our
gratitude in proper devotion.”
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As she spoke, she kneeled down upon the wet
earth — I impulsively followed her example — and
then and there, alone in the great wilderness, feeling
ourselves directly in the presence of the Great
Unseen, we poured out our souls in fervent thanksgiving
for our wonderful preservation, and the recent
joy which had come as sunlight through clouds of
gloom to our desolate hearts.
But though our horse had escaped, and we rejoiced
in the fact, yet there was no certainty that we should
ever find him again; and so, after ascending the hill,
and looking in vain for him over the extent of country
within the range of our vision, we resolved to set
forward on foot, with no further delay than would
be required to complete our simple preparations.
Collecting the remains of the bridle, the saddle-cloth,
and some straps and buckles, that we might be able
to make use of the beast should we be so fortunate as
to find him, I proceeded to disengage a large piece
of meat from the hump of the young buffalo, and
then announced to Adele that we were ready to bid an
eternal adieu to a spot where we had passed through
so much physical and mental suffering.
Still laying our course, to the best of our judgment,
due west, we set off at a fast walk through the
wet grass and misty rain; and for the first hour we
found a rather pleasurable sensation in the exertions
which caused our chilled and sluggish blood to again
circulate freely and warmly through our veins. But
after two or three hours of this severe exercise, we
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began to sensibly realize the great loss we had met
with, aside from both speed and safety—for our feet,
which were only covered with moccasins, now gave
us warning that we could not perform a long journey
without much physical suffering. The ground was
rough and uneven; and, being softened with the rain,
our feet slipped at almost every step; and often sinking
below the surface, were bruised and cut with the
small, sharp gravel-stones which lay immediately
beneath.
Our appearance at this time was not such as to
adorn a fashionable drawing-room. I was not only
habited in the plain, rough costume of the mountaineer,
but looked like one who had seen hard service—
for my beard was long, my skin bronzed, my
hair matted; while my garments, covered with mud
and soaked with rain, were wrinkled, shrunken, and
clung to me like a second skin. Nor had Adele any
thing to boast of. Dressed much as she was when
I first described her—with the addition of moccasins,
leggings, and a kind of wampum-worked waistcoat,
which she had herself constructed from materials
furnished her by Waralongha while a prisoner—she
looked all the worse for her long journey, and exposure
to heat, dust, rain and mud; and with her black
hair streaming down in tangled masses, and her face
and hands tanned and soiled, she presented an exterior
little calculated to excite the envy of a fashionable
city belle. However, I may say, so far as
externals were concerned, we looked well to each
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other, and gave little heed to matters more trifling
than life, liberty, health and safety.
We toiled on till the mid-day hour, and found to
our dismay that we had made but little progress.
From an elevation, we could look back to the point
we had left in the morning; while the clouds, with
their appendages of vapor, floated too low to give us
a glimpse of the still distant mountains.
“This seems labor without reward,” said Adele,
despondingly. “We shall have to spend another
night, at least, on this rolling prairie.”
“But we may be as safe here as among the mountains,”
I rejoined. “One great object I had in reaching
the hills, was the fear that we should get no food
save roots and berries; but we fortunately have meat
enough with us to last us twenty-four hours; and
when this is gone, the same Providence that provided
it may furnish us another supply.”
“Forgive me, dear Roland—and ye holy beings
who watch over us—for having dared to murmur,
when I have so much cause for being thankful!” contritely
exclaimed Adele.
“You are fatigued, foot-sore, and faint, poor girl!”
said I, tenderly; “we will seek a suitable place, and
stop and rest. If we could only start a fire, and cook
our game, we should be in a better condition to resume
our journey; but as it is, I fear we shall be
compelled to devour some of it in its raw state.”
“I cannot taste it at present,” replied Adele, turning
away her head—“but perhaps I may before night.”
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She looked hurriedly around, and pointing to a neighboring
hill, added: “Yonder appears to be a shelving
rock—perhaps we can crawl under it, and rest in a
dry place.”
“A happy discovery!” said I—and we immediately
set off toward it.
On arriving at the rock, we found, to our great delight,
that it was only one of several, which lay piled
together in such a manner as to form a little cave, of
some ten feet in extent, with just sufficient depth and
breadth to permit us to sit erect, side by side; and
what was of equal importance to its shelter, and increased
our first delight to rapture, its floor was
strewn with dead leaves, those farthest from the entrance
being dry as tinder.
“Thank Heaven! we shall soon have a fire!” cried
I, as I looked out, after having crawled cautiously in
to explore it; “a few sticks are all that is wanting;
and then we shall have a meal that, taken in connection
with our appetities, an epicure might envy. Go
in, dear Adele, while I collect some sticks in the little
hollow below.
Within half an hour from discovering this charming
retreat, we were broiling, toasting and devouring our
meat, and drying our garments at a bright, cheerful
fire, kindled just at the entrance; and never was meal
ate with better relish or more thankful hearts.
“Is it not wonderful,” said Adele, “that just at the
moment of greatest necessity our wants are unexpectedly
supplied?”
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“We are wonderfully favored indeed,” returned I;
“and when I cease to be grateful to Him who feeds
the raven, may I cease to have a being.”
Having finished our meal, and cooked the remainder
of our meat, to serve us on the morrow, we sat
by the blazing fire, feeding it with fresh fuel, and
conversing on congenial subjects, till our garments
became dry, and we felt that we could resume our
journey with buoyant spirits.
“But what do you say, Adele?” pursued I, as we
looked out upon the driving storm, and began to
think of quitting our comfortable quarters; “had we
not better remain where we are till another day?”
“It is certainly not pleasant to think of passing
the night in the rain, to say nothing of such horrors
as deprived us of sleep at our last encampment,” she
replied.
“Enough, dearest—God willing, we will pass the
night here in safety—for we certainly need rest.”
Having thoroughly dried our garments, we let the
fire die out—for, under cover, the weather was too
warm to require it for comfort. I then proceeded
to close up the mouth of our little cave with sticks,
brush and stones, which kept me occupied for an hour.
This done, and being fairly shut in, so that we had no
occasion to feel apprehensive of an attack from wild
beasts, we gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of the
time, and never did hours fly more swiftly and happily.
The past, since our first meeting, had been
full of perils, privations and sufferings—the future
-- 397 -- p462-374
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might come teeming with new woes—but the present
we felt was ours, to mingle soul with soul through
that connecting link of love which we believed could
never be broken. I told my history to Adele, and,
from her lips, gathered all that she knew of her own;
and then, with the romance of youth, we built airy
castles in the future, peopled them with airy forms,
and seemed to live ourselves, as ethereal sensations,
above and beyond the jars, discords, troubles and
perplexities of a material world. It was a waking
dream, it is true—but one of the most happy of my
life—and when night drew around us her sable curtains,
we fell asleep, to rest in happy unconsciousness
till the dawn of another day.
CHAPTER XXVIII. ON THE MOUNTAINS.
Looking out from our little cave on the following
morning, I was delighted to perceive that the wind
had again changed, and that the clouds, less humid,
were broken, and drifting back toward the east, showing
streaks of a soft, blue sky between their picturesque
fragments.
“How often hope comes with the dawn!” said I,
reflectively.
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“It has been a night of peace, thank God! and I
feel well and strong,” replied Adele, cheerfully.
We now thought it best to resume our journey at
once; and throwing down the barrier at the entrance
of our temporary but happy little home we issued
forth, determined to make the most of our strength
and time. We ascended the hill, and, standing on its
highest point, took a survey of the surrounding scene.
All was quiet, save a few birds, of bright plumage,
which were fluttering among the green leaves, or
flying from one wooded point to another, and singing
their happy songs. As we were about to descend
this elevation, I stopped, with my eyes fixed upon an
object in the hollow; and pointing toward it, I exclaimed:
“Can I credit my senses! Look yonder, dear
Adele, and tell me what you see?”
“Most wonderful!” she replied, clasping her hands.
“Heaven is merciful beyond our deserts! It is our
gallant beast.”
“It is our lost friend indeed!” rejoined I, with a
thrill of delight that words cannot express.
I hastened down the hill; and then, for fear he
would run away, approached him cautiously. He
looked up, and, seeing me, gave a familiar whinny,
and even advanced two or three steps to meet me.
On reaching him, I threw my arms around his neck,
and fairly hugged him with delight. He had broken
the straps with which I had hampered him on the
night of his escape, and some of the pieces were still
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attached to his legs and neck. These I removed; and
joining them to some others which we had brought
with us, I was thus enabled to so far restore the missing
portions of the bridle as to put it in a condition
for use; and fastening this upon his head, I led him
to a rock, and we mounted his bare back. As I
seated Adele before me once more, and clasped her
around the waist, I said:
“It now seems as if our dangers were past.”
“It is not so, dear Roland,” she replied; “but our
situation, compared with what it was on that awful
night, is such that I must even weep for joy.”
“Well, dearest, shall we push on? or ride back for
the saddle, which we left upon the tree?”
“Oh! ride on—ride on toward the mountains, dear
Roland!” she replied, eagerly. “I would not go back
to that awful place for any consideration.”
“Be it so, then,” rejoined I; and turning our horse's
head westward, I touched him lightly on the flank,
and we set off at an easy gallop.
The day wore away without any incidents of special
importance. Before noon the sun shone out bright
and clear; but its heat was tempered with the cool
breeze from the mountains, which we now beheld
looming up before us, and which we hailed with as
much delight as the shipwrecked and drifting mariner
might experience on approaching an unknown
coast. It was not necessarily a haven of security, or
a spot free from peril—but it was a destination we
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had long struggled to reach—and it strengthened our
hope with a substantial reality.
We stopped at noon, and devoured the remainder
of our little stock, and then pushed on again, with
comparatively buoyant spirits, over the now rugged
and hilly country, till at last, just as the declining sun
was passing from our view, we came to a halt at the
foot of a steep and lofty ridge.
Satisfied with our day's ride, we dismounted; and
like Columbus, on discovering a new continent, we
embraced the earth for joy. I now took the bridle
from our noble beast, and turned him loose, to feed
upon the rich, nutritious grass, which spread, carpetlike,
over a fertile valley, that was watered by a
mountain stream; and this done, we made an effort to
ascend the hill which towered above us, in order to
find a safe place for our night's encampment.
We had toiled up about half-way to the summit,
when the deepening shadows, settling upon the
mighty plain which stretched away eastward for
hundreds of miles beyond the reach of sight, warned
us that we had no time to lose, if we would place
ourselves in security before darkness should fairly
close around us. We accordingly scrutinized every
object which we fancied might be made available to
our purpose; and at length we discovered a large,
gnarled oak—growing up beside a high, projecting
rock — in whose twisted and matted branches we
thought we could make ourselves secure. Ascending
the mountain to the level of the rock, we easily got
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upon it, and thence clambered up into the top of the
tree; where, by means of the straps of the bridle, I
soon managed to bind together some of the limbs in
such a manner as not only to secure us against falling,
but also give us a comfortable place to rest and even
sleep.
We spent two or three hours in exchanging
thoughts in whispers; and then, lulled by the gently
rustling leaves, and the sweet notes of a neighboring
night-singer, and being undisturbed by any discordant
sounds calculated to create alarm, we gradually
fell asleep, and heard no more till the morning minstrels
aroused us with their songs to see a new day
dawning with a golden glow.
Our elevation was now such that we could overlook
the rough, hilly landscape immediately below,
and let our eyes rest upon the level plain beyond;
and never did I gaze upon a more grand and beautiful
scene. In the distance we beheld, here and there,
some tiny streams like threads of silver, with occasionally
moving specks upon the banks, which we
believed to be small bands of the harmless deer, or
antelope, quietly seeking their morning fill; while
nearer we once or twice caught a view of the larger
elk, keeping a wary look-out for danger; and trotting
or loping off in different directions, to seek
what they might devour, were visible the craven-hearted
coyotes, or small prairie wolves. As the
sun rose in splendor upon the scene, Adele gave
voice to her emotions:
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“Oh! how grand and beautiful are the works of
God!” she exclaimed; “and when, as now, I view
them from a point which permits the vision to take
in more than I usually perceive, my soul expands
with an admiration that is akin to rapture. Oh! if
the view were always like this, and it were perfectly
safe, and we had the necessaries of life around us, dear
Roland, would not this seclusion be enchanting?”
“For a time, perhaps,” I replied; “but I think you
would eventually tire of only one such companion as
myself.”
“Never!” said Adele, emphatically; and then, bethinking
how much that one word expressed of the
true state of her heart, the warm blood mounted to
her temples, and her sweet face became one radiant
glow.
“I thank you for the assurance that my companionship
is so dear to you,” I tenderly rejoined; “and it
shall be my aim, through the life before us, be it long
or short, to be worthy of the love and esteem of one
I so dearly prize; but your conditional observation
reminds me of the one great want to be supplied, ere
this place, or any other, can long be endurable, much
less become a Paradise. If we had plenty of food,
with weapons for defence, I think, for the rest, we
could pass many days here in contentment and
happiness; but it is not pleasant to remember that
our last morsel was eaten yesterday; or to ponder the
possibility, if not probability, of a long and painful
fast before we get any more.”
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“Ah! God save us!” ejaculated Adele. “Alas!
what will become of us! We looked forward to
reaching these mountains as our salvation—but being
here, we seem to have gained nothing save the intervening
hours of reprieve from actual starvation.”
“We must still hope on, and struggle on, as best we
may, till we reach some wilderness fort, or fall in with
some of the emigrant trains on their way to or from
the still Far West,” said I, despondingly. “It is not
wise to let our thoughts dwell too much on the future—
to speculate on that of which we have not, never
have had, nor can have any knowledge, till it becomes
the present. We must console ourselves with the idea,
that we are, even here, as directly under the protection
of the Great Guardian, as if surrounded by all the comforts
of civilization; that if it be His will that we perish,
either here or elsewhere, the limit of His design cannot
be passed; and that if it be not His will to take us from
earthly scenes, we shall remain, and be provided for,
even as we have been. Therefore, my dear Adele,
let us for the present think only of the present; and
say for the future, `sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof.”'
“You say well, dear friend,” replied Adele, “that
we may fulfil, but not change, the design of our
Creator and Guardian; and as that design is known
only to Him, it becomes us to put our trust in His
Providence, and make use of the present to the best
of our judgment and abilities. And now, dear Roland,
as the day has fairly begun, what do you propose?”
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“I scarcely know what to propose,” replied I, in
great perplexity. “Our first immediate want is food;
but unless we watch the birds, and eat of such berries
as we may see them pluck, I know of no means of
procuring any sustenance whatever — and even this
course will be rather calculated to prolong than sustain
life; and for fear of the derangement of our
systems, I think it best not to resort to it till compelled
by hunger. If I only knew our exact locality,
I could soon decide which course to take to reach
either St. Vrain's or Fort Laramie. St. Vrain's Fort,
I remember, is marked on the map near the great
bend of the South Fork of the Platte, and directly
east of Long's Peak; while Fort Laramie is nealy due
north from the former, on the North Fork of the Platte,
at a distance of more than a hundred miles. Now
whether we are north or south of St. Vrain's, I cannot
say, and therefore know not which course to take.”
“Nor do I know what to advise,” returned Adele.
“I have sometimes fancied that the first snowy peak
we saw from the prairies might be Long's,” pursued
I; “and that was further south than we are now.”
“Yes,” she returned, quickly; “and now I feel a
strong impression that we ought to go south.”
“Then, right or wrong, we will set off in that direction,”
I rejoined. “Yes, my plan is settled,” I continued,
after a momentary consideration. “If we can
once more find our horse—and I think he has not
wandered far from the little valley in which we left
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him—we will mount him and ride southward, keeping
along the base of this range of mountains, till—”
The sentence was here cut short by Adele, who
clutched me nervously, and pointed downward through
the leaves and branches, saying, in a startled whisper:
“Hist, dear Roland, for the love of Heaven, or we
are lost! See! see! yonder goes a mounted band of
savages.”
I looked in the direction indicated, and, to my great
alarm and dismay, beheld a mounted body of Indians,
some fifteen or twenty in number, slowly filing
over a small elevation in a southerly direction; and
the last one was leading a horse, which, even though
the distance was considerable, I instantly recognized
as the beast which had borne us hither. They did
not look toward us—nor seem to be in search of any
one—but rode quietly onward, and soon passed behind
an intervening hill, which shut them from our
view.
“God help us!” ejaculated I. “There goes our
horse; and we have looked our last upon him this
time, unless we meet him under the painful circumstances
of being captives to those who have captured
him.”
“Which God forefend!” returned Adele, with a
shudder, “Oh! Roland, I would prefer death to captivity.
And yet, had we gone a half hour since to
search for our noble beast, we might have been seen
and taken prisoners by this very party.”
“And what is to be done now?” pursued I, with a
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feeling of despair which I strove to conceal. “The
plan which I had just mentally matured, is already
frustrated; we no longer have a horse to ride; and
even if we had, it would be as much as our freedom
is worth to take the course pursued by these savages.”
“We must set off on foot,” replied Adele; “and
far from being discouraged, I look upon the capture
of our horse as a Providential event; for had we resumed
our journey in the manner you intended,
doubtless we should have met with some serious disaster.”
“We will, at all events, endeavor to console ourselves
with the reflection, that what has happened has
happened for the best,” said I. “Come, dear Adele,
if you are ready, we will resume our labors—for I can
perceive no advantage we shall gain by delay.”
Adele bowed her head, as if in prayer—was silent
for a minute—and then lifting her soft, dark eyes to
mine, and extending her hand, which I eagerly seized,
she said, with calm resignation:
“Whenever you think it safe to quit our concealment,
dear Roland, I am ready to share with you the
toils, privations, and perils which it may still be our
lot to encounter.”
“Heaven grant, for your sweet sake, they be not
many, nor long continued!” I rejoined, as I drew her
delicate form to me in a fond embrace.
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CHAPTER XXIX. SICKNESS AND DESPAIR.
[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]
Instead of descending to the base of the mountain,
as had been our first intention, we ascended to its
summit—whence we had the same grand, beautiful
view to the eastward—while below us, to the westward,
we beheld a delightful valley, with a clear
stream of water flowing through green, shady banks,
and a still higher range of hills rising just beyond.
Keeping along the ridge we had ascended, in a
southerly direction, we hastened forward for several
hours—the scenery constantly changing, and presenting
scenes and objects pleasant to look upon.
Occasionally we roused the heavy-footed elk, or
startled the mountain deer, which went bounding
away to a denser and more distant cover; while
from the rocky front of a neighboring hill we espied
the mountain goat, springing up the dizzy heights
where foot of human being might not follow.
Smaller game darted away from us at almost every
step, and gay birds fluttered and sung around us;
and yet, in the midst of plenty, we had no means
to procure the food which nature demanded.
At last, wearied with our exertions, we seated
ourselves upon a rock; but had scarcely composed
our limbs to rest, when we were startled at the
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rustling of some bushes behind us; and looking around,
we perceived a large, black bear deliberately making
his way toward us. Adele uttered a scream of terror,
and clutched me convulsively; and knowing
there was no time to lose, I started up, threw an
arm around her, and, half lifting and supporting her,
hurried her forward to a ledge of rocks, which fortunately
was not far distant, up which we clambered
about twenty feet to a flat projection, where
we took our stand and turned to take another look
at our enemy. The bear had leisurely followed us
about half the distance, and was now sitting on his
haunches, lazily swaying from side to side, and lolling,
and looking up at us with indolent composure.
“Thank God,” said I, “he is not maddened with
hunger, and will soon leave us in peace!”
“Oh! dear Roland,” cried Adele, sinking down
upon the rock, “I am getting disheartened—we are
continually in peril.”
“But so far,” returned I, “we have been wonderfully
favored in making our escape.”
“But what do we gain, dear Roland?”
“Life and time, dearest.”
“Life that is beginning to feel the pangs of hunger,
and is every moment growing weaker—and time that
perhaps brings us no nearer a point of safety!” she
rejoined, with a look of despair.
“Nay, dear Adele,” I pursued, “give not way to
this complaining mood! You have often cheered me
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in my despondency; and I pray you let the thought,
that God watches over us, restore your hope now!”
“His will be done!” she murmured, burying her
face in her hands.
We remained where we were for more than an hour;
and then, the bear having long since disappeared, we
descended the rocks, and pushed forward, till the
declining sun warned us to seek a safe asylum for the
night. We found a wide fissure between some rocks,
which we thought would answer our purpose; and
there, without having tasted food since noon of the
preceding day, we made our camp and passed a night
of wretchedness.
The next day, weak and faint, we resumed our toilsome,
perilous journey; but we met with nothing to
encourage us till toward night, when we found a pawpaw
tree, the fruit of which we eagerly devoured.
Soon after eating, I began to feel strangely; and discovering
a small cave, we crept into it, before sunset,
determined to go no further.
That night I was attacked with terrible pains, and
before morning grew delirious; but my reason returned
with the dawn—though I was too weak and
sick to pursue my journey. What I suffered in mind
and body, I shall not attempt to say; but the reader
may form some idea of my desperate condition, when
I state, that my constant prayer was for death to release
me from the pangs and miseries of mortality. Adele
was, fortunately, spared the physical pain I endured;
but her mental sufferings were as great as mine; and
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she too prayed that we might be removed to the spirit
world.
“It is death at last, dear Roland,” she said; “and
though an awful death, it shall be welcome.”
“Death for me, dearest, sooner or later,” I replied;
“but you have some strength remaining—and I conjure
you, by all I love, to use it, and perhaps you may
be saved.”
“What! fly and leave you here, to perish alone?”
she cried, throwing her arms around my neck, and
sobbing upon my breast. “Never! never! never!”
“But, dearest, listen a moment to reason!”
“There is no reason in such an idea!” she wildly
exclaimed. “Oh! Roland, I did not dream that my
noble preserver would ever harbor the thought that
I could desert him in his distress! Oh! Roland, take
back your cruel request—and say you did it to try
me—that you do not really think me so base and
heartless as to leave you here to die alone!”
“For the love of God, Adele—dear Adele—calm
yourself—and listen one moment to reason!”
“Reason!” she cried; “call you such ingratitude
reason? Oh! Roland—oh! Roland—that I should live
to hear such a proposition from your lips!”
“You will kill me, without allowing me a chance
for explanation, if you go on this way!” said I, reproachfully.
“Well, speak, then—speak! but oh! dear Roland—”
“There, there,” interrupted I—“calm yourself and
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[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]
hear me for one moment—and hear me out before
you reply.”
“Speak, then!”
“But will you promise to hear me out before you
reply, dearest Adele?”
“I will hear anything but a proposition to leave
you, my benefactor and preserver!” she sobbed.
“But would you not save my life if you could?”
“Oh! Roland, can you ask me that?”
“Well, perhaps you can save my life.”
“How? how?”
“Let me tell you: be calm now, and let me tell you
how.”
“There, there, (hastily drying her feverish eyes)
you see I am calm, dear Roland.”
“Listen then, and do not interrupt me, dearest.
Situated as I am here, unless I receive succor soon, I
must certainly die. There, there, now—hist!—you
are not to interrupt me, remember! Now I am prostrated,
and can go no further, be the consequences
what they may; and if you would serve me, there is
but one way in which you can. I am inclined to
think, that if you will only hurry forward in the
same direction we have been pursuing for the last
two days, you will get sight of St. Vrain's before
your strength gives out—and once there, you can
send me assistance.”
“But you might die in my absence?”
“Perhaps not; but if my minutes are numbered,
your remaining cannot save me. You have some
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[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]
fearful risks to run, in going, I know; but I see
nothing but death for both if you remain.”
“I fear not for myself,” hastily rejoined Adele;
“for death may as well come in the shape of a wild
beast as starvation; my only fear is that you may
perish in my absence.”
“Then go, dearest, at once! and, under God's
Providence, we may both be saved!”
I had no hope of life when I said this—for the
racking pains of body, and the terrible pressure
upon my brain, led me to expect delirium at any
moment, and a termination of my sufferings by congestion
in a few hours,—but, by holding out the
idea to Adele that she might find succor before
all should be over, I thought it barely possible she
might be saved herself through her exertions in
my behalf. It was no easy matter, however, to persuade
her to leave me; and it was not till I had
repeatedly assured her it was the only means of
saving my life, that she consented to the separation.
The parting was a trying and painful one—for there
was great probability we should never meet again
in this world; and though each strove to console
the other with a different idea, we both secretly
acknowledged there was a much better foundation
for our fears than our hopes.
“Adele,” said I, as she stood sobbing by my side—
and every word was spoken amid racking pains
that required a powerful and constant concentration
of my will to avoid betraying to my sympathizing
-- 413 --
[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]
companion—“Adele, should it be God's pleasure
that I never behold you again in life—and we cannot,
of course, know what is His design—I want
you, if you escape, to write to my parents, and tell
them how and where I came to my end; and assure
them that I passed away, praying for their forgiveness,
and with the hope of meeting them in a happier
world.”
“Oh! Roland,” she burst forth—“I cannot leave
you! indeed I cannot!”
“Not even to save my life?”
“Oh! how you torture me!”
“It is to save my life you go, dearest.”
“But you do not yourself think you will live till
I return.”
“I think, sweet angel, your going now, at once, is
the only chance I have of being alive a week from
this. Oh! if you love me, as I know and feel you
do, linger not here another moment! There—adieu—
and God protect you!”
She dropped down on her knees, threw her arms
around my neck, and pressed her lips to mine. For
some moments she neither moved nor spoke, and I
was beginning to fear her emotions had proved too
much for her physical system, when she suddenly
disengaged herself from the embrace and staggered
to her feet. One look—one thrilling look—a look of
love agonized—and with the words, “God in Heaven
be merciful!” she turned and vanished.
For some minutes after her departure, I rolled to
-- 414 -- p462-391
[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]
and fro in the most violent agony of body and mind;
but I suppressed my groans, lest they should reach
her ears and draw her back to perish with me. Suddenly
I found my sight growing dim, and felt as if
my senses were deserting me.
“It is death!” I murmured—“it is death! but
Adele will be saved!” and as the last word passed
my lips, I became unconscious of sorrow and pain.
CHAPTER XXX. A LONG CAPTIVITY.
I have now reached a point in my narrative,
where, for various reasons, I wish to pass over some
fifteen long, weary months, with as few words as will
serve to make the reader acquainted with what happened
to me during the interval, and connect the
preceding with what is to follow. How long a time
I remained unconscious, but delirious, I have never
been able to ascertain; but my first dim recollection,
after the parting with her I loved, is of seeing, like a
moving shadow, the face of an Indian floating over
me; and of wondering whether it belonged to an
inhabitant of this world or the other; and whether I
myself was still a mortal or a spirit. Darkness intervened;
and my next remembrance is of another face,
with milder, and, though not beautiful, less hideous
-- 415 --
[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]
features; and connected with this face was the form
of a woman, half nude, and half clad in skins. Another
interval of darkness, and I awoke, to find myself
lying upon a bed of sweet-scented herbs, under a tent
of skins; and seated on one side of me, a savage in his
war-paint; and on the other, a squaw, past the middle
age, with long, gray hair, and whose person was profusely
decorated with gew-gaws and wampum.
“Where am I?” was my first natural exclamation;
to which the only responses were, a grunt from the
warrior and a shake of the head from the squaw.
The chief—for such I afterward found him to be—
now arose, and stalked out of the lodge; and the
woman began a low, but not unmusical, chant,
which she continued for more than an hour—or, in
fact, until I fell asleep—which I did, even while
trying to keep awake and unravel the mystery.
What I learned by degrees, and after a comparatively
long lapse of time, it suits my purpose to give
the reader in a few words. I had been found by a
party of Indian hunters, who were bitter enemies of
the whites; but who, instead of killing and scalping
me, had, from some motive, which I think will be
apparent in the sequel, undertaken to restore me to
health. Their efforts, it is needless to say, were
crowned with success; and I slowly regained my health
in an Indian village, to which I had been removed in
a delirious state.
The party in question was a branch of the Crow
nation, who had ventured far south in search of game;
-- 416 --
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and having secured a supply, they slowly returned to
the main body, taking me with them, much against
my inclination. At first we could only converse by
signs; and by signs I endeavored to ascertain if they
knew anything of my fair companion—but could gain
no information to relieve my doubts and fears. I
could in no manner determine whether Adele was
living or dead; and the anxiety I suffered on her
account, was more terrible even than my captivity;
while the two united made me wretched indeed.
As soon as we had joined the main body, a council
was held to determine my fate; and the final decision
was, that I should be regularly adopted into the tribe.
This occurred about three months after my capture;
and being by this time able to make use of a few
words of the Crow language, I protested against the
barbarous proceeding, and endeavored to convince my
captors, that, by restoring me to my friends, the whites,
they would receive ample compensation. Whether
they fully comprehended me or not, I do not know;
but all my efforts proved unavailing; and I was forth-with
subjected to the process of having my face and
head shaved—leaving only a scalp-lock—and of being
painted, dressed, and decorated after the fashion of
the tribe.
I was now, in external appearance, an Indian, while
at heart I loathed the very sight of them. I was
allowed the liberty of the village, and even permitted
to go on short hunting excursions with the warriors—
but was never to leave the sight of certain parties,
-- 417 --
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whose duty and pleasure it was to have charge of me.
They even gave me a lodge, and offered me a wife;
but the former I was obliged to share with my Indian
brothers, and the latter I positively declined. They
evidently sought to make me contented with my new
home; but my heart was far away, and I determined
to effect my escape at the first opportunity. No
chance offered till the deep snows of winter blocked
up the passage over the mountains, which lay between
me and the point I wished to reach; and then, believing
my escape would result in certain death, I
gave up all thoughts of making the attempt before
the return of the warm season.
Our winter camp was pitched in a pleasant valley,
but too far to the north to be clear of heavy storms
of sleet and snow. We had plenty of wood, skins,
and provisions, however—so that we did not suffer
from cold or hunger—but unfortunately the smallpox
broke out with great violence, and committed
terrible ravages, fairly decimating the tribe, and
taking off many of the best and bravest warriors, with
no less than four distinguished chiefs and one Great
Medicine. Until the last event occurred, the tribe
bore up against the awful visitation with a bravery
and resignation worthy of more enlightened beings;
but no sooner passed the direful news, from lodge to
lodge, that a Great Master of Incantations had fallen
a victim to the fell disease, than a fearful panic seized
upon the superstitious savages, who rent the air with
shrieks, howls, and lamentations; and many even fled
-- 418 --
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from the infected village, to perish in the frozen wilderness.
I had, from the commencement of the disease, up
to this period, spent my time in attending upon the
sick, and providentially had escaped an attack myself;
but this immunity from the disorder came nigh
proving fatal to me in another manner; for it now
began to be rumored, that I, being leagued with the
Evil Spirit, had brought it upon them, in revenge for
my captivity; and from the moment the suspicion
found utterance, it rapidly grew into an almost general
belief. Unknown to me at the time, a secret
council was convened, to decide upon the manner of
my death; and but for the opposing voice of an aged
chief, of superior intelligence and commanding influence,
I should speedily have been immolated on
the altar of barbarous superstition. This chief had
always been friendly to me; and he now, with a
shrewdness which I have placed to his credit, took
the only course which could have rescued me from
the designs of his inferior and credulous associates.
He cunningly met superstition with superstition. He
rationally argued, that if their present affliction was
the work of the Evil Spirit, acting at my instigation,
the Evil Spirit must certainly be my friend; and,
being my friend, if they put me to death, he would
get angry—and, instead of sweeping off a certain
portion, he would annihilate the whole tribe. In
lieu, therefore, of putting me to death, he contended
they should each and all treat me with still greater
-- 419 --
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respect and deference; which perceiving, the anger
of the Evil Spirit would gradually become appeased,
and the progress of the terrible scourge would be
checked.
The result was, that the council adopted and acted
upon this suggestion; and I suddenly received so
many marks of favor, as to lead me to wonder concerning
the cause, which the old chief subsequently
explained to me by words and signs. Fortunately
for the reputation of the latter, and my own safety,
the pestilence about this period began to abate; and
while he got great credit for his wisdom, I came to
be regarded as a something a little more than human.
It was in the early part of winter the pestilence
began its ravages; and about two months from that
time it gradually disappeared. Some few who were
attacked, recovered; but the majority died, and were
buried in the deep snow, about half a mile from the
village; which was soon after removed to an adjacent
valley, on the opposite side of an intervening hill.
Here, the tribe being blessed with general health, the
winter amusements began in earnest. Feasting, dancing,
and different kinds of athletic sports, followed
each other in rapid succession—in all of which I generally
took a prominent part—though, it must be confessed,
with no great liking for some of the barbarous
exercises. Wrestling, leaping, running, jumping,
throwing the spear and tomahawk, and shooting with
the bow at a target, were healthy, exciting, and not
unpleasant sports, in which I freely indulged, and
-- 420 --
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occasionally bore off the palm; but the hunting, war,
scalp, and other dances, were to me horrible mummeries,
arousing no emotions save loathing and disgust.
I was too politic, however, to let this appear;
for I contemplated making my escape the following
summer; and to effect this, I knew it was essential to
induce a general belief that I had become attached to
my new home, and no longer had any desire to return
to my friends and civilization.
The snow remained upon the ground till late in the
spring, and then the general hunt for game began in
earnest. Select parties went out in different directions;
and, after an absence of a few days, all returned,
bringing in a supply of flesh, of the bear,
deer, antelope, elk, and mountain-goat. I accompanied
one of these parties, in the hope of finding an
opportunity to escape; but was forced to return, dis-appointed
and disheartened—though I took care to
conceal my real feelings, and to appear cheerful and
contented. A month later, just as the Indians were
about to pull up the stakes of their movable lodges,
and migrate to the south, I found a chance to get into
the great forest alone, armed with a knife, tomahawk,
bow, and quiver of arrows. It was the first time,
since my capture, that I had been able to look around
me, and not, at some point, either near or far, encounter
the lynx eyes of a savage—and it may readily be
believed I made the most of my good fortune. But it
was not yet my good fortune to get clear of my barbarious
friends, with all my endeavors; for after
-- 421 --
[figure description] Page 421.[end figure description]
running for hours, till overcome with fatigue, I stopped
to rest; and was then and there overtaken, and again
made prisoner by a party that had followed on my
trail.
Although my mind was not in an enviable state
when I saw them approaching me, I suppressed all
show of surprise, and gave them to understand that
I had merely been hunting on my own account.
They affected to believe me, but took good care not
to let me try the same experiment again, at least for
a long time.
During the summer, the whole tribe—men, women
and children, with their tents and movables, dogs,
horses, and cattle—went as far south as the Black
Hills; and the most expert hunters scoured the
forests, and occasionally ventured out upon the
prairies; and the skins and furs they brought in,
were dressed and prepared for a civilized market by
the women, and the meat dried and packed for winter
use. I had doubtless lost their confidence by my
first attempt at freedom—for they no longer permitted
me to go abroad with the warriors—but confined
me to the main village, and compelled me to
assist the squaws in their drudgery—though, in every
other respect, I was still treated as an equal, and
allowed to retain my weapons.
The mental torture I now continually suffered, I
would not, if I could, inflict upon an implacable
enemy; and yet, withal, I strove to appear cheerful
and contented. By night and by day, awake or
-- 422 --
[figure description] Page 422.[end figure description]
asleep, the images of my friends were ever present
to my mental vision; but I looked upon them as
beings I might never behold with the material eye.
My dear parents—were they living or dead? If
living, what sufferings must be theirs, caused by my
boyish rashnesss and folly! and was not my own
wretched condition a judgment upon me for an act
akin to filial disobedience? And Varney—noble
Varney—was he still upon the earth? or had he
breathed his last in lonely solitude, thinking that I,
who loved him as a brother, had forgot my solemn
promise, and returned to civilization without bidding
him another farewell? And last, though not least in
my affections, sweet, beautiful Adele—what of her?
Where now was her light and springing form, her
soft, dark eyes, and her musical voice? We had
together seen sorrow, mingled with happiness—and
our souls had seemed as one soul, cemented by undying
love—but should we ever meet again in this
world of change? Had she escaped the dangers of
the mountains, to pass the remainder of her days
among the people of her race? was she a lonely,
hopeless prisoner of some savage tribe? or had death
given to her pure spirit the freedom of the holy intelligences
to whom she had so often and earnestly
appealed through a sincere and happy faith?
I will not dwell upon my captivity, nor the tortures
I endured. I have labored in vain to give the reader
an idea of myself, if he has now to be assured, that,
torn away from civilization, deprived of my freedom
-- 423 --
[figure description] Page 423.[end figure description]
and of all I loved on earth, I could see one happy
moment; and to inflict upon him a tithe of my
misery, would, to say the least, be an uncharitable
act, and could serve no good purpose. That my
health gradually failed, through secret grief and
mental excitement, it may be proper to state; and
when, at the close of summer, I again accompanied
the tribe to their home at the north, it was with the
conviction, that, unless I soon secured the liberty I
pined for, my body would ere long take its last rest,
“Unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown,”
many thousand miles from the land of my nativity.
The Indians had once more reached their winter
quarters, and I was standing one fine, autumnal
night, outside of my lodge, pondering on my misery,
when suddenly the conviction flashed upon me, that
if I were to attempt my escape then I should be
successful. I had been shooting at a target that day,
and still had my bow in my hand, and my quiver
contained a dozen arrows—and feeling at my wampum
girdle, I found my knife in its sheath. Without
waiting to consider the chances, as I had always done
before, I immediately set off; and walking leisurely
through the village, and passing several warriors, I
quietly descended to a clear, mountain stream, as if
with the intention of filling my gourd. The moment
I reached the stream, I entered the water, and hurried
away to the north, impelled by an impulse for which
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I could not account, and scarcely able to realize
myself that I was actually trying to effect my escape.
I continued in the bed of the stream for a couple of
hours; and hearing no sound of pursuit, I began to
tremble with hope and fear; and to such a degree,
that I was obliged to sit down and rest my quivering
nerves. What could it mean? Was I really destined
to escape, after all? The bare hope seemed to
open to my mental view the joys and beauties of
Elysium; while the fear of failure the next moment
sent the blood curdling to my heart.
In the boldness of my attempt, I think, lay its success.
The Indians, who saw me going quietly to the
stream as was my wont, could have had no suspicion
of my design; and in this way I gained a start, under
cover of darkness, which I could have done in no
other manner. By keeping in the stream, too, I left
no trail for them to follow; and by going north instead
of south, I added to my chances of escape—as
they would naturally suppose I had taken the most
direct route toward civilization.
How much time elapsed after my departure, before
they began to search for me, I do not know—but I
heard nothing from them during the night. After
gaining, in some degree, my natural composure, I
again set forward, keeping along the bed of the
stream, the water of which seldom rose above my
knees. In this manner I struggled onward till the
gray of morn—when, to my great delight, I discovered
a hollow tree, with a limb projecting over the babbling
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[figure description] Page 425.[end figure description]
stream, within my reach. I seized hold of it, drew
myself up, and found the hollow large enough to
secrete me, but without giving me space to turn or
change my position.
In this narrow aperture, and painful attitude, I
remained through the day; but before night I was
much alarmed by hearing a small party pass in
search of me. I heard and understood enough of
their conversation, to learn that they already began
to suspect I had been spirited away by the Great
Power of Darkness—and that if the party who had
gone in an opposite direction did not bring me back,
they would consider further search useless. This
gave me courage and hope; but I trembled like an
aspen, lest some keen eye should fasten upon my
retreat and discover me at the last moment. Providence
favored me, however; and just as the sun was
setting, I heard them pass on their return, muttering
their superstitious belief and disappointment.
As soon as darkness had settled over the earth, I
crept out from my concealment, like a wild beast from
his lair, and, lowering myself into the water, continued
my journey toward the north, leaving no trail
behind. I had now been twenty-four hours without
food; but a bright hope animated me, and I struggled
forward through another night; and at daylight I
climbed a tree and rested in its thick branches.
Hungry, weary and faint, I fell asleep, and gained a
few hours of peaceful rest—which in some degree
renewed my strength. When I awoke, I found the
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[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]
sun had passed meridian; and resolving to change
my course, press forward, and, if possible, procure
food, I descended to the ground, turned away from
the stream, and struck off through a deep forest, in
an easterly direction.
Though in the autumn of the year, the days and
nights had been unusually mild for the last week,
and continued so for a week longer—which was very
fortunate for me—as, otherwise, I must have suffered
from cold, especially during the two nights I spent in
going down the bed of the stream. Keeping on an
easterly course till near sunset, without meeting with
any incident to give me fresh cheer, I was beginning
to despair at the gloomy prospect of passing another
night without food, when, ascending a covered hill, I
was delighted, even to agitation, at perceiving three
or four deer just below me, quietly licking the white
crust of a saline spring. I had during my captivity
become so expert with the bow, that ordinarily I
should have thought nothing of sending an arrow, at
the distance these animals were from me, into a target
the size of my hand; but now I trembled so much,
with hope and fear, as to doubt if I could hit a larger
body than my own.
However, I kept as quiet as I could, and summoned
all my will to steady my nerves; and fixing an arrow
to my bow, I suddenly drew it to its head, and let it
fly with a loud twang. To my unspeakable joy, I
saw it pass, true to my aim, and bury itself in the
body of one of the harmless animals, which gave a
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[figure description] Page 427.[end figure description]
sudden bound forward, and fell quivering upon the
earth. I instantly darted forward, with a velocity
scarcely excelled by its flying companions, and the
next moment my knife was at its throat, and the beautiful
deer was my prize. Overpowered with joyful
emotions, and a sudden relaxation of my physical system,
I sunk down by its side—gazed upon it as the
Peri looked through the gates of Paradise when she
brought the accepted tear of repentance—and humbly
and devoutly thanked God for all his mercies and
blessings. Need I add that I feasted that night?
though I cut the flesh from the deer ere it was cold
and devoured it in its raw state.
It is not my intention to give a detailed account of
my lonely wanderings, over mountains, through forests,
and across streams, and all in the unpeopled solitudes
of nature, till I once more beheld the face of a
white man. Let fancy picture me, in the costume of
a savage, encountering, for a month, all the vicissitudes
and perils of a lonely journey, through a rough,
howling wilderness, seeking food where I could find
it, continually on the alert for danger, and sleeping in
tree-tops, and in caves, and often suffering from cold,
hunger, and fatigue—let fancy, I say, keep me before
the mental vision for a long, weary month—and then,
if it can, let fancy portray my feelings, when I met
with the adventure I am now going to narrate.
-- 428 -- p462-405
CHAPTER XXXI. A WONDERFUL SURPRISE.
[figure description] Page 428.[end figure description]
I had reached, in a tolerably good bodily condition,
a certain portion of that range of mountains known as
the Three Parks—when, about noon one day, having
ascended a high, steep hill, I looked down into one
of the most beautiful valleys I had ever seen. This
valley, some two or three miles in length, by some
half a mile in breadth, was completely walled in
by mountains, save a narrow aperture at either
end, where a clear stream of water, flowing quietly
through its centre, found its inlet and outlet. Over
this smooth, level surface, were scattered various
kinds of trees, which seemed to have been planted
at measured distances from each other; and though
the frosts of the season had crisped and killed the
leaves on the highest elevations, and the winds had
scattered them over the earth—leaving giant trunks
and bare branches to stretch gloomily upward, as it
were, to the very heavens—yet here no rude finger
of autumn had been laid, and the enchanting valley
appeared like a brilliant emerald in a brown setting.
I could scarcely credit my senses. Green leaf, green
blade, gay flowers, with a stream of silvery sheen,
were quietly reposing in the bright light of a noonday
sun; while birds of many hues, which belonged
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[figure description] Page 429.[end figure description]
to a more southern clime, were fluttering, and flying,
and trilling the songs of spring throughout the unrivalled
scene.
“This should have been the Garden of Eden,”
mused I, as I picked my way down the steep mountain
side, resolved to spend one night, at least, in a
spot over which, as it seemed, the Spirit of Nature
had passed the wand of enchantment.
I reached the valley at the point where the stream
took its leave between high, precipitous rocks, and
went foaming downward around a sharp angle, but
where from my position I could no longer follow it
with my eye. Here I stopped to gaze, to wonder,
and to admire; and folding my arms upon my breast, I
was just beginning to lose myself in a pleasing reverie—
with my eyes delightedly fixed upon the green
leaves, and grass, and bright flowers, while my ears
drank in the music of birds and rushing waters—when
I was suddenly startled by a rough voice exclaiming:
“I say, old scalp-lock, hyer's a beaver as ginerally
gins every peaceable looking — red nigger fa'r
warning—but arter that, he's jest got to take car' of
his ha'r hisself—chaw me!”
I looked up, and no language can describe my
feelings, as my eyes rested upon the never-to-be-forgotten
features of One-Eyed Sam. He was standing
on the hill-side, some twenty yards distant, his body
covered by a tree, his neck stretched out so as to give
a full view of his face, and with his long, unerring
rifle to his shoulder and its muzzle toward my breast.
-- 430 --
[figure description] Page 430.[end figure description]
I was so excited, that for a few moments I could not
speak—while my lips quivered, and every limb
trembled with emotion.
“You're a orful skeered nigger, anyhow!” he muttered;
“and this hyer old coon don't know whether
to let you slide, or put lead into your meat-trap.”
“Sam!” I yelled at length: “Sam! God bless you,
old fellow! would you shoot a friend?”
Sam dropped his rifle with an oath, and never before
nor since did I witness such an expression of surprise
and amazement as gathered upon his deeply seamed
countenance. It appeared as if he could not credit
his senses; and without changing his position, he remained
staring at me, with his one eye dilated to its
greatest dimensions, and his mouth dropped ajar, as
if struck dumb in the very act of speaking. What
with my long captivity, my long journey through an
unknown wilderness, constant peril, anxiety, and
fatigue, it may readily be believed I was in no very
jocund condition; but the man who could have looked
upon the serio-comical face of Sam Botter without
laughing, might with propriety be hired out as a
mourner, or be apprenticed to an undertaker. As for
myself, I was obliged to take a seat and hold my
sides for at least two minutes; at the end of which
time I found Sam standing by my side, looking almost
as much puzzled as ever. At length, uttering a sound,
something between the yell of an Indian and the
screech of a steam-whistle, he exclaimed:
“Ef it ain't Freshwater, transmogrified to a pig-tail
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[figure description] Page 431.[end figure description]
Injin, may I be chawed up to allergators!—wagh!
hagh! wagh!”
“It is me, sure enough, Sam, my old fellow!” cried
I, jumping up and grasping his hard hand, which I
shook with a vigor.
“And a — purty looking beast you is, too—
wagh! hagh! wagh!” roared the old trapper, now
taking his turn at my expense. “Why, your own
mother wouldn't know ye from a painted babboon—
wagh! hagh! wagh! Ef she would now, ohaw this
hyer old One-Eyed up for a liar—wagh! hagh!
wagh!” and Sam laid down and rolled.
I waited as patiently as I could, till his merriment
had subsided; and then inquired, with tremulous
anxiety:
“Sam, what of my friends? speak! are they living
or dead?”
“Let me git my breath, Freshwater—let this hyer
old nigger git his breath; and while I'm gitting it,
jest tell me whar you come from, anyhow, with them
thar skins, paint and pig-tail!—wagh! hagh! wagh!”
“I have been, for more than a year, a prisoner
among the Crows; and a month ago, almost miraculously,
I effected my escape.”
“You look like you'd been a scare-crow to crows—
wagh! hagh! wagh!” roared Sam.
“Come, come,” said I, seriously; “reserve your
merriment for some more fitting occasion, and answer
me truly: Do you know any thing of my
friends?”
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[figure description] Page 432.[end figure description]
“Wall, who d'ye mean?”
“First, do you know anything of the girl whom
we went to rescue?”
“I knowed some'at to her a year ago.”
“Speak! for the love of Heaven! did she escape?
is she alive?”
“She got to St. Vrain's alive.”
“She did?” cried I: “say that again!”
“She did, Freshwater—chaw me!”
“Thank God! thank God!” cried I, with wild excitement.
“And now?—speak of her now!—is she
living?”
“Don't know nothing agin it,” said Sam.
“She was saved, then! she was saved, poor girl!”
I rejoined, almost overpowered with emotion.
“Wall, yes—rayther—expect she war,” rejoined
Botter, with a peculiar look, which seemed to imply
that he had left something untold.
“Speak, Sam!” cried I, earnestly—“has anything
gone wrong with her of late?”
“I goes under thar, Freshwater—case this hyer old
beaver don't know everything.”
“Is she at St. Vrain's now?”
“Nary once.”
“How long did she remain there? where did she
go on leaving? where is she now? Come, quick—
that is a good fellow—answer me! tell me all you
know!”
“Freshwater,” returned Botter, with emphatic
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deliberation, “old One-Eyed sees how it ar'; you jest
love that thar gal a heap!”
“Well, suppose I do?”
“Can't blame you much, expect—fur ef she warn't
a screamer, then I'm a liar! Augh!”
“Well, go on! go on!”
Sam appeared to be very minutely inspecting the
lock of his rifle, as he continued:
“Freshwater, you knows this hyer old coon tuk to
you from the word go—you knows that thar is truth,
plum center—hey, boy?”
“Yes, you said so, and I have had no reason to
think otherwise since. But what has all this to do
with my questions?”
“Why, you see, (hesitating and squinting along
the barrel of his rifle,) I hate to hurt your feelings—
ef I don't, just chaw me up fur a liar!”
“For Heaven's sake, speak! and let me have the
worst!” cried I, becoming greatly excited.
“Wall, the wost it is, I jest does believe; fur
this hyer old nigger has heerd tell, that when a
feller's plum in up to his eyes in love, ef his gal
plays tricky, it al'ays fotches him all of a heap—
leastways that's what them says as knows more'n
old One-Eyed 'bout sich things. Augh!”
“Sam,” cried I, “you will get me half crazy before
I learn your serious news.”
“Kim down then, Freshwater, and take a wet—that's
the thing to make a feller spunky—and hyer's one
what speaks from experience. I've got a shanty
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down the stream a bit, and thar's more'n a quart of
the ginewine left—chaw me!”
“For Heaven's sake, speak at once, and relieve me
of this suspense! What has happened to Adele?”
“Best take a wet fust.”
“I never drink spirits.”
“Oh, yes—I'd forgot. Wall, ef you thinks as how
you kin hear it, and not spile, hyer's in.”
“Yes, yes—proceed!”
“You remember the Greaser Cap'in?”*
“El Doliente? yes! Did he escape?”
“'Spose I begin back to whar you stepped out, and
fotch up squar?”
“Be brief then.”
“You remember the old hoss kim up, right side up,
beautiful, arter he'd been knocked flat to lightning?”
“Yes.”
“Wall, arter all the rest of you fellers had put out
afoot, to hunt up the critters, I jest got on to old Zigzag's
back, and rid around proud—ef I didn't, why is
bufflers skinned? I soon diskivered the Cap'in, and
his big, black, woolly nigger, puffing and blowing
arter a hoss; and I says, `Git up hyer, Cap'in—fur
hyer's a critter as stands chain lightning beautiful—
and so in course us two can't faze him—nary once—
chaw me!' Wall, to hurry on—fur I sees you is
anxious—the Cap'in got on, and me and him rid till
-- 435 --
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we cotched his hoss; and then we tuk a divide, and
made a tall break for the nigger's hoss. We'd jest
got his'n, and war going it powerful fur t'others, when
we seed the Injins coming like mad, and we held up
to do the ginteel. Our fellers was scattered, you
know—and the Injins scattered to take em—and we
went in arter the red niggers; and it war jest the curiousest
mixed up — mess you ever seed, else you
kin chaw me up fur a liar. Augh!
“Wall, to cut the facts plum down, the gist on't's
this hyer: We throwed two Injins, and seed three
whites lose thar ha'r; and arter this, all the rest being
nowhars, we put out fur tall timber. The next night
the infarnal imps stole our hosses—and we had to
take it afoot to the hills—and a — long, nice, purty
tramp we had on't. Somehow we missed St. Vrain's,
and struck the Black Hills above; and while we was
hunting our way down, we run agin a white gal,
who'd jest sot down to make a die on't. Now when
this hyer gal told us who she war—how she and you
had got away from the red niggers—and how she'd
left you dying, the day afore, up to some cave, or so'thing—
you kin gamble high on to it, Freshwater, that
our eyes kim rolling out like peeled inyuns.”
“Then you found Adele in the forest?”
“We didn't do nothing shorter.”
“And in a dying state?”
“Reckon she'd hev gone under that night, ef we
hadn't put deer meat into her.”
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“Poor Adele! how she must have suffered!” exclaimed
I. “But go on with your story.”
“Wall, in course we went in fur finding you, dead
or alive; and the next day we done some tall walking,
taking the gal's back'ard trail. We didn't find the
place that day, though—and I reckoned the little
critter'd cry her eyes clean out afore morning—she
tuk it so bad. Next day arter that, we did find the
hole in the rocks; and the gal rushed in like mad;
and howled powerful, when she found you warn't
thar; though you kin gamble on to it, that she's got
over all that thar afore this, or else this hyer old
nigger is one of the liars. Augh!”
“Sam!” cried I, somewhat angrily—“what do you
mean by these insinuations? Speak out, like a man,
and let me hear the worst!”
“Wall, to fotch it plum down to a pint, then, Freshwater,
that thar gal tuk on powerful about you fur
weeks; and then she got right thick with the Cap'in;
and ef thar war a chance fur you arter that, as big as
a gooseberry, old One-Eyed couldn't diskiver it—
chaw me!”
“She became interested in El Doliente, did she?”
“You kin gamble on to it, Freshwater. He jest
tuk to her from the word go, like a hawk does to a
chicken; and arter a while she gin in, and they went
off together.”
“The villain!” I ejaculated. “Now I can understand
why he was so anxious to rescue her from the
Indians—and why he spent his money so generously
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in fitting out the expedition. The black-hearted
villain! would to Heaven I had him within reach
of this arm!”
“Says I,” pursued Botter, “when I seed him talking
private to her, and sneaking about wharsomever
she put her purty foot—says I, `Sam, you old one-eyed
gentleman, don't you wish Freshwater war hyer
to spile this fun?—hey, boy?—and gin that —
Greaser h—l?—hey, boy?'—and Sam said, `yes, he
did!' and we'd agreed together—me and Sam had—
that ef you kim to life, afore it war too late, we'd
pitch old Greaser into the drink.”
“And Adele went off with him?”
“She did, hoss.”
“Willingly?”
“Looked that thar way.”
“It cannot be she has proved false to me!” said I,
rapidly recalling one scene after another of the past.
“No, I don't think as how the gal meant to hurt
your feelings—nary once!” pursued Sam, consolingly;
“but, you see, Freshwater, she thought you war dead,
like all the rest on us did: yes—chaw me!”
“Poor, friendless, alone in the world, perhaps she
was not so much to blame!” sighed I.
“She war nothing partickelar oncommon to me,”
said Sam, with a grave shake of the head; “that is, I
mean, she warn't no relation, nor nothing—and it
wouldn't hev done fur old One-Eyed to interfere jest
fur a dead friend, you see—fur we'd all gin in as how
you was rubbed out to painters, or some'at to that
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sort: else, chaw me up fur a liar, and bile me turkeybuzzards
fur high feeding, ef I wouldn't hev wiped
him out, afore he'd hev tuk her a mile without marrying!
and a marrying preacher into the fort to that!
Augh! augh!”
“Gracious Heaven, Sam!” cried I, grasping his arm;
“you do not surely mean —”
“Wall, thar, boy—thar now—never mind this hyer
time, Freshwater!” returned Botter, soothingly, as I
paused, unable to finish the sentence. “I told you
you'd best tuk a wet fust—case you is weak and
thin—and haint eat nothing to-day, I'll gamble my
rifle gin a pint; and when a feller's hungry, and
weak like, he haint got a good stomach to bad news—
nary once—chaw me! Augh! Kim, let's go down
to my shanty and hev a feed; and arter that we'll
talk agin, sensible.”
The terrible suspicions which Botter's words excited—
together with my weak condition, and the different
emotions I had experienced within the hour—
completely overpowered me; and I sunk down upon
the earth, feeling more miserable and wretched than
I had ever felt before, and sincerely regretting I had
lived to find my faith in humanity destroyed. I then
believed I could have heard of Adele's death, and
borne the blow, as a dispensation of Heaven, with
something like Christian fortitude fortitude and resignation;
but to think that the being I loved had fallen—that
an angel of purity had surrounded hearself with a dark
cloud of sin, which would shut her for ever from the
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holy light of Paradise—was a something too horrible
to cross my brain, in my weak state, and permit me
to conduct myself as a rational being should. I was
not completely insane—at least I had a consciousness
of my misery, and the evil at work within me—but
my brain felt as if it were on fire; and I jumped up,
and beat my head with my fists, and might have torn
my hair, had I found any within my grasp. Sam was
evidently much alarmed, and tried to calm and soothe
me—but all in vain, till he struck a chord whose
vibrations were felt in my inmost soul, and which had
the effect to instantly change the whole current of my
thoughts, and seemingly my very nature.
“This is foolish, boy—downright goosey, as I'm a
gintleman!” he said, among other things; “and ef I
was you, I'd keep my strength, and my temper, till I'd
got the villain hisself to pummel, instead of my own
noddle—I would—chaw me!”
“Ha! revenge!” shouted I—“revenge! I thank
you for the suggestion, Sam!”
“Yes, revenge, ef you like it, Freshwater!” he
cried—“revenge on the — villain as has done you
mischief!—anything, by —! 'cept butting your own
brains out fur him to laugh at. Augh!”
“Yes,” continued I, “I will live for revenge! I
will pursue this villain to the end of the earth, or
until I find him; and when found, though kneeling
before the sacred altar, I will drag him from it, and
the fearful account between us shall be settled with
blood!”
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“Now you talk sensible, boy; them's my sentiments—
that thar's the way this hyer old nigger'd
do—chaw me!”
“But can I follow him? can I ascertain whither he
has gone with his victim? for Adele is his victim, I
feel assured.”
“You kin try to St. Vrain's, Freshwater.”
“And try I will!” said I, setting my teeth hard
with my murderous resolve. “Enough, Sam—
enough for the present—say not another word—you
see I am a man again!”
“Or will be,” muttered Botter, turning aside his
head and smothering a laugh, “when you git that—
greasy paint rubbed off, and human fixings on
to your back agin. But kim along—let's travel:
you'll live to see sights yit, you will. Augh!”
As he spoke, Botter turned down the gorge of the
mountain, and picked his way over rocks, alongside
of the here rushing, roaring stream; and I followed
mechanically, thinking only of Adele, her seducer,
and revenge. About a hundred yards from where
the stream entered this gorge, it turned a sharp angle
to the right; and, about the same distance again, it
took a similar turn to the left; and so, in a zigzag
course, it went foaming and roaring onward, for perhaps
half a mile from the green valley above, when
it struck a long, thickly wooded level, where its
waters spread out to five times its ordinary width
and became almost as still as a lake. We quitted the
gorge, and turned up the hill to the left; but the
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moment we reached a point which commanded a view
of the whole scene, Botter stopped, and said:
“Hyer's a spot as has been a purty sight to One-Eyed
Sam fur many a week.”
“Have you been living here for weeks?” I inquired,
in some surprise.
“Except.”
“Ah! yes—I understand—trapping beaver?”
“Them's 'em, Freshwater—and a desperate nice
thing I've made on't. You see, arter I'd got back
from hunting the gal—which we found so curious—
the Cap'in being purty much tickled all round, he
gin me a nice fit-out of traps and fixings, and I did
some'at to beaver that year, afore all froze, and then
kim down to St. Vrain's to winter. Last spring I
started 'arly—but found poor picking, till I diskivered
this hyer run. Sign war about han'some in these
diggins; and so putting my mules to feed in a valley
below, I fotched my traps up hyer, knocked up a
shanty, and went in. D'ye see them thar beaver
lodges over t'other side?”
“I do,” I answered, mechanically—for I was not in
a mood to be interested in what he was saying—
though I thought it best to humor him.
“And d'ye see these hyer stumps, cut off like they
was sawed?”
“I do.”
“And d'ye mind how still the water is?”
“I do.”
“Wall, ye see, the beavers cut down these hyer
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trees with their teeth—knocked up a dam down
yonder—raised their shanties over the way—and had
a — nice time on't ginerally, till One-Eyed got his
old blinker on to 'em, and made thar meat kim to
traps. Augh! Kim along, Freshwater, and I'll
show you a slight sprinkling to fur—I will—chaw
me!”
Saying this, Botter set forward again, and I followed
in silence. Proceeding some two hundred yards further,
obliquely across the hill, he halted before a thick
cluster of bushes, took a sweeping survey of the whole
scene, and then, carefully parting the interlocking
twigs, pushed in toward the centre, bidding me follow,
and be particular to leave the external appearance as
we had found it. Penetrating these bushes, which
were higher than our heads, we soon came to a hut,
constructed of poles, sticks, bark, and skins, and
having a door which we could only enter in a stooping
posture. Sam looked in, and remarking that all was
right, he invited me to follow him, and disappeared.
As I crossed the threshhold of his forest domicile, I
heard him mutter to himself, as if addressing another:
“Sam, you old sinner, lay low, and keep shady,
and you'll see fun, you will. Augh!”
I heard the words, but paid little heed to them. I
had no idea then to what he alluded—but the reader
will find sufficient explanation in the following chapter
eaf462n7* Mexicans and Spaniards, are, in contempt, termed Greasers
by the border men.
-- 443 -- p462-420
CHAPTER XXXII. THE OLD TRAPPER'S JOKE.
[figure description] Page 443.[end figure description]
The hut, cottage, shanty, or lodge—call it by what
name you will—of Sam Botter, was not remarkable
for either size, beauty, or cleanliness; and occupying
the central point of a large cluster of dwarfed trees,
brambles, and bushes, the view immediately around
it was hardly such as a poetical florist would have
desired. Still it suited the old trapper, and answered
the design for which it was erected; and in that, to
say the least, it had the advantage of many an edifice
of more cost and pretension. The old mountaineer
wanted concealment for himself, traps, furs, packs,
etc., and shelter from the mountain storms—which
are not unfrequently cold and severe, even in midsummer—
and his shanty, as he was wont to term it,
served him in every particular. Nothing short of
Indian cunning and sagacity could have found it;
and no one, without a special motive, would have
penetrated ten feet into such a tangled mass of brush
and briers.
It was quite primitive in its construction, and had
cost but little labor, and less brains. A number of
poles, set in a circle of ten feet in diameter, were
brought together at the top, fastened with stout
thongs, and the interstices filled with brush, sticks,
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bark, and stones, and the whole nicely covered with
skins of bear, deer, and other animals. It was waterproof
overhead, and the door served the triple purpose
of admitting the tenant, light, and air. The
earth was the floor, covered with dried grass, sweetscented
herbs, skins, and the ordinary utensils of a
trapper. The cooking was done in the open air; and
the beaver skins, first stretched on a hoop, were dried
in the sun; but the shanty was the general storehouse
of everything; and Sam, more than once,
showed me packs of furs ready for the market; and,
with a feeling of exultation, he several times declared,
that “old One-Eyed war a rich nigger agin, and all
on his own hook.”
Having, in a measure, forced me to inspect his
forest home and property, he at length said:
“Now, Freshwater, I knows you is tired and hungry;
and so you jest plant yourself down hyer, and I'll
desperate soon fotch you in some'at to tickle your
meat-trap with.”
Saying this, the old trapper went out; and, carefully
picking his way through the surrounding bushes,
disappeared—leaving me alone to my gloomy thoughts
and miserable reflections. I threw myself down upon
the litter, and was soon lost in a painful reverie.
From this abstracted state of mind I was presently
aroused, by hearing some one carefully part the bushes
and cautiously approach; but supposing it to be Sam,
I only thought that now I was about to get food to
strengthen my body, and turn my thoughts, for a
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short time at least, into a more healthy channel, and
perhaps raise in some degree my prostrated nature
from the dark gulf of misanthropy and revengeful
desire into which it had been so suddenly plunged.
Imagine my surprise and astonishment, therefore, on
seeing a strange face presented at the door—the face
of a white man—accompanied with a body of small
stature, dressed in the mountain costume. The face,
however, was that of a young man, full of health and
energy; and in the dim light, I could discover nothing
savage or diabolical in its expression—though the
owner carried a rifle in his hand, and a brace of pistols
and a hunting knife in his girdle. My first impression
was, that he was the associate or partner of Botter;
but instantly I remembered having heard the
latter assert that he was “trapping on his own hook;”
and my next reasonable conjecture was, that he was a
mountain neighbor, who had come on a friendly visit
to the camp of Sam. From my position inside—being,
too, by this time, accustomed to the dim light, I could
see him much better than he could me; but he evidently
knew I was here; for he stopped at the door,
shaded his eyes with his hand, peered into the darker
part of the lodge, and said:
“Though armed, I am disposed to be friendly.”
“Well, sir, if disposed to be friendly, as you say,
pray enter, without fear,” I replied. “In the absence
of the host, Sam Botter, I take it upon me to say you
are welcome.”
“Why, how is this?” cried the stranger, springing
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into the hut, and endeavoring to get a better view of
my face and person.
“Well, sir, is there anything wrong?” said I, getting
up and confronting him with an air of dignity,
composure, and self-assurance.
“Surely, you are not an Indian?” he exclaimed, in
some confusion.
“Who said I was, sir?”
“Why, no other than Sam Botter himself.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Yes, not five minutes since—and he told me he
had just met an old Indian acquaintance, who had
done him a service in times past, and that he was now
his guest. He requested me to come up here, and
speak kindly to you—but said that, though you could
understand me, you spoke English so brokenly, that
I must be satisfied to comprehend one word in three.”
“Be assured, sir, it is one of Sam's jokes,” I rejoined—
“of which he is rather fond—as you doubtless
know, if as well acquainted with him as myself.
No, sir! I am no Indian; though I look like one, in
this costume and paint, and with this shaved head. I
am a white man from the States, who was captured,
more than a year ago, by the Crows; and I have been
their prisoner till recently, when I fortunately effected
my escape.”
“Ah! Sam, you rogue, you shall answer for this
trick!” apostrophized the stranger, good humoredly.
“Wagh! hagh! wagh!—wagh! hagh! wagh!”
roared Botter, who had drawn near enough to
-- 447 --
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overhear our conversation; and “wagh! hagh! wagh!”
resounded for several minutes—till, in spite of ourselves,
we were forced to join in his uproarious merriment.
“There is no great depth in the joke, after all,
Sam,” sung out the stranger at length, biting his lips,
and evidently feeling chagrined. “Any body who is
disposed to make a false statement, can play off a
similar trick on his fellows at almost any moment.”
“Sold!” roared Sam: “I knowed it—this hyer old
nigger'd hev gambled high on to it—sold, you is,
boys, or I'm a woodchuck—wagh! hagh! wagh!”
“Let him enjoy his laugh,” said I; “it seems to do
him good; and I am only sorry that circumstances
deprive me of the pleasure of a similar flow of joyous
spirits.”
As I said this, we heard the crackling of the
bushes; and the next moment the old trapper himself
appeared upon the scene.
“It's fun, ain't it?” he roared.
“Not so very remarkably funny either,” replied
the stranger.
“Ef it don't kill me, I'll live ten year longer fur
it—chaw me!” said Sam.
“If it will prolong your life, you are welcome to
my part in the performance,” said I.
“But the best of the joke you don't see—wagh!
hagh! wagh!” roared Sam again.
“It is very likely we do not,” returned the stranger,
a little testily; “since what we do see, appears too
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[figure description] Page 448.[end figure description]
stupid for a man of sense to laugh at.” Then turning
to me, he continued: “So you have just escaped from
a painful captivity?”
“I have, God be thanked!” I replied.
“You must have suffered a great deal?”
“No one knows how much!”
“Were you badly treated?”
“It was not so much the treatment I received, as
the fact of being a prisoner among a people between
whom and myself there was not a single link of sympathy,
and the thought that I might be doomed to
spend my days there, without ever again beholding
my friends, which caused my suffering and misery.
The torture of the body, sir, is as nothing compared
with the torture of the mind.”
“That is true,” sighed the other. “I have felt
both, and know your observation to be true.”
“Were you ever a captive?”
“Never; but I have known what it was to feel the
pangs and attendant miseries of a bodily disease,
supposed to be incurable; and at the very moment
when certain recovery had made my spirit buoyant
with bright and glorious anticipations, I have known
what it was to lose, by worse than ordinary death,
the only friend I truly loved save one on earth; and
the mental anguish caused by this, I do assure you,
threw far into the shade all I had before experienced
of wretchedness.”
“Yet better, far better, your friend should die, than
live to be lost to you for ever through sin and crime!”
-- 449 --
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said I, somewhat irrelevantly and abstractedly, as the
image of Adele floated up through my recollection,
like a beautiful picture covered with a black vail.
“I do not understand you,” said my new acquaintance.
“No! how should you? since it has probably never
been your misfortune to know the baseness and
wickedness of the human heart; but believe me, sir,
there can come no heavier blow—no keener pang—
to the upright, trusting, confiding, loving heart, than
to suddenly learn that the being he most trusted,
most confided in, most loved, has proved unworthy
of his regard; and that where he built his hopes of
happiness, in the expectation of finding the holy light
and virtue of an angel, he now stops to mourn above
a dismal wreck of sin and crime; and is led to doubt
if any can be true, since such an one has fallen. But
speaking of friends,” continued I, with a sudden start,
as, for the first time since meeting the old trapper, the
thought of poor Varney flashed upon my recollection—
“I too have, or had, a friend—and Heaven pardon
me for having, during the excitement of crushing
news, forgotten to inquire his fate. Botter —”
“Hush!” said Sam, who, his mirth having subsided,
was now standing by my side, and listening to our
conversation: “Hush!” and he put his finger to his
lips mysteriously, and drew me aside. “I knows who
you mean, Freshwater,” he whispered in my ear; “you
mean Shadbones; but hush! don't mention him! and
I'll tell you why afore long—I will—chaw me!”
-- 450 --
[figure description] Page 450.[end figure description]
“Sam,” returned I, nervously clutching his arn.,
and addressing him in a whisper also, “is he a villain
too?”
“Nary once.”
“What then?”
“Gone under!” was the doleful rejoinder.
“Ah! poor fellow! poor fellow! it is then as I
feared;” and the tears rushed to my eyes. “But why
do you not wish me to speak of him, Sam?”
“Hush, now—do—I'll tell you afore long—ef I
don't, you kin chaw me up fur a liar.—Augh!”
“Very well, I will wait,” said I, giving vent to my
grief in tears that I could not repress.
For some time the conversation dropped on all
sides; but evidently finding the silence somewhat
embarrassing, and perhaps with the view also of withdrawing
my thoughts from a painful subject, the
young stranger resumed, in a tone that showed his
heart was alive to sympathy, although he might not
intrude it upon my private grief.
“You say you are from the States—do you think
of returning soon?”
“Such was my intention, sir, till I heard, from my
friend Botter here of the villainy of one I had supposed
my friend; but since then I have hardly been
myself, and really do not know what I shall decide
upon when I reach a point where I can learn more of
the real facts of the case. I am not naturally of a
revengeful disposition—and would, as a general thing,
much rather leave the guilty to the punishment which
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[figure description] Page 451.[end figure description]
is sure to follow, either soon or late, the transgression
of God's moral law; but, in the present instance, I
have not only been wronged irreparably—but a being,
whom I loved more than life, has been ruined, body
and soul; and I feel it would only be justice to rid
the earth of a demon incarnate, and send him to his
eternal reckoning.”
“Them's my sentiments,” rejoined Botter, with an
oath.
“And yet,” said the other, “it is a fearful thing to
take human life, except in self-defence. Have you
duly considered that, by such an act, your own peace
of mind would be for ever destroyed? to say nothing
of the penalties attached to the transgression of
human laws?”
“I have hardly considered anything,” I replied;
“but as to my peace of mind, I feel it is destroyed
already.”
“You think so now—but time will bring a change.
Grief may be assuaged; but remorse has a barbed
point, which once buried in the soul may rankle forever.”
“I shall doubtless be guided by circumstances; and
at present I am not in a condition to say, positively,
what I shall, or shall not, do.”
“Are you certain of all the treachery and deceit to
which you allude?”
“All I know, I have gathered from Botter here—
let him answer.”
“All I've told him, I've powerful good reason fur
-- 452 --
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believing ar' true as that this hyer old hoss is a —
bad sinner hisself,” replied Sam, emphatically.
“In such a case, one should not only believe, but
know!” rejoined the other.
“It is my intention to visit St. Vrain's Fort,” said
I, “and act upon the evidence which I may there receive;
though, after all, it may be necessary for me
to first return to the States, in order to procure the
means to carry out my half-formed design. It is true,
I left some money in the hands of Bent, when I
stopped at his fort, on the Arkansas, something more
than a year ago; but if that was not safely trusted, I
have nothing in this part of the world I can claim,
except what you see upon me—the Indians have despoiled
me of all the rest.”
“You will find William Bent an honorable man,
and kind-hearted,” replied my new acquaintance, with
something like enthusiasm. “If you left money in
his possession, my life on it, it will be returned the
moment you call for it. I was there, a year ago last
summer, in very bad health, on my way to the mountains;
and being compelled by sickness to remain
there for two or three weeks, I can testify to the goodness
of his heart, from the kind, almost fatherly,
treatment which I received at his hands, and those of
his immediate household.”
“It is something of a curious coincidence,” I rejoined,
“that I was there, a year ago last summer,
and left a sick friend under his charge, who was also
on his way to the mountains for the recovery of his
-- 453 --
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health; and of whom your voice, and manner, and
style of conversation, forcibly remind me. But my
friend, I have just learned from Botter, is dead; and
as you are living, and apparently in good health, the
coincidence ends with what I have stated. Sam,” continued
I, turning to Botter, who now had his back
toward me, and was looking out through the door,
“you may as well speak now, and tell me how and
where my dear friend met his end! Did he reach the
mountains? or did he die at the fort?”
“He got to the mountains alive, and lived to see
sights, I reckon,” answered the trapper.
“Did the half breed go with him?”
“Expect.”
“Was he with him when he died!”
For some reason, which will soon be apparent,
Botter did not reply to this question; but the muscles
of his face seemed to work convulsively—and more
than once, I noticed, he covered his mouth with his
hand, in a manner somewhat mysterious.
“He has a kind heart,” I thought, “and is really
affected at the loss of poor Varney;” and with a feeling
of gloom and grief, I was about to throw myself
down upon the litter, resolved to break off the conversation
and commune only with my own sad
thoughts for the present, when my attention was
arrested by the singular conduct of the stranger.
Springing suddenly to Botter, he seized and turned
him round; and for a moment, looked eagerly, almost
wildly, into his face; and then, bounding to me, he
-- 454 --
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caught me by the arm, and fairly dragged me to the
door; where, in the stronger light, I underwent the
same rapid and eager scrutiny. Wondering what all
this portended, and half inclined to think the stranger
demented, I looked full into his bronzed face and
dark eyes. It was the first time I had done so in a
light sufficient to distinctly reveal every lineament;
and I started to perceive an expression there peculiar
to one I was mourning as dead.
“Your name?” he gasped.
“Roland Rivers.”
“Great God! is it possible? and I am Alfred Varney!”
The next moment we were locked in each other's
embrace, and stood trembling, and almost overpowered,
with emotions which no language might
express.
“Wagh! hagh! wagh!” roared Sam; “d'ye see the
joke now, boys?—d'ye see it now, like old One-Eyed
does?—wagh! hagh! wagh!”
-- 455 -- p462-432
CHAPTER XXXIII. SERIOUS SPECULATIONS.
[figure description] Page 455.[end figure description]
Wild, thrilling and rapturous were the sensations
which Varney and I experienced, as each so suddenly
and unexpectedly discovered and clasped to his heart
a friend supposed to be no more. To attempt to
describe our emotions, and impart to the reader a
tithe of what we felt, would be worse than vain; and
so I will only request him to take into consideration
our peculiar temperaments, the strength of our attachments,
the length of time since our parting, the perils
and hardships we had encountered, the belief of each
that the other was dead, together with our strange
meeting in a lonely wilderness—and with all these
facts duly considered, he may form some faint idea of
the feelings which stirred the inmost depths of our
souls as we stood clasped in each other's embrace.
“Is it possible this can be my dear friend, Roland
Rivers!” exclaimed Varney at length, starting back
and looking eagerly into my face.
“Rather let me say, is it possible this can be Alfred
Varney! the pale, emaciated, consumptive friend,
whom I left at Bent's, lying upon what I feared would
be his bed of death! No wonder, with your full,
bronzed face, and robust frame—seen unexpectedly
in this dim light—that I did not recognize you, even
-- 456 --
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though your voice had a familiar sound; and then Sam
took care to destroy my faintest suspicion, by telling
me you were dead.”
“Fun, ain't it?” roared Sam. “I knowed thar'd be
fun, when I diskivered Freshwater up to t'other valley.
Yes, ye see, boys, I says to myself, says I, `Sam,
you old beaver, you kin fotch Freshwater and Shadbones
together mysterious—and you kin git fun out
on 'em—and ef you don't do it, Sam, you old one-eyed
nigger, then you ought to jest let 'em chaw you
up fur a liar'—wagh! hagh! wagh! Wall, when I
got to my shanty hyer, I left you, Freshwater, to
hunt Shadbones—fur I knowed he warn't fur off, case
it war nigh feeding time—and he's powerful to eat
now, is that same Shadbones—and so when I seed
him, I sent him up hyer to do the ginteel to my
Injun friend—wagh! hagh! wagh!”
“But how is it I find you here with Sam?” inquired
I of Varney. “Come, sit down, and tell me your
story.”
“Yes, go in, Shadbones, and I'll fix you up some
beaver tails, and call it squar'—I will—chaw me!”
said Botter, who immediately started out, leaving us
to ourselves.
The story of Varney, which occupied a couple of
hours in narration, I shall abridge. After our parting
at Bent's Fort, he remained there a couple of weeks,
and then resumed his journey, accompanied by the
half-breed, in the double capacity of guide and servant.
He reached Pueblo without accident, and spent
-- 457 --
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a month at the fort, hoping I would join him; and
then, his health having in some measure improved, he
joined a party of hunters, and ascended the range of
mountains known as the Three Parks, and of which
his present locality formed a part. Once upon the
mountains, he began to experience a remarkable
change in his system; and soon discovered, by unmistakable
signs, that his lungs were healing,* and his
joy at this discovery may readily be imagined. He
spent the fall, and a portion of the winter, in riding,
hunting, and fishing—sometimes in company with a
strong party, and sometimes with only his guide for
his companion—and toward spring made his way to
St. Vrain's Fort, where he encountered Botter, and
from his lips gathered all that was known of my history.
He here learned that El Doliente and Adele
had gone together toward the south; but no one knew,
or appeared the least interested in knowing, their destination,
though the tongue of scandal was not idle
concerning their moral characters. As to myself, it
was believed that I was dead. The girl stated that I
had been delirious; and it was supposed that, after she
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left me, I had wandered away, in a state of delirium,
and perished, and been devoured by wild beasts—the
effect of which news on my friend was for a time very
severe.
On arriving at St. Vrain's, it had been Varney's
intention to return to the States during the ensuing
summer; but fearing a relapse, and believing one
more season on the mountains would effect a permanent
cure, he had easily been prevailed on by Botter
to accompany him on a trapping expedition, which
was to end at the commencement of cold weather.
Botter had been successful beyond his expectations.
The valley where they were now located, had been discovered
early in the summer; and here the old trapper
had built his hut, and fixed his head quarters; though
he had since trapped on all the streams within fifty
miles, and had sometimes been absent for days at
a time. Varney had sometimes accompanied him,
and had sometimes remained alone while he was
away; and had passed his time pleasantly, in hunting
and fishing, while Sam was busy looking
after his traps. The time for setting out on their
return to some one of the wilderness forts, was now
near at hand; and only the day previous to my arrival,
the old mountaineer had announced his intention
of gathering up his traps and furs, pulling up stakes,
and making a bee line for Pueblo within a week.
Such was the substance of what I gathered from
Varney—his story being interrupted more than once
by Botter—who, during the narration, brought us in a
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well cooked dish of beaver-tails, which proved a most
delicious repast, and to which I certainly did ample
justice. Having heard Varney's story, I proceeded
to relate my own—and both he and Botter sat and
listened to me with manifest interest. When I had
brought my narrative to the point where I had so
unexpectedly met Botter, the old trapper characteristically
observed:
“Freshwater, thar's no use in saying you hain't
been in some desperate tight places; but ef you was
ever nigher being rubbed out, than when old One-Eyed
Sam had his squint along the barrel of this
hyer rifle, all I've got to say is, you've went through
a tighter squeeze than ary nigger this hyer old coon
ever heerd tell on. Yes sir-ee—a heap—chaw me!
Augh!”
“You did really intend to shoot me then?” said I.
“I kim so nigh to it, that I don't know why I
didn't—fur it's a settled pint with me, to raise rednigger's
ha'r wharsomever I find it; and ef you wasn't
a red-nigger to old Sam jest about then, then hyer's
what never seed snakes.”
“The same good Providence which has ever watched
over me, saved me from your murderous design,” I
rejoined.
“Don't know 'bout that thar—but I reckon it war
the skeer in you as made me hold up,” said Sam,
dryly.
“I was not so scared as excited,” I replied.
“Wall, it had a powerful look to skeer, to this old
-- 460 --
[figure description] Page 460.[end figure description]
possum,” rejoined Botter, with a laugh. “The fact is,
I thought you'd die to skeer, and save powder—ef I
didn't, may I never tell the truth agin! Augh!”
“Well, I was saved, and am here, and I thank God
for it!” I rejoined. “And now, to change the subject,
pray tell me, Alfred, what you think of the conduct
of El Doliente and Adele?”
“I hardly know what to think, Roland. I have
never seen the girl, you know; but from all you have
told me of her, I have good reason to suppose her
innocent of the sin laid to her charge.”
“But why did she set off alone with the Spaniard?”
“What was she to do? Without home, without
friends, believing you to be dead, what object could
she have in remaining in a wilderness fortress, surrounded
by rough, vulgar, uncouth beings, who could
have little or no sympathy with one so pure, refined,
and intelligent? It would naturally be her desire to
get among the people of her race and religion; and
El Doliente may have generously afforded her the
opportunity, and taken her for the time under his protection.
We should never condemn our friends, and
especially those we love, without positive proof of
guilt!”
“You give me hope!” cried I, grasping his hand;
“and I thank God there is one to speak in her defence!
Poor Adele! it is wrong to censure her without proof
positive of wrong—and if ever being loved, I know
her heart was mine.”
“And that love has sustained and saved her, rest
-- 461 --
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assured, my dear Roland—even supposing the snares
of temptation to have been thrown around her.”
“Oh! do you think so, Alfred?”
“Sincerely and truly.”
“But she believes me dead.”
“Then, with her belief, she may fancy you present
with her in spirit—and true love dies not.”
“Oh! Great God! let not these bright hopes be
raised, to be suddenly destroyed!” I prayed. “But I
must find her, Alfred—I must find her; I must know
the truth; and till then I shall never rest in peace.
How can this be done? what shall I do? She may
have gone to Mexico; but how shall I ascertain
whither she has gone? and how follow her? since, if
I recover the money I left at Bent's, my means will
still be very limited.”
“I have some which is at your service.”
“But you must go with me.”
“There may be enough for both, if we use prudence
and economy.”
“Tell you what 'tis, Freshwater,” put in Sam—
“you're a trump—and trumps war al'ays skeerce when
this hyer old nigger gambled high; and so whensomever
I got a trump, d'ye see, I al'ays held tight on to
it, and val'ed it powerful; and being's I val'e you
some'at—and you've did me a good turn by-gone—
why, I'll jest turn these hyer beaver skins into tin,
and you kin take the pile and slide. Augh!”
“Sam,” cried I, seizing his horny hand, “you have
a soul!”
-- 462 --
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“Hev I?” said Sam, simply; “wall, that's what a
Gospel preacher tell'd me once; but — my old
weather-beaten carcass, ef ever I seed it, or knows
whar it ar'! No sir-ee—chaw me!”
“But should I borrow your money, what would
you do through the winter?”
“Make Injun fixings, and sell 'em to the traders—
and next spring thar's more beaver.”
“I thank you for the offer, and may accept of it;
but depend upon it, if I do take your money, and
live to return to the States, you shall never have
reason to complain of a bad investment.”
“Don't know what that thar is,” pursued Sam;
“but if it's ary thing to kivering, you needn't mind
gitting it—fur this hyer old One-Eyed never war
much to flummery, gew-gaws, and gim-cracks—nary
once. Augh!”
“What course had I better pursue first?” I inquired
of Varney.
“I think we had better go to Pueblo first, and
there make inquiries—as it is very likely, if the parties
went to Mexico, that they stopped there on their
way.”
“You think, then, I should gain nothing by going
first to St. Vrain's?”
“It would certainly cause much delay, and I think
would be without any corresponding advantage.”
“Well, I will be guided by you, my friend; and
for Pueblo we will set out, as soon as Sam shall say
ready.”
-- 463 --
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“Two days more, Freshwater—jest gin this hyer old
woodchuck two days to git ready in—and then we'll
all tramp han'some—we will. But mought I gin you
a bit of advice?”
“Certainly, Sam.”
“Then jest you go in, and rub off that thar Injun
grease—chop off that thar — old pigtail— put a
skin kivering over your noddle, and git your body
inside to human fixings; fur if you don't look like the
devil now, you do like one of his imps; and the next
white gintleman as fotches his piece to b'ar on you,
mought spile your meat-trap. Augh! Thar's the
stuff fur you! (pointing to a heap of miscellaneous
articles)—thar's a cougar skin to make a cap on;
thar's a blanket you can toggle into a hunting frock;
thar's dressed deer-skin fur your breeches; and you
kin gamble high on to it, that you won't look no
worser fur transmogrifying yourself from a red-nigger
into a white gintleman. Hey! Shadbones?”
“I think the change would improve his appearance,”
laughed Varney, “and I will assist him to
make it. No wonder I did not sooner recognize
him.”
“And I'll jest take a tramp, to look arter my
muleys,” said Sam, catching up his rifle and setting
off forthwith.
The moment we were again left to ourselves, I hastened
to inquire of Varney concerning one whom a
feeling of delicacy had prevented my mentioning in
the presence of a third party.
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[figure description] Page 464.[end figure description]
“What of her you love, my friend? what of Mary
Edwards?” I said.
“I have heard nothing of her since we parted,” was
his reply; “but if she is living, and God spares my
life, I hope to see her again ere long.”
“Are you still as much attached to her as when we
first met?”
“Yes—my heart has undergone no change since.
How could it, Roland? I loved her then, and true love
changes not by absence. It was for her I sought to
prolong my life; and without her, I fear that life
would now be valueless.”
“But if she has heard nothing from you, what more
reasonable than for her to suppose you dead?”
“I have often fancied that she is mourning me as
one no longer among the living,” replied Varney,
somewhat dejectedly. “Sweet Mary! with what
trembling hope have I looked forward to our meeting!”
“Are you sure of her heart, Alfred?”
“What do you mean?” he quickly demanded.
“Are you sure of her love? Bear in mind, that
nothing passed between you on this subject! and she
may be ignorant of the affection she inspired—and,
because of this, may have turned her thoughts to
another—for love, to be lasting, must be conscious of
reciprocity.”
“You startle me, Roland! Surely, she must have
known I loved her! for she could not but have seen
it in my every action.”
“Yet love is exacting, and requires more assurance
-- 465 --
[figure description] Page 465.[end figure description]
than friendship; and moreover, she may think you no
longer among the living. Pardon me, if I say any
thing to give pain, or even uneasiness! but should
any thing have happened, I think you would bear it
better if in a measure prepared for the blow.”
“Speak out, Roland!” cried Varney, nervously
grasping my arm, and looking eagerly and anxiously
into my face.
“Suppose you find Mary Edwards the wife of
another?”
He released my arm—staggered back—and, sitting
down, remained silent for some minutes.
“God forbid!” he exclaimed at length; “God forbid!
for then indeed might I wish for that death I
have so long, and anxiously, and even painfully,
labored to shun! Enough! my dear friend—enough!
You mean me well, I know; but let us speculate no
more on a matter that is life or death to me!”
The subject dropped then, nor was it resumed for a
long time after. What I had said, had the effect to
dampen the spirits of Varney, so that at times he was
very sad and gloomy; and I should have regretted
giving him the least pain, only for the reasons stated
to him, that I feared he might possibly find a change,
which, coming upon him suddenly, and without previous
preparation, might be productive of more serious
consequences.
We spent the two succeeding days in getting ready
for our departure. I employed most of the time in
effecting a much desired change in my personal
-- 466 --
[figure description] Page 466.[end figure description]
appearance, and Varney assisted me; while Botter kept
himself busy, in scraping and drying some newly
taken beaver skins, and in repairing his mule saddles,
sacks and straps, collecting his traps and camp utensils,
and packing all snugly for safe transportation.
It may not be amiss, in this connection, to mention
the mode of catching the beaver, which confers the
name of trapper upon such as make a living by this
occupation. Large steel traps are baited with an oily
substance, taken from the scrotum of the beaver itself,
and placed in the “run” of the animal, under water.
A chain, attached to the trap, is then made fast to a
picket, or sapling, on the bank; while a cord connects
with a stick, which floats on the water—so that,
in case the beaver gets away with the trap, its locality
may be readily discovered. The bait, called “medicine,”
the beaver scents while under water; and being
curious to know what it is, and why it is there, he
hovers about the trap, till accidentally he springs it
with his foot and is caught. He is thence taken out
by the trapper and skinned; and his skin, scraped
and stretched on a hoop, is dried in the sun, and thus
prepared for the market—while his tail is carefully
put aside as a bonne bouche.
Everything being prepared for our journey, we set
out at daylight for Pueblo, on the third morning after
my arrival. Varney had one mule, and Botter two;
but as the trapper's animals were both well laden, we
took turns in riding the beast of Varney. We had
pleasant weather all the way, though at times very
-- 467 -- p462-444
[figure description] Page 467.[end figure description]
cold; and in five days we reached Pueblo, without
accident or incident worthy of note.
eaf462n8* “It is an extraordinary fact, that the air of the mountains has
a wonderful restorative effect upon constitutions enfeebled by
pulmonary diseases; and of my own knowledge, I could mention
a hundred instances where persons, whose cases have been pronounced,
by eminent practitioners, perfectly hopeless, have been
restored to comparatively sound health, by a sojourn in the pure
and bracing air of the Rocky Mountains; and are now alive, to
testify to the effects of the reinvigorating climate.”—Ruxton's
Adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains.
CHAPTER XXXIV. NEWS FROM HOME.
Pueblo de San Carlos, or Village of St. Charles, as
it is called, is a small, square fort, built of adobes,
with a wall about eight feet high, which stands on
the left bank of the Arkansas, at no great distance
from the base of the mountains. It is occupied by
Indian traders, coureurs des bois, and mountaineers,
with their Indian and Mexican wives and children;
and at the time I visited it, I could not discover that
its tenants were remarkable for either beauty, cleanliness,
intelligence or refinement. They were about
as civil, however, as tame bears—and this was as
much, perhaps, as I had a right to expect.
On pushing my inquiries here, I finally learned,
from a respectable looking half-breed, that more than
a year ago, two persons, answering the description of
El Doliente and Adele, accompanied by a negro, had
made a short halt at the fort, and employed a guide
to conduct them to Santa Fe. This intelligence,
which to me was of great importance, was all I could
gather; and as may readily be believed, I was more
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eager to extend my journey to a point where I might
possibly obtain more definite information.
“If I only had the means,” said I to Varney, “tomorrow
should see me en route to the capital of New
Mexico.”
“Would to Heaven I had enough for both!” he
replied.
“We must go first to Bent's,” I rejoined; “and if I
can recover the money I left there, I think, with
what you have, and proper economy, we shall be able
to travel respectably among civilized people, at least
for a time.”
“You knows what this hyer old hoss told ye up
to the mountains, I expect, Freshwater!” observed
Botter, who chanced to overhear my remark.
“I do; and I thank you, from my heart, for your
generous offer, Sam; but if I can get along without
touching your hard earnings, I would rather do so.”
“It'll be all the same to old One-Eyed Sam afore
spring—you kin gamble on to that thar!” he rejoined,
good humoredly. “Every dollar this hyer nigger
gits, is greased beautiful; and the way they slides
through these hyer old j'ints, is a caution to old Kaintuck.
Augh!”
Varney traded his mule for a horse, and purchased
another for me; and the second morning after reaching
the Pueblo, we set off for Bent's Fort, distant
about seventy miles. We camped out one night, and
reached our destination before dark of the second day,
in good bodily condition. Here I met with a
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surprise, which gave me both pleasure and pain—being
no less than a letter from my father, accompanied
with a heavy purse of gold.
Having never written home since the letter dated
on board the steamer Missouri, which the reader
doubtless remembers—and having mentioned in that,
that I contemplated going as far west as Bent's Fort—
my father had become extremely anxious concerning
my long absence and silence, and had actually dispatched
a messenger to this point in quest of me.
The messenger had remained here a month—and had
gone back with a belief that I was no longer among
the living—but had left the purse of gold and letter
with Mr. Bent, to be put in my possession, in case I
should be heard of within a couple of years. The
epistle of my father, even before I broke the seal, excited
strange and powerful emotions; and with a
trembling hand, and something like a guilty conscience,
I tore it open, and read as follows:
“My dear Son!—If ever you see these lines, you
will learn that your parents are almost broken-hearted,
on account of your long absence and silence. If living,
may you never feel the keen pang of disappointment
we all felt—but your mother and myself
especially—on the receipt of your letter from Missouri,
which told us you were about to cross the plains to
Bent's Fort, and would not be with us on your birthday.
From that moment I have been growing old—
and with that intelligence my fondest hope perished.
Why did you leave me at such a time? You know
-- 470 --
[figure description] Page 470.[end figure description]
how much I counted on retiring from business, and
seeing you duly installed my successor! I could not
think of continuing the business any longer; and so,
on your twenty-first anniversary—you not being
present—the establishment of your father, and which
might have been yours, passed into the hands of your
brothers-in-law—who, for reasons that I will explain,
if ever I see you, have changed the firm of Rivers &
Co. to that of Colden and Sharp. If you want to
know more, Mr. Spencer, the agent I send out to find
you, will inform you. I also send you a thousand
dollars in gold, not knowing what your wants may
be. Oh! my son, if among the living, do come home,
and all shall be forgiven. I found, from your letter,
that the life I had proposed for you was not to your
liking: you should have told me of this before you
left. It has been a great disappointment to me—but
let that pass. If I ever get you with me again, I
think I shall be quite happy, comparatively speaking.
Colden and Sharp are worthy young men, and have
good judgment and business tact. Your friends are
all usually well, except your mother, who frets a good
deal about you, which wears upon her. All send love,
and so I need not specify. Will you not come home,
and make all our hearts glad? Your affectionate
father, &c.”
To this epistle, which bore date the preceding
March, there was a postscript, which said a volume in
a few words.
“Roland, my son, God bless you! If you are
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[figure description] Page 471.[end figure description]
alive, I know you will hasten home, and make happy
the heart of your now unhappy mother.”
The hand that had penned these lines was my
mother's, and that hand had trembled so as to make
the writing nearly illegible, and there was the stain
of a tear upon the page. As I finished reading the
whole, I handed the letter in silence to Varney; and
sinking down upon a seat, my overcharged heart
found some relief in a flood of tears.
“What do you now propose, my friend?” inquired
Varney, when I had in a great degree regained my
usual composure.
“I must go home, Alfred. I must set out immediately
too. Mr. Spencer has returned—and even now
my parents are mourning me as dead. Heaven help
me! Should my disobedience—for I can call it by
no other term—be the means of shortening the days
of my dear mother, I shall never forgive myself—
shall never be happy again.”
“I fear I am much to blame for all this,” said
Varney, sadly.
“You, my dear friend? no!” cried I, grasping his
hand. “It is I, and I alone, that am to blame.”
“But you know I was anxious to have you go with
me, Roland!”
“But, at the same time, I remember you urged me
to do only what I thought best, and I thought best to
go. No, Varney, do not accuse yourself of leading
me astray, or I shall have more to regret than now.”
-- 472 --
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“But had it not been for me, you might not have
come hither!”
“Say rather, had it not been for my own desire.
Did I not contemplate making such a journey before
I left home? long ere I saw you, or knew you had an
existence? What folly, Alfred, to reflect upon yourself,
in a case in which, to say the most, you have only
been an accessory after the fact.”
“But even that is criminal in law.”
“Only when the original deed is criminal, remember,
and amenable to the law! But enough of this,
my friend! There is no analogy between the fact, as
it stands, and the figure by which we have chosen to
represent it—and so let the subject drop. We are all
creatures of circumstance; and a train of circumstances,
which nothing human could foresee, have
placed me here at a period remote from my intentions.
If I have erred—and God, who knows all things, only
knows whether I have done wrong to myself and
those who gave me being,—if I have erred, I say, I
must now endeavor to retrieve the error, as much as
possible, by setting forth immediately upon my return
to those who are mourning me as dead.”
“Then you will not endeavor to find Adele?”
“Ah! Adele—sweet Adele! how that name thrills
through my soul! Alfred, you love—you know what
love is—advise me—what shall I do? Shall I attempt
to find her? and if so, for what purpose? to
what end? To know her the wife of another—that
would be terrible. To know her the victim of a
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villain—that would be worse. In either case, I should
be more miserable, perhaps, than I am now—and
Heaven knows I am very far from being happy at
this moment.”
“Then, as soon as you like, we will set off across
the plains for Independence.”
“You think such a course best, Alfred, all things
considered?”
“All things considered, I do. You might not find
Adele, should you seek her; and if found, the happiness
you seek might not be found with her.”
“It is settled then—let us inquire when the next
train goes eastward!” said I.
But it was not settled—at least not settled as I had
supposed. I believe, to some extent, in destiny; and
it was my destiny, ere long, to gather such intelligence
as, in one sense, almost compelled me, in my
vacillating state of mind—swayed as it was by every
strong emotion—to change my design. On making
inquiries, I learned among other matters of interest
to me, that El Doliente had been here with Adele;
that he had left full pay for such of the party as had
gone with him in quest of the girl, and had not returned,
and were not known to have been killed by
the Indians; that the conduct of both had been such
as to win the esteem and love of the high-minded;
that Adele had more than once mentioned my name,
but always with tears; and that both had set out for
Santa Fe, by way of Pueblo, and expected to spend a
few days with the Governor of New Mexico. Add to
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this, that I found here the very person—a Mexican—
who had been hired at Pueblo to guide them to Santa
Fe; that he stated he had seen them cordially received
by Governor Armijo and his family; and that he spoke
of El Doliente as a gentleman, and of Adele as one
of the kindest and most beautiful ladies he had ever
met: add these facts to the foregoing, I say, and take
everything into consideration, and I think the reader
will not be surprised at my putting off my journey
homeward, till I had made another in a contrary
direction, and gathered further tidings of one who
still held the first place in my affection.
“Alfred,” said I, “you must by this time be aware
that your companion is a man of whims, without
stability of purpose. Already have I again changed
my plan. I am now resolved upon a journey to Santa
Fe; but I will not be so selfish as to ask you to
accompany me; for now that you have been led to
look upon a speedy return to the States as a matter
of certainty, it would be cruel to drag you away upon
a long journey of hardship and peril—a journey—”
“Stop!” cried Varney, interrupting me: “you have
said enough, unless your object be to give offence.
I trust, whatever may be my imperfections, ingratitude
is not one of them. I have not forgotten how
you stood by me in my distress, when I had not
another friend to call upon; and if I desert you now,
may my limbs wither, and my heart turn to stone!”
It being now finally settled that we should depart
for Santa Fe, I lost no time in making further
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improvements in my personal appearance, by purchasing
and donning a still more civilized costume than I had
been able to manufacture from the materials furnished
by the old trapper. I did not succeed in getting what
might be termed a citizen's dress—but only a slight
improvement on the mountaineer's—yet it was so
much superior to the patched articles I laid aside, that
I looked into a hand mirror with pride, and really felt
quite fashionable. My hair—or rather the want of
it—was a source of considerable annoyance for a time;
but I finally succeeded in purchasing, of a Canadian
Frenchman, a respectable looking wig, which put my
mind at ease on that point. Thus renewed, in the
outer man at least—and having recovered my money,
hired the guide of El Doliente, and settled everything
to my satisfaction—we bade adieu to Bent's Fort, and
hastened back to Pueblo, where we stopped to lay in
some provisions, that we might not be hindered by
being compelled to hunt game for food. Here I saw
Botter for the last time; and after informing him of
all that had occurred, he replied, in his characteristic
manner:
“Chaw me up fur a liar, Freshwater, but your old
dad's some punks! A thousand shiners, hey? Why,
riddle my old carcass with ramrods, ef it wouldn't
take this hyer old one-eyed nigger a desperate spell
to fotch in enough beaver to them thar! yes-sir-ee!
And all fur nothing! He's a trump—you kin gamble
high on to him, boy; and I'm glad on't; fur you is
some'at to a younker, and not nigh so green as you
-- 476 --
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was—nary once. Augh! And so the Cap'in left the
tin fur the boys, hey? fur them as didn't git rubbed
out? Wall, that thar war decent, Freshwater—hey!
Shadbones?—yes-sir-ee—chaw me! Wall, may be
he wasn't sich a — rascal arter all—hope he wasn't.”
“They gave him an excellent character at Bent's,”
I rejoined.
“Wall, I'spect he's got white blood into him, and
knows what decency is; but ef he didn't love that
thar gal, Freshwater, harder nor nary mule kin kick,
then chaw me up fur a liar! and call this hyer old
beaver a one-eyed — old woodchuck! Augh!
wagh! shagh!”
“Are you certain, Sam?”
“I seed it, Freshwater—old One-Eyed seed it—yes-sir-ee!
And he knowed she war your meat, too—ef
he didn't, why was eyes made? But he mought hev
thought you war rubbed out, d'ye see? which all on
us did, you know.”
“And Adele?” inquired I, nervously: “did she
seem to return his passion?”
“Not to fust—nary once; but I reckon she gin in
afore she left.”
“I hardly know whether to think him a villain or
not!” said I, greatly troubled and perplexed. “There
has been mystery about the whole affair, from beginning
to end. When I first mentioned her, he got
excited; in listening to her history, he acted like a
madman; and ever after, even in fitting out the expedition
and going in quest of her, he displayed an
-- 477 --
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interest in her fate and fortune which is unaccountable.”
“You jest ought to heerd him go on, when
he found the Injins had got the best of us, and
knowed thar wasn't nary chance to gitting the gal
away!” said Botter—“fur, in course, he didn't know
as she'd put out with you. Chaw me, Freshwater—
but, fur a leetle while, he made all howl beautiful.
Augh!”
“Well, it is all very strange, and I know not what
to think,” said I. “If I can ascertain that he really
loves the girl, and has made her his wife, I shall
retire, without disturbing their happiness, and return
home a sadder, and perhaps a wiser, man; but if I
find he has wronged Adele Loyola, then will I pray
to be set face to face with him, and let God judge
between us!”
“Them's 'em!” returned Sam. “Go in, Freshwater!
I'll gamble on to you.”
At the final parting, Botter shook hands with both
Varney and myself; and, for an old mountaineer,
used to all kinds of changes and vicissitudes, he
seemed not a little affected.
“Good-by, boys!” he said, in a rather unsteady
voice; “and as this hyer old nigger's Kaintuck dad
used to say—may your meat never run out, nor your
corn-crib git low! Expect it 'aint like you'll ever see
this hyer old One-Eyed agin—nary once—chaw me!
Augh! But ef we don't never meet agin, I hope you
won't forgit as how we've all been in whar blood was
-- 478 -- p462-455
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drawed, and hev seed snakes afore now; and ef you've
got a stray thought to spar', you'll let her slide to the
mountains, whar she'll find old Sam cotching beavers
and raising ha'r till he goes under.”
“God bless you, Sam!” said I, shaking his honest
hand heartily: “while memory lasts, you will not be
forgotten by me!”
“Let me echo the words of my friend!” said Varney,
with feeling.
“Chaw me!” rejoined the old trapper, turning away,
and bringing his hand quickly across his eye. “I
haint felt so womanish sence Wolfy quit to the —
Pawnees—nary once. Augh! Wall, good-by, boys!
and hyer's a old one-eyed beaver as will travel fur a
wet. Augh! augh!”
With this Sam turned abruptly away, and disappeared
within the fort. We never saw him again.
CHAPTER XXXV. A LONG JOURNEY.
Well mounted and armed, with our Mexican guide
and a pack-mule, we left Pueblo de San Carlos, one
cold, raw day, and soon struck into a mountainous
region, in one of whose valleys we made our first
camp, the cold being very intense. But as it is not
my purpose to give a detailed account of our journey
to Santa Fe, I will merely remark, that we arrived
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safely at the then dirty capital of New-Mexico, in
something less than two weeks from crossing the Arkansas—
having passed more than one night in a snow
storm, and suffered severely from the cold. To say
I was disappointed and disgusted with the appearance
of the town, will only be to tell about half of the
truth, and add my testimony to that of every foreigner
visiting it for the first time. It contained, at this
period, a miserable population of some two or three
thousand—a mongrel collection of Mexicans, Indians,
and negroes, with a few foreigners, mostly traders—
none of whom could boast of anything better than a
mud dwelling, and a large portion of whom lived in
huts hardly fit to be classed with respectable dog-kennels.
There was one exception—the palacio, or palace,
of the Governor—a long, low building, with adobe
walls, which occupied nearly one side of the Grande
Plaza, or principal square, and which displayed a
colonnade of rough pine pillars. I have since seen
the town compared to a dilapidated brick-kiln, or
prairie dog-town, and I think the comparison does it
ample justice. Having passed, on our way hither,
through the comparatively neat and flourishing valley
of Taos—and having, moreover, heard much of Santa
Fe as a great trading mart—we had drawn freely upon
our imaginations, and pictured forth the place as one
of neatness and beauty; but, unfortunately for our
fanciful creations, we found it what I have described it.
“Well, Alfred,” said I, as we plodded our way
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through the dirty streets, toward the residence of Governor
Armijo—“what do you think of this?”
“That the sooner we leave it the better,” was his
reply. “If El Doliente has any taste, you will not
find him here—nor, for that matter, Adele either.”
“I think you are right,” I rejoined, “but we must
make inquiry in the right quarter.”
On reaching the Governor's Palace—as it was
termed by way of distinction—we learned, much to
our regret, that he and his family had gone to a distant
part of the province, and were not expected here
for a couple of months at least—his principal residence
being at Albuquerque, several leagues further
south.
“Then we have had our journey for nothing!” said
I, bitterly; “for after what I have seen of these dirty,
cut-throat-looking Mexicans, nothing shall tempt me
to penetrate further into their miserable country!”
Through our guide—who had, as I have stated, conducted
El Doliente hither—we learned that he had
remained but a few days with the Governor, and had
set off south, with another guide, taking Adele and
Cato with him; but what destination he then had in
view, no one knew—and I think I venture nothing
in adding, no one cared to know. One of the Governor's
servants stated to our guide, that he had heard
the Spaniard, in conversation with his master, mention
New Orleans quite frequently—and inferred that he
intended to visit that city—but whether for the purpose
of taking up his residence there, or not, he could
-- 481 --
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not say. This was all the news we could gather of
any importance—and this really amounted to nothing.
“Well, Roland, what now?” inquired Varney, in a
tone that showed he felt for my disappointment.
“We will start for Independence with the first
train that goes out,” said I.
Fortunately there was one, of some twenty teams,
going to set out on the following day; and having
made all our arrangements to accompany it, we had
only one night of misery to pass in the loathsome
place—a place which, I can truly say, I entered with
disgust and left with delight.
I need not dwell upon our long, wearisome journey
back to Independence, in the State of Missouri. Suffice,
that we passed in safety, though surrounded by
perils, over the then cold, bleak, desolate plains; and
arrived at our destination, with the snow a foot
deep and falling, in the month of January, 18—. Had
we been a week later in setting out, we should probably
have perished on the prairies—as the snow fell
to a great depth, and drifted to a height of twenty feet.
On reaching Independence, though more than two
thousand miles distant from my native city, I felt as
if I had got within a few steps of home; and had my
heart been as free as when I beheld the place for the
first time, my delight would have been excessive. As
it was, I was glad to get here, and feel that I was once
more safe from the perils of the wilderness; my desire
to rove beyond the borders had been gratified;
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I had seen enough of the Far West and its wild life
of adventure; but the thought that Adele—sweet,
beautiful Adele—was lost to me for ever, rendered me
sad and gloomy, even with the prospect before me of
a speedy return to those I had loved with a filial love
before loving her.
At the inn where we had stopped on our way out,
we found our baggage, all safe, and our clothes in
good condition; and we now made as much haste to
don civilized attire, as we had then to put on the costume
of the mountaineer. But though we were free
to acknowledge that our more fashionable apparel
improved us externally in a wonderful degree, yet
we found it anything but agreeable to get into tight
boots, and close-fitting coats, and have stiff, heavy
hats pressing upon our foreheads, to say nothing of
bungling cravats and starched shirt collars. But
knowing as we did that we were about to appear once
more among civilized and enlightened people—where
fashion rules, and requires all, who would be thought
respectable, to sacrifice comfort to external show—we
bore our afflictions meekly, and with the resignation
of martyrs.
As good luck would have it, the winter, so far, had
been mild and open; and on the second day after
reaching Independence, we were enabled to get on
board of a steamer, bound down the Missouri to St.
Louis. It was indeed a most fortunate occurrence for
us, and a narrow escape, for the river froze a few days
subsequently, and navigation continued closed for two
-- 483 --
[figure description] Page 483.[end figure description]
or three months—which would have compelled us to
remain in a not very agreeable frontier settlement, or
make a cold, tedious, overland journey of nearly four
hundred miles.
“Human life,” observed Varney, reflectively, as
arm-in-arm we walked up and down the saloon, “is
to each individual a world; and what important
changes in that world may a few days, or weeks, or
months effect? Here now are you and I, Roland,
almost at the very point where first we met nearly
two years ago—but how changed is the world of each
since then!—or rather, how changed is mine!”
“Say how changed to both!” I replied; “for I
sadly feel I am not the same man I was then, and
therefore see not the world I saw.”
“Then,” pursued Varney, “I was almost a helpless
invalid, struggling for that life, that world, which I
have since attained.”
“Then,” rejoined I, “I had a world of happiness
before me, which is now obscured by clouds of gloom.
I was almost happy then—I am very far from being
happy now.”
“In so much do we change places,” continued Varney,
“that I was unhappy then, but might be happy
now, if I could feel assured that one bright, lovely
being longs for my return.”
“In so much do we change places,” I repeated,
“that then I had hope, but now feel despondency—
you then were despondent, but now have hope.”
“But if my hope should fail me, Roland?”
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“Then would the changes of our worlds cause us to
meet in sympathy on equal ground,” said I.
“Oh! if, after all, sweet Mary can never be mine, I
shall ever regret that I did not permit my spirit to
take its flight in her sweet presence!” almost groaned
Varney.
“Adele—pure, confiding Adele—is lost to me for
ever!” I rejoined, in a tremulous voice.
“Roland,” cried Varney, anxiously, “you must go
South with me, and be witness of my happiness or
misery.”
“To witness your happiness would make me
miserable, Alfred—to witness your misery would
make me wretched!” I replied. “No, my friend,
under the circumstances I would not go with you.”
“But I am too selfish to part with you at this trying
moment,” pursued Varney, earnestly. “I must
have one friend by me, Roland; and what friend have
I, save you, if not her I love? I have worldly friends,
Roland—but none of the heart—none to whom I
could unbosom my soul, and confide the one great
secret of life or death. I have no father, no mother,
no sister, no brother but you—you and Mary are my
world—my all: I cannot lose you both at once!” and
his eyes filled with tears. “You have been with me
long, Roland; you know all my weak points—my
failings—”
“Say rather I know your virtues, Alfred,” I interposed.
“You have stood nobly by me in times of peril,
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[figure description] Page 485.[end figure description]
trial and distress, and you must not part from me now—
I cannot have it so. I know I am selfish. I know I
am asking a great boon, to take you away from your
anxious friends, for even a few days; but happiness
is what we all, poor mortals, seek; and it would make
me so happy to have you with me!”
“Ask anything else in my power to grant, Alfred,
even to the dividing of my fortune, and you shall not
ask in vain. And yet,” I added, after a moment's
reflection, perceiving Varney's disappointed and
dejected look, “I hardly know why I would refuse
you this simple request!—perhaps because I have so
intently fixed my mind upon reaching home in the
shortest possible time, and dread to turn aside to look
upon new scenes, of which I have seen more than
enough—perhaps because my heart is sad and lonely,
and I long to get among my friends and look no more
upon strange faces for a time. But you turned aside
for me, Alfred, and I ought to do this much for you.
I could write home, it is true, and assure my parents
of my safety.”
“Yes!” cried Varney, eagerly, his features brightening
with hope; “and oh! I will do everything I can
to make the journey pleasant and cheerful!”
“To seek to win my thoughts from Adele, Alfred,
would be to labor in vain. Her image is enshrined
in my heart, and every beat of that heart brings her
before my mental vision. Time may wear off the
impression—but I fear there will ever be a void there,
which she alone might fill. You know her not, Alfred
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[figure description] Page 486.[end figure description]
—and could never know her as I do: for in our long
flight from captivity, surrounded by perils—the happiest
days of my existence—I had an opportunity to
look down, as it were, into her very soul; and I saw
it was pure as an angel's—unstained by even a sinful
thought. And now where is she? and what is her
fate? Oh! I grow sick at the thought! and become
very, very miserable when I think. There is no
balm for me but time, Alfred—and time may fail to
heal the grief I feel at her loss: I know I can never
displace her memory. But enough of this! Where
would you have me go, Alfred?”
“First to New Orleans: there I may possibly learn
if Mary still lives, and lives for me.”
“And what then?”
“If so, we will set off at once for Ingledale—the
plantation seat of General Edwards—about fifty miles
distant.”
“And if not so, Alfred?”
“Then,” he said, smothering his emotion, “I know
not what.”
“You will go home with me?”
“If you desire it.”
“Enough, Alfred—I will go!”
He grasped my hand.
“But one proviso,” I added.
“Name it.”
“If you go to seek your Mary, I return alone.”
“Would you not accompany me to Ingledale?”
“I would rather not.”
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“Be it so then.”
“New Orleans!” continued I, musingly. “It was
the city mentioned. Oh! if I only dared to hope!”
“You are thinking of what you heard at Santa
Fe?” said Varney, inquiringly.
“I am.”
“I dare not excite your hope,” he replied; “but it
may not be impossible.”
“Enough! Alfred—enough!—not another word on
the subject! I will go with you.”
On reaching St. Louis, I immediately addressed a
long letter to my father, giving a brief account of my
adventures, and stating why I had resolved upon a
journey to New Orleans, and about what time I
thought it likely I should be in Philadelphia. Then
making some purchases—and, among the rest, a wig,
resembling as much as possible my natural hair,
which had not as yet grown to a proper length—we
took the first steamer for New Orleans, where in due
time we arrived in safety.
-- 488 -- p462-465
CHAPTER XXXVI. A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
[figure description] Page 488.[end figure description]
On my way to the Crescent City, I had sometimes
almost ventured to hope that inquiries at all the
boarding establishments and hotels, with a glance in
the directory, would give me the name of El Doliente—
though I had no more reason for supposing
him there, save the inference drawn by the servant
of Governor Armijo, than for supposing him in Mexico,
Havana, or Madrid. But grant I should find
him—what then? Why, then, perhaps, I should
discover Adele to be his wife—or him to be a villain—
and how much would either add to my happiness?
But it would be something to have certainty
in place of conjecture; and if I found him to be a villain,
it might prove some satisfaction to inflict a
merited punishment.
On the morning following our arrival, Varney, who
had risen and gone out very early alone, suddenly
burst into my room at the hotel, under great excitement,
and immediately sunk down upon a seat without
uttering a word.
“Good heavens!” cried I—“what is the matter,
Alfred? are you ill?”
“In a moment!” he said; “in a moment, Roland!
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[figure description] Page 489.[end figure description]
I am much excited. Mary is here, in the city, with
her father.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Have you seen her father?”
“No.”
“How do you know they are here?”
“I knew he owned a mansion here—at which he
sometimes spent the winter, or a portion of it—and I
have just been to see it. I found it occupied, and a
servant at work on the pavement. I inquired who
lived there, and was answered General Edwards. I
trembled and grew faint. The most important question
was now to come, and the answer would be life
or death.
“`Is his daughter Mary with him?'
“The answer was in the affirmative. I breathed
again—but almost gaspingly.
“`Is she married or single?'
“The negro stared at me, and hesitated—evidently
wondering what could be the meaning of such a
question from a stranger, who looked more mad than
sane.
“`I am an old friend, and have been a long time
away,' I hastened to add, at the same time slipping a
dollar into his hand. `Quick! boy—speak! is she
married or single?'
“`Single, mas'er—t'ank you, sah!' smiled the negro,
putting the coin into his pocket.
“I turned short about, Roland, without another
-- 490 --
[figure description] Page 490.[end figure description]
word, and I believe I ran down the street, but I am
not sure. At all events, I am here now, and hardly
know whether to believe my senses or not. I have
not been dreaming, have I, Roland?”
“You appear to be very wide awake now, at all
events,” I answered, grasping his hand; “and I will
venture to congratulate you on your future happiness.
Would to Heaven I were as sure of Adele as you are
of Mary!”
“But I am not sure, Roland—I have not seen her—
and I fairly tremble at the thought of meeting her,
and learning my fate.”
“If she is alive, and unwedded, you have nothing
to fear, Alfred.”
`Do you think so?” cried Varney, starting up like
a wild man and grasping my hand again. “Do you
really think I have nothing to fear?”
“I certainly do. But pray calm yourself! you are
more excited than I ever saw you before.”
“Because I am nearer joy or despair than I have
ever been since you have known me. Believe me,
Roland, it were easier for me to bear the pangs of
death than disappointment in this.”
“But why have you any doubts?”
“Perhaps she does not reciprocate my love!”
“But you have always thought differently!”
“I was far away then, and saw hope dimly in the
distance; but now, as I draw near the shining light, I
see a thousand intervening obstacles.”
“What are they?”
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[figure description] Page 491.[end figure description]
“What I took for affection, may only have been
gratitude; and then she is an heiress, while I am only
a poor adventurer.”
“But love levels all distinctions, Alfred.”
“Ay, love, without pride, between the immediate
parties, I grant you. But does she love? that is the
point. And then her father—would be consent to let
her throw herself away upon one little better than a
beggar?”
“If he object to you, Alfred, though without a
dollar—after the peculiar treatment you received while
under his roof—his gratitude for saving her life was
false—a base counterfeit!” said I, warmly.
“But though single, she may love another, Roland!
Heavens! what a thought!”
“Well, try and be calm; and go, like a man, and
learn your fate. Though rich as Crœsus, beautiful as
Hebe, chaste as Diana, and pure as an angel, you are
worthy of her, Alfred.”
“Ay, Roland—were you the arbiter of my fate, I
should fear nothing—but, unfortunately, others do
not hold me in such high esteem. I thank you for
the compliment—for I know it comes from your noble
heart.”
“Well, go and see her—your mind will be harassed
and tormented by doubts, fears, and hopes, till you
do.”
“I will!” said Varney, nervously; “I will go and
dress at once; and then —. But I must not think!
Will you accompany me, Roland?”
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[figure description] Page 492.[end figure description]
“No, you had better go alone; and I will occupy
myself, meantime, in prosecuting my inquiries concerning
El Doliente—though I, at least, have no hope
of reward.”
Soon after this conversation I went down, ate a
light breakfast, and sauntered out alone. The morning
was bright and clear—the air soft and spring-like;
and as I took my way through the busy streets, I
pondered the delights of a southern climate in winter,
after a quick journey from the ice-bound regions of
the north. I saw green leaves, and I scented flowers;
and really felt, to use a poetical figure, as if I had
leaped from the rugged shoulders of hoary Winter,
into the soft lap of young, smiling, gentle Summer.
I had searched the directory in vain for the name
of him I sought; and I now began to visit the different
hotels, where I thought it most likely El
Doliente might take up his abode while in the city.
I spent the day in eager inquiries; and returned to
my own quarters at night, sad and dispirited, having
obtained no intelligence of him whatever. Varney
had not yet returned; and from this I argued he had
met with that success which would result in a life-long
happiness; and though I rejoiced, for his sake, in
his good fortune, I could not but envy him, and feel
bitterly wretched when I contrasted his bright fate
with mine.
After taking some refreshment, I went up to my
room, and threw myself upon the bed, to await his
return; but finding I was too miserable to remain
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alone, I jumped up, hurried down stairs, and rushed
out into the street, feeling as if I wanted air. Hastening
along different thoroughfares—taking no heed of
my course, and without any definite object in view—
unless it might be to escape from myself, or my brainracking
thoughts—I at length found myself one of a
fashionably dressed throng of ladies and gentlemen,
who were crowding into a large, stately-looking edifice,
to hear, as I learned from their conversation,
some musical celebrity. Excitement, amusement,
anything to drive away thought, was what I wanted;
and so I entered with the rest, purchased a ticket, and
in due time found myself seated in a large, brilliant
hall, where strains of sweet music soon floated to my
spirit, and bore it away into an ideal realm of gorgeousness
and beauty.
During the whole entertainment, I seemed to be in
a kind of trance; but as I felt comparatively happy—
and at times absolutely so—deceiving myself with
fanciful illusions—I made no effort to arouse myself
and return to a cold, bitter reality. In recalling the
event at this time, I do not think I was wholly compos
mentis; for after the grand overture by the orchestra,
I remember nothing but bright lights and unearthly
music, and airy, floating, fairy forms, and brilliant,
gorgeous, heavenly scenes—which fancy brought before
the mental vision—till I found myself wedged
among the press on my way to the street; after which
event all is again distinct and clear. I remember, on
reaching the flags of the colonnade, of drawing aside
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from the living stream of human beings, and taking a
position where, without being too much jostled, I
could have a clear view of Creole beauty and fashion,
as the human tide poured downward and outward. I
was thus standing—admiringly viewing the many
beautiful features and forms that floated down the
long flight of steps, in the bright light, to disappear
in the surrounding shade—when suddenly my eyes
rested on a pale, sweet, lovely face; and for a few
moments every nerve seemed paralyzed, and my heart
rose to my throat.
Could it be? could it be? Great Heaven! could
it be? No! it must be fancy—another illusion? I
closed my eyes for an instant—only for an instant—
for I feared to lose sight of that sweet face. I opened
them quickly, and again riveted them upon that
descending figure, and upon him who held her arm,
and supported her down the long flight, and fondly
guided her steps, and strove to keep back the press.
No! it was no illusion—it was no portrayal of fancy—
it was reality; and, Great God! such a reality! It
was my deeply-loved, long-lost Adele Loyola—clinging
to, and sustained by, the strong arm of Juan El
Doliente.
It was a terrible ordeal, to stand paralyzed, and see
them pass me, without even the power of speech—and
my brain reeled, and my sight grew dim. At length,
with a convulsive gasp, I regained the power of motion,
and sprung after them, regardless of everything
and everybody around. Like a madman—as perhaps
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for the time I was—I plunged into the crowd, and
pushed forward to the street, with more than one anathema
following me from those I jostled roughly or
put rudely aside. I was just in time to see the two I
sought enter a splendid carriage, which was decorated
with a coat of arms, and had a black driver and footman
in rich livery. In my haste to reach the door
before it closed, I stumbled and fell; and by the time
I had regained my feet, the footman was mounted,
and the carriage was in motion. Fearful of losing
sight of it, I ran into the street, and shouted for a
hack.
“Here, mas'er, at you sarbis,” cried a black, from
the opposite side of the way.
“Do you see that carriage yonder, with its footman
in livery, just turning the corner?” said I, springing
to the negro, who was hastily opening the door of his
vehicle.
“Yes, sah—see dat cl'ar.”
“Quick, then! mount your box, and put me down
near where that stops, and it shall prove the best job
you have done for a month! Quick, now! or you
will lose sight of it!”
“Nebber fear dis chile, mas'er,” rejoined the negro,
as he grasped the lines and cracked his whip.
So far I had been governed wholly by impulse,
and had considered nothing but the fact that I must
not lose sight of Adele and the Spaniard till I had
traced them to their present quarters; but now I had
a few minutes for reflection, and reflection came in a
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way to cause me mental torture. I leaned back in the
carriage, and thought, till my brain ached, my vision
swam, and blue lights danced before my eyes. What
was I to do, on reaching El Doliente's residence?
what would be the proper course for me to pursue?
Undoubtedly it would be best to first ascertain if
Adele were his wife; and if so, to retire and not
make myself known; and return to my misery, and
leave them to their happiness, if happiness they could
find. But if she were not his wife? If not?—Good
heavens! how my blood boiled to think!—then must
she be the victim of a treacherous villain; for only by
lying and treachery could he have turned so pure a
heart from the path of virtue. Ha! another idea.
Perhaps he knew her history? Well, what then?
this could not sanction crime. But might he not be
a relative? Improbable, in the extreme—for had he
discovered any relationship, what more natural, or
likely, than that he would have proclaimed it at Bent's
Fort? There was something very strange and mysterious
in his taking such an interest in the girl before
he saw her; and I remembered asking him if he were
in love with her from my description, and his reply,
that he should never be my rival for her hand. What
could it all mean? But I should soon know, perhaps;
and should I discover he had wronged and ruined
her, then, as the law could not reach him, I determined
I would be her avenger. It would be a fearful
thing to become judge and executioner, I knew; but
in the state of mind I then was, I felt it would be
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necessary, if he were guilty, for one of us to quit the
human stage of life. Adele, in any event, I considered
lost to me for ever.
Such was a portion of the thoughts and reflections
that produced the effect I have described; and my
mind was still in a wild whirl, when the carriage
suddenly stopped, and the driver hastily opened the
door.
“Dar, mas'er,” said the negro, “you can see de
carriage I's followed, right over dar.”
I sprung out, and found myself standing in a broad,
clean, elegant street, with splendid private mansions
on either hand. About twenty rods distant, on the
opposite side of the way, was the carriage of El
Doliente; and while I looked, I saw him and Adele
ascend the marble steps, and the vehicle drive away.
“You have done well,” said I, handing the negro
a gold eagle; “and this will prove to you that I made
no empty promise.”
“De Lor' bress you, mas'er, for a true gent'lem!”
cried the black, opening his eyes with delight.
“Mount, and drive straight on, as if nothing had
happened!” I added.
And as the hack rolled away, I crossed the street
and walked leisurely along, till I came opposite the
residence which now contained the beings who had
already been so closely linked with my destiny, and
whose influence for good or evil it was my fate to
feel evermore. When I reached the steps, they had
disappeared within; and I looked up at the stately
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edifice, with its marble colonnade and iron balconies,
and knew that its owner must be a man of wealth—
perhaps of distinction, fashion, and power—and I
reflected, that if I would meet him as an equal, man
to man, there might never be a more opportune time
than the present. I felt for my pistols—which, from
my late habit of always going armed, I had not yet
laid aside—and finding them in their proper places,
I ascended the steps—determined, for the rest, to be
guided by such circumstances as fate might throw
around me.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
I looked at the silver plate on the door, and, by
the light of the street lamp, read the single name of
“Alvarez.”
I started, and trembled with excitement. What if,
after all, the negro had mistaken the carriage? I
hastily rung the bell.
“Does a gentleman reside here, named Juan El Doliente?”
I inquired of the liveried servant who answered
my summons.
“No, sah—don't know no such gent'lem!” was the
courteous, but somewhat consequential reply; and the
sleek negro held the door in a way to denote he was
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prepared to shut it the moment I might think proper
to retire.
It may be he has changed his name, or resumed his
right one, I mused, not a little perplexed and agitated.
“Will you be good enough to answer me a few
questions?” said I, slipping a silver coin into the
hand of the black.
“Sartin, sah—wid pleasure,” he quickly replied, in
a changed tone, letting the door swing back, and thus
disclosing to my view a long, high, lighted hall,
richly furnished.
“I am seeking a gentleman who once did me an
essential service,” I resumed; “but as he was rather
an eccentric personage, he may have changed his
name. It is possible your master may know something
of him—if, as I infer from the name, he is a
Spanish gentleman, and countryman of this El Doliente!”
“Shall I 'quire ob mas'er?” queried the black.
“A question or two first. How long have you
served your present master?”
“'Bout a year, I 'spect.”
“Is he a married man?”
“No, sah.”
The answer produced in me a very singular sensation—
a sensation I cannot define. I commanded my
feelings, as well as I could, and continued:
“How long has he resided in this city?”
“He's been here seberal time, sah—but he only
bought dis place jus' afore I come to lib wid him.”
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“Has he traveled much?”
“Great deal, sah, I 'spect.”
“Has he ever been in Mexico?”
“Yes, sah—he come from dat dar way last.”
“Do you know whether he was ever out on the
prairies among the Indians?”
“Yes, sah—dat's whar he's been too, sah—he's been
most ebery whar, sah!”
“Enough!” said I, finding that my feelings were
getting the mastery of my will. “Will you now be
so obliging as to inform him, that a gentleman desires
a few minutes' conversation with him in private?”
“Yes, sah—I'll tell him. What name shall I's say,
sah?”
I hesitated a moment, and replied:
“No matter about the name; but merely say a gentleman
who once knew him in another part of the
world.”
“Yes, sah—please step into de drawing-room and
I'll tell him, sah!”
“Thank you; but I would prefer to wait here till
you bring me an answer.”
“Yes, sah—jus' as you please.”
With strange feelings, and not a little external agitation,
I now stepped into the mansion, and stood, as
I believed, under the same roof with Adele Loyola.
The negro closed the outer door, and hastened away;
and there were a few minutes of suspense, during
which I mentally suffered as I hope never to suffer
again. At length I saw him hastily descending a
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long, spiral stairway, at the far end of the hall; and a
sudden weakness came over me, and I leaned against
the wall for support.
“Dis way, sah!” he said, apparently not perceiving
my agitation.
I summoned all my vital forces to my aid, and
quietly followed him. On reaching the second-story,
he threw open a door to the right, and ushered me
into a large, elegant library, with the single remark:
“Mas'er will soon be wid you, sah!”
I sent a quick, searching glance around, by a rather
dim light, which came from a large chandelier. Three
sides of the apartment were occupied with book-cases,
well filled; and the fourth was adorned by several
large, beautiful paintings. There was a writing desk,
open, with papers lying loose upon it; and there were
three or four large, elegantly stuffed arm-chairs; in
one of which I hastened to seat myself, as far from the
light as possible, and facing the door by which the
host must enter.
He came, even sooner than I wished; and I saw, at
a glance, he was no other than Juan El Doliente. For
a moment I felt as if I should faint; but I thought of
the wrongs of Adele, and instantly my nerves became
as iron. I was resolved, and felt sufficiently desperate
to make my resolution effective.
He approached me, with a look of curiosity, and I
arose to meet him.
“I have the honor, I believe, of addressing Juan
El Doliente?” I said, in a cold, firm tone.
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He slightly started, and looked surprised.
“I have been so called,” he answered. “May I, in
return, sir, have the honor of knowing the name of
him who addresses me?”
“You do not know me then?”
The light was not bright where I stood, and I purposely
kept my features as much in the shade as possible.
“Your face seems to have a familiar look,” he
answered, eyeing me closely; “but I do not know
where to place you, or by what name to address you.
I am almost certain, however, we have met before.”
“I am quite certain,” I rejoined, “that you have
seen me in reality, and perhaps in your dreams.”
“This is somewhat strange language,” he observed,
a little haughtily. “If you do not choose to give me
your name, will you be kind enough to state your
business?”
“I will do both, sir,” returned I, with heat. “As
for my name, I am at present to be known as The
Avenger; as to my business, I am here to make my
name good.”
“You talk enigmatically,” he rejoined, the blood
mounting to his temples.
“Then allow me to say you are a villian, sir!” I
cried. “Do you understand that? or will you have
it in plainer English?”
Instantly the blood retreated, his features turned
pale, his dark eyes flashed, and his thin lips quivered.
“I know not what object you may have in thus
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insulting me in my own dwelling,” he quickly replied;
“but I warn you, young man, not to trust too much to
my forbearance—for I am human, and not always
master of my passions! I will bid you good evening,
and one of my servants will show you the way to the
street.”
He turned, as if to leave the apartment; but I
sprung before him to the door; and ere he divined
my purpose, I had closed and set my back against it.
“What do you want? are you mad?” he demanded,
looking perplexed and astonished, and evidently feeling
some degree of alarm.
“Perhaps I am mad!” I rejoined; “but what I
want is, a settlement with you for a most damnable
act? You see I am a desperate man! and am prepared
for a desperate deed!” I continued, producing
my pistols. “Now mark me, Juan El Doliente! we
are alone together, and must remain so till this affair
is settled. Attempt to ring a bell, or otherwise call
for help, and you are a dead man. What I want first
is, that you do answer me truly, as you hope for life,
or fear death, two questions.”
“Speak!” he said, growing much excited.
“First, then—are you a married man?”
“I have been.”
“But now? I mean now?”
“I am not—my sweet wife is in Heaven!” and his
voice trembled.
“Now, then,” continued I, “the most important
question of the two: Is Adele Loyola your victim?”
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“Adele Loyola my victim?” he repeated, taking a
step or two backward, his features expressive of the
most unbounded amazement. “Good God! what do
you mean? who are you?”
“No stage attitudes and show tricks shall cover
your black-hearted villany!” cried I, desperately
grasping my weapons. “Answer me, as you will one
day answer your Maker! Is Adele Loyola your
victim?”
“Tell me, then, what you mean? and how I am to
answer?” he rejoined, in much agitation.
“I mean, then, have you seduced her from the path
of virtue? and ruined her like a villain? and you are
to answer truly, as God is your judge!”
“Seduced and ruined my own daughter? Great God
forbid!” he cried.
“How? exclaimed I, hardly able to credit my
senses, and feeling my brain reel, as the truth, mighty
and overpowering, flashed upon me. “Your daughter,
say you? Adele Loyola your daughter?”
“I see how it is!” he cried; “you knew her when
she was a friendless wanderer—and by a name that
was not her own—and hence this mistake.”
“But you are not deceiving me?”
“As I hope for salvation, no! Let me call her if
you doubt, and hear her confirm my words.”
The pistols fell from my hands; and reeling to a
seat, I sunk down upon it, faint, and half suffocated
with a whirl of contending emotions.
“I am a fool—an idiot—a madman!” I gasped, as
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Alvarez hastened to my relief. “I have wronged
you, sir—deeply, bitterly wronged you—and I pray
your forgiveness for the almost fatal mistake.”
“You have my forgiveness, with all my heart,” he
said, in a kindly and sympathetic tone.
“I know much of her history, and something of
yours,” I continued—“enough of both to credit your
assertion.”
“But, in Heaven's name, pray tell me who you
are?” he cried, much excited,
“I am Roland Rivers.”
“Great God!” he ejaculated—“is it possible? Let
me look! Here—turn your face to the light! Yes—
yes—it is Roland Rivers: I see your features now, as
I saw them on the prairie. But you are so changed, I
might not have known you, even had I known you to
be living. But we all thought you dead; and Marina
has done nothing but mourn your loss. How wonderful!
how strange! how wonderful! how strange!”
and repeating these words, he sunk upon a seat, and
stared at me as one stupefied with amazement. “Oh,
my dear friend!” he cried, suddenly springing up and
embracing me—“this will be a night of joy to my
poor Marina!”
“To whom?” inquired I, not comprehending him.
“To my dear, long lost daughter Marina—to her
you knew as Adele.”
“Then Adele was not her name?”
“No more than that villain Loyola was her father.
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Henceforth, Roland, you must know her as Marina
Alexa Helena de Alvarez, Countess of Zamora.”
“A Countess!” exclaimed I; “poor Adele a Countess!
I am all amazement!”
“As well you may be, my friend. God's Providence
has worked wonders in all our lives; and I know not
who is most amazed, you or I. Do you know, I am
almost afraid to leave the apartment, lest on my return
I shall find you vanished into thin air, and
myself the sport of a delusion.”
“It gives me joy unspeakable to know I am so
esteemed by one whom but now I called a villain,”
said I; “but I assure you, you need not fear of finding
me a substantial reality for the present—though
perhaps not altogether a rational being.”
For a few minutes we remained together, absorbed
in wonder—neither saying much—but that little, in
a very slight degree, expressive of our inexpressible
thoughts and emotions.
“I am eager to hear you relate your remarkable
adventures,” at length said Alvarez, “and to learn
how you traced me hither!”
“And I to learn something of your remarkable
history,” I rejoined; “but first let me look upon the
sweet face of Adele; and then we will exchange
stories; and acknowledge, with humble, soul-felt
thankfulness, there is a Power that guards and guides
which is incomprehensible to finite beings.”
Alvarez crossed himself, bowed his head in silent
prayer, and rejoined:
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“Call her not Adele, my friend—for the name was
bestowed by a villain, and revives painful recollections.”
“But she will always be Adele to me,” I said—
“for by that name she won my heart. However, I
will compromise. I will think of her as Adele, and
call her Marina. But pray let me behold her once
more!”
“Stay you here, and I will go and prepare her to
receive you.”
“Nay, do not that—but introduce me as a traveller—
a whilom companion of yours. I would test her
power of recognition: it may be no better than your
own.”
“Trust love for that,” he rejoined, with a smile.
“I only fear the shock of discovery may produce
unpleasant consequences.”
“Have I then really such a hold upon her heart?”
“Marina, like her sainted mother,” he replied, in a
tremulous voice, “is a being to love but once, for love
is her life. How she loves you, Roland Rivers, you
will soon ascertain. And my friend, (grasping my
hand,) you deserve her love—you are worthy of
her—and you are the only being on the face of this
earth to whom I would speak these words. Nay, no
self-disparagement! I know with what self-sacrifice—
with what nobility of soul—you saved her; and how
you watched over her, with the care of a father, or
brother, in your long, perilous flight from captivity;
I know all; and now I am ready to shed tears of joy,
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that you are about to reap your reward; and that the
two and only beings I truly love on earth, are about
to be made happy, I trust for ever. But I will bring
Marina hither, and let love take its course, if you will
promise to be guarded and prudent in making yourself
known.”
“Trust me, I will.”
“The light shall remain dim till you have tested
the eyes of love,” he said, with a smile, and left the
apartment.
I leaned back, and fancied I could hear the beatings
of my heart till the door again opened, and then it
seemed as if every organ of my system had suddenly
ceased motion.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE FINALE.
Dona Marina, Countess of Zamora, entered the
apartment with ease and grace, hanging lightly on the
arm of her noble father. I arose, as a stranger, to
salute her; but trembled so, that I dared not take a
single step forward; and really feared I should be
compelled to resume my seat in a manner which
would appear extremely awkward, if not rude. She
was richly, but plainly, attired in the prevailing
fashion; and her dark features—naturally pale, and
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tinged with melancholy, but now slightly tinted with
a rosy hue—were so sweet, so lovely, that I was on
the point of forgetting myself, springing forward, and
disclosing all, by uttering the loved name of Adele.
The Count read my feelings, and, fearful of consequences,
hastened forward and said:
“Senor Rios, allow me to present to you my
daughter Marina, of whom you have heard me
speak.”
I bowed, without trusting my voice; and Marina,
making a graceful salutation, took a seat near. The
Count quietly drew up another chair, and we both
sat down—he, to relieve us of any embarrassment,
immediately observing:
“I have informed my daughter, Senor Rios, that
we once met, far away, and were fellow travellers for
several days.”
“That meeting and that journey I shall never forget,”
I replied, quietly.
At the first sound of my voice, Marina started—all
color instantly forsook her face—and she turned her
soft, dark eyes, now sparkling with a wild light,
searchingly upon me.
“I understand,” I pursued, addressing her with as
much calmness as it was possible for me to command
on so exciting an occasion—“I understand that your
ladyship has passed through some eventful scenes?”
She looked wildly at me, and then at the Count,
and exclaimed:
“My dear father, who is it that speaks?”
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“Whom do you think, my child?”
“If the grave can give back the dead to the living,
it is Roland Rivers.”
“The grave cannot, sweet daughter,” he replied,
anxiously; “but the grave does not always hold the
lost.”
“Great Heaven! it is then Roland Rivers!” she
cried, springing to her feet, and looking still more
wildly at me. “Senor Rios! Senor Rios! Yes! yes!
it is!”
“It is, Adele,” said I, using her former name, and
making an attempt to rise.
She uttered one wild shriek, fell upon my neck, and
fainted in my arms.
“I fear we have killed her!” cried her now halfdistracted
father, hastening to ring for her attendants.
A scene of confusion ensued that I need not describe.
It was more than an hour before all again
became quiet; and then Marina was sitting by my
side, her hands clasped with joy, and her dark eyes,
beaming love, fixed fondly and intently upon mine,
as if she feared, as her father had before expressed,
that I might vanish into thin air. As for myself, I
have no language to portray the emotions which
stirred me to the very depths of my innermost soul.
I can only say, that I seemed to myself like a part
and portion of an enchantment that was painful with
rapture.
Oh! the golden hours of that night of joy—how
swiftly they flew! I told the story of my captivity,
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my return, my suspicions, and my madness, even up
to the moment of my present happiness; and Marina
listened, and wept—wept tears of such joy as comes
up from the inner soul but once in a human life.
“Dear Roland,” she at last exclaimed, with tearful
eyes, “what guarded, guided, and brought us together
so mysteriously? Will you say now you do not believe
in ministering spirits?”
“With you by my side, dear Marina, I am ready
to believe in everything pure and holy,” I replied.
Having ordered refreshments, my noble host now
began and told his tale—which, though strange, thrilling,
and romantic, I shall take the liberty to abridge,
and give in the fewest words possible. He was a
nobleman by birth, a native of Spain, and his rightful
name was Don Juan Alvaro de Alvarez, Count of Zamora.
He had a princely residence and retinue in his
native country, was in high favor at Court, and married
the lady of his choice, by whom he had one child,
a daughter, the lovely being who has figured in my
narrative as Adele. All went on prosperously and
happily till the loss of his child, who was stolen at a
tender age by a villain named Romanez, and the same
who has slightly figured in my narrative as Gaspard
Loyola. This Romanez was an officer in the household
of the Count, who was discharged for a flagrant
act, and took this mode of revenge. And a terrible
revenge it proved; for the wife of the Count died
subsequently, of a disease engendered by grief at the
loss of her daughter; and the Count himself, half
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distracted at the loss of both, sold his effects—and, to
find some relief to an aching heart, became a traveller
and a wanderer, assuming the expressive title of Juan
El Doliente, or Juan The Sufferer. He had visited
this country more than once in his wandering life;
and had, at different times, for a brief period, made
his home in New Orleans. But the canker at his
heart would never let him rest; and so he had continued
to wander, wherever he thought he could meet
with excitement or novelty, till chance or Providence
threw him in my way, and he heard my story of
Adele, whom he was fain to think might possibly
prove to be his long lost daughter. This idea was the
cause of that intense excitement which he exhibited
on hearing my narrative, and which then proved so
incomprehensible to me, who of course knew nothing
of the real facts. My description of Loyola was a
correct description, he thought, of Romanez; and
being eager to see the girl, and learn the truth, he
volunteered to fit out an expedition to go in quest of
her; but fearing he might be disappointed, he hardly
trusted himself to hope, and kept his secret to himself.
Why Romanez, or Loyola, placed Marina in a
convent in Mexico, was still something of a mystery;
but it was conjectured that, she being very young at
the time, and probably a burden to him, he had
thought this a feasible plan to have her taken care of
till she should arrive at an age to be of some assistance
to him. And it was further surmised, that it might
have been his intention, at a period subsequent to my
-- 513 --
[figure description] Page 513.[end figure description]
meeting with her, to disclose all, and force her to
become his wife, with the idea of eventually turning
this to his account in a pecuniary point of view. Be
this as it may, it will readily be seen that he had a
motive in not destroying her life, and in allowing her
no opportunity to disclose what little she did know of
her history. On placing her in the convent, he had
given her the name of Adele, and changed his own,
asserting that he was her father, and that her own
mother was dead. After taking her away, he had
always kept her with him, and made her useful to him
in the business he had adopted, which was that of an
itinerant trader. Of his harsh, brutal treatment I
need not speak, as the reader himself had a specimen
on his first introduction, in propria persona, into my
story.
On meeting with his daughter on the mountains, as
mentioned by Botter, Alvarez saw at a glance a
strong resemblance to her beloved mother; but still
fearing there might be some mistake, he smothered
his emotions, and kept his secret, till he found a proper
opportunity to reveal it to her at St. Vrain's Fort.
This revelation caused that marked change in her
demeanor toward him, which led the old mountaineer
to suspect a different cause for the intimacy, and the
scandal-mongers to start the villanous report which
reached me through him. As the Count and his
daughter both thought it proper to find the convent
where she had been educated, and get further facts
before proclaiming their relationship, they set off
-- 514 --
[figure description] Page 514.[end figure description]
together in the manner stated, and made no mention
of it at Bent's Fort, or any other place through which
they passed, preferring to let the evil-minded think
and say what they pleased, and all parties draw their
own conclusions.
I will pass over the long, anxious journey into
Mexico, and merely state that the convent of Santa
Maria was at last found, and some new facts gathered;
and these facts, taken in connection with some personal
marks of identity, and the strong resemblance
Adele bore to the deceased Countess, were sufficient
to induce the forlorn Count to claim, and proclaim,
her as his long lost daughter Marina. Hastening from
the convent of Santa Maria to Vera Cruz, they sailed
for New Orleans, where the Count immediately purchased
his present dwelling, furniture, servants, etc.,
and established his residence, resolved to make this
his future home—but where, after all, as he himself
expressed it, in conclusion, the presence of myself was
needed to complete the happiness of his lovely daughter.
With this explanation, I trust the reader will
find I have closed up all points that in the course of
my story may have seemed mysterious, and which at
first view may have been regarded as having no direct
bearing upon the denouement.
It was already broad day-light when I left the mansion
of Don Alvaro and his lovely daughter to return
to my hotel. They pressed me to stay longer, and
were loth to part from me even for a moment; but I
knew that Marina needed rest, after a sleepless night
-- 515 --
[figure description] Page 515.[end figure description]
of such wild excitement; and I knew that Varney, if
he had returned, would be greatly troubled at my absence;
so I tore myself away, promising to return to
dinner. How changed were my feelings, as I now
hurried through the streets, from those I had experienced
but a few short hours before? Then I was
almost mad with gloom and despair—now almost wild
with rapture! Truly, the age of a human being
should be reckoned by events—not years.
As I expected, I found Varney laboring under great
excitement from several causes—not the least important
of which was my own unaccountable absence.
“My dear Roland,” he cried, grasping my hand,
“where have you been? and what has happened?
You look weary and pale!”
“It is well if I look no worse,” I replied, with a
solemn air—for I felt in the mood to mystify him a
little before making known to him my good fortune.
“In Heaven's name! what has happened? You have
not been here during the whole night; and I have
been tortured with a thousand wild surmises!” he
cried.
“And how much of the night have you been here?”
I asked in return. “I was here the first part, I know,
but I was too gloomy to remain alone; so I rushed
out, and became the hero of one of the most remarkable
adventures on record.”
“Explain, Roland!”
“Rather let me hear your report first. Did you see
Mary Edwards?”
-- 516 --
[figure description] Page 516.[end figure description]
“I did, God bless her!” he exclaimed, joyfully.
“Well, she is yours?”
“She is, my dear friend! she is!” he cried, excitedly,
grasping my hand, and struggling to keep down
his emotions. “Oh! my dear Roland, I am half mad
with joy—and God knows how my heart swells with
gratitude for all His mercies and blessings! Yes, I
found her more beautiful even than I remembered
her; and, would you believe it, my more than brother,
she was actually mourning my absence. Her joy at
seeing me returned in health completely overcame
her; and her father, as he grasped my hand, cried like
a child. I returned here at twelve, the most happy
being living; and all the sorrow I have since felt was
on your account. Forgive me, my friend, for pouring
into your ear this joyful news in such a wild, heedless
manner! and believe me, through it all I deeply
sympathize with you in your irreparable loss. Oh!
if Heaven had only willed that you might be blessed
with Adele, as I am with Mary, what earthly happiness
would then equal ours?”
“I thank you for your sympathy, Alfred; and
really congratulate you with all my heart!” I rejoined,
vigorously shaking his hand.
“And now tell me of yourself, Roland! You say
you have had a remarkable adventure?”
`I have indeed. Let us be seated—I am fatigued.
Well, you must know, that, after quitting you in the
morning, I began my search for El Doliente—but
returned at night, as I had expected, without finding
-- 517 --
[figure description] Page 517.[end figure description]
any trace of him whatever. After a slight repast, I
came up to my room here, to wait for you—but found
myself so miserable as to be obliged to seek the open
air for relief. Not caring whither my steps might
lead me, I set off hurriedly through the streets; and
at last, unexpectedly, got wedged among a throng of
people, who were going to listen to some musical
celebrity, whose name I do not even now know. I
entered the hall with the rest, and sat through the
entertainment in a sort of trance. On coming out, I
stationed myself where I could get a good view of
Creole fashion and beauty; and there remained till
my eye fell upon a face more lovely than all the rest—
at least I thought so, you understand—and which so
stirred me that I determined to follow her home.
Her companion was a gentleman who might be her
father, brother, husband, or lover, for anything that
I knew—but this did not deter me from carrying out
my design. On reaching the street they took a carriage—
my divinity and her companion, you perceive—
and I took another, ordering the driver to put me
down wherever they might stop. Well, they halted
before an elegant mansion, and went in, and I followed
them.”
“Not into the mansion, Roland?” cried Varney, in
astonishment.
“Ay, but I did, though, even into the mansion, my
friend! Do not look so astonished, Alfred! I am
telling you the truth—and am perfectly sane now—
though whether I was at that precise time, is
-- 518 --
[figure description] Page 518.[end figure description]
somewhat doubtful; but, at all events, I felt very desperate,
and gave little thought to appearances or
consequences.”
“Mad as a loon!” exclaimed Varney; “you must
have been! or you would never have dared to carry
matters so far. I am astonished!”
“I believe you, my friend, for you show it in your
looks—but you will be more astonished yet, when
you hear the whole of my story.”
“But how did you get into the dwelling?”
“I asked to see the master, and gave the servant
some money.”
“Well, they turned you out?”
“Not exactly, or I should have been here sooner.
But pray do not anticipate—for you could not guess
the truth, if you were to occupy all the time between
this and your coming nuptials.”
“Roland,” cried Varney, anxiously, looking at me
in an earnest, singular manner—“are you really sure
you are sane now?”
“Perfectly—do you doubt it?”
“You certainly talk very strangely.”
“Well, I have had cause; but as you seem determined
not to let me finish my story, you may as well
guess the rest, while I lie down and rest myself;” and
as I spoke, I threw myself upon the bed.
“No, no, Roland—forgive me! Go on, and tell
your singular story in your own way! I will not interrupt
you again.”
“Ten dollars to one that you do! But no matter
-- 519 --
[figure description] Page 519.[end figure description]
—you shall hear all. Well, I was shown into the
gentleman's library, where he shortly made his appearance;
and after closing the door, and putting my
back against it, I drew my pistols, threatened his life,
and in an indirect way accused him of seducing the
young lady from the path of virtue.”
“Roland,” exclaimed Varney, jumping up from his
chair, “if you are really telling me the truth now, I
only wonder you are here to tell it, instead of being
locked up in the calaboose.”
“There, I knew I would win!” said I: “you cannot
possibly let me tell my story without interruption.”
“Any reasonable story I could!” cried Varney;
“but this is outrageous. Follow a strange lady home!
go into a strange gentleman's house! and actually
threaten his life, and accuse him of wrong and dishonor!
Heavens! what next? But I suppose he took
you for a stray lunatic, and so let you go?”
“He did better, if you will only listen. He was
horrified at my accusation; and informed me that the
young lady was his daughter; and, more than that,
an heiress, and a Spanish Countess; and on my requesting
to see her, he brought her in, introduced her
to me, and we spent the night in very agreeable conversation.
And, what is still more to the purpose, I
am desperately in love with her; and we are to be
married shortly, with the consent of her father, Don
Juan Alvaro de Alvarez, Count of Zamora.”
I shall never forget the expression of Varney's
-- 520 --
[figure description] Page 520.[end figure description]
features as I came to the conclusion. It was not easy
to determine which predominated—grief or horror—
as he fixed his eyes upon me, and muttered:
“Poor fellow! poor fellow! now I know he has lost
his senses. Despair has driven him mad. What a
terrible blow this will be to his parents!”
“Come,” pursued I, “where are your congratulations?
Why do you not grasp my hands and wish
me much joy, as I did you? If it is such a happy
event for you to get married, why not also for me?”
“Lie down, Roland, my dear friend!” he said, in a
kindly, sympathetic tone; “lie down and rest yourself;
you are greatly fatigued; and I think rest will
do you good.”
“And is this all you have to say to an old friend,
who has stood by you through many a peril and trial,
when he tells you he is about to marry Dona Marina
Alexa Helena de Alvarez, Countess of Zamora?”
cried I. “Fie! Alfred—I thought better of you.”
“Oh! merciful Heaven!” groaned poor Varney, the
perspiration standing in beads on his pale face; “this
is terrible! this is terrible! poor fellow! poor fellow!”
and he sunk heavily upon his seat.
“Perhaps you are envious of my good fortune?”
said I.
“No, God knows I am not, my dear fellow.”
“Well, there is one thing,” I continued, “I have
neglected to mention. Undoubtedly it will not cause
you to cease your astonishment—but I think it will
clear me of being in your estimation non compos mentis.
-- 521 --
[figure description] Page 521.[end figure description]
I have so far neglected to tell you, that Don Juan
Alvaro de Alvarez, Count of Zamora, and his lovely
daughter, Dona Marina Alexa Helena de Alvarez,
Countess of Zamora, are no other than Juan El
Doliente and Adele Loyola!”
“What!” cried Varney, springing up so suddenly
as to upset his chair and a table on which his arm
was resting: “You do not mean to say—Good Heavens!—
Roland—you—I am—choking—you—are not—
mad then?”
“Not quite so mad as you are, poor fellow!” said I,
with a hearty burst of laughter.
“And—and—heavens! you are in earnest?”
“Assuredly I am: earnest in having told the truth—
earnest in having had my joke.”
“And—you—have really—found Adele and El
Doliente?”
“Found them as father and daughter—Count and
Countess—that is, if you allow a daughter to be a
Countess while her father the Count is living.”
Varney bounded forward, grasped my hand, and
nearly wrung it off; and then sat down and cried for
joy.
There is little more to add, to complete the narrative
of my adventures—for it was never my design, dear
reader, to take you through all the scenes of my life.
If you are pleased and satisfied with what you have
received, we shall part friends; but whether you are
-- 522 --
[figure description] Page 522.[end figure description]
satisfied or not, we shall soon part, to meet no more
on the stage of life.
I remained two weeks in the Crescent City; and
every day, in the society of her I loved, my happiness
seemed to increase, till I felt my soul filled with
a rapture that banished even the thought of sorrow
and gloom. At last, on a bright, glorious day—
attended by Alfred Varney and Mary Edwards, and
many of the elite of the capital of fashion, wealth and
beauty—I led her to the sacred altar of her faith; and
there, in the presence of a large concourse of spectators,
the holy rite was solemnized, which bound us
together, here and hereafter, in time and in eternity,
on earth and in the heavens; and the great organ of
the vast cathedral pealed its joy; and on its sweet,
solemn music our happy souls seemed to float upward
into the realms elysian.
“Roland! Marina!” said the Count, on taking leave
of us, as he held a hand of each, while his eyes rained
tears, and his voice trembled with emotions of joy;
“may the great and good God, and all his saints and
ministering spirits, ever watch over you, prosper you,
and bless you, even as I do now bless you with a
father's love. My dream is now fulfilled. You remember,
Roland, how I told you, in yon far wilderness,
that I had had a dream, that filled my soul with
ecstacy, and which might become a reality even as
my soul saw it. You have seen it, and been a part of
it—and so has my sweet daughter Marina—God bless
-- 523 --
[figure description] Page 523.[end figure description]
you both! And now, hard as it is to part, I must for
a season, I trust a brief season, say farewell!”
On the very day of my marriage, I left New Orleans
for my northern home; where in due time I
arrived, and filled the hearts of my parents and friends
with joy.
Many years have passed since then, and I have more
than once crossed the great deep in company with my
still lovely wife and her noble father; and I have
even stood in the venerable halls where Marina passed
her infancy, and have seen that picture of a happy
home which she drew from memory at our first meeting
in the wilderness. Surrounded now with a loving
wife, and blooming children, and pleasant friends, I
am still happy, whether my time be spent in my
northern or my southern home: and I need only add,
that Alfred Varney finds a happiness which equals
mine—it could no more.
And now, kind reader—you who have been with
me out upon the great prairies, and among the great
mountains—and have seen nature in her wildness,
freedom, beauty and grandeur—where man, untamed
as the beast, roams at will, and rules physically rather
than intellectually; you who have witnessed strange
scenes, and thrilling scenes, in which I have played an
humble part; and have returned with me to the
haunts of civilization, and have seen brighter scenes,
and happier scenes; and have ever lent me your
kindly sympathy—sorrowing with me in my sorrow,
and rejoicing with me in my joy,—to you I must now
-- 524 --
[figure description] Page 524.[end figure description]
say farewell. That you may ever surmount all obstacles
which lie in your pathway of life, and reach the
loftiest summit of your hopes and aspirations, and
behold the sun of joy pouring upon you the light of
an eternal day, is the prayer of him who now bids
you a final adieu!
THE END.
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[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Page 004.[end figure description]
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KATE WALSINGHAM.
THE POOR COUSIN.
ELLEN WAREHAM.
THE QUIET HUSBAND.
WHO SHALL BE HEIR?
THE SECRET FOE.
AGNES SERLE.
THE HEIRESS.
PRINCE AND PEDLER.
MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.
THE FRIGHT.
NAN DARRELL.
THE SQUIRE.
THE EXPECTANT.
THE GRUMBLER. 50 cts.
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MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS.
COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS
OF AMERICAN LIFE. With a Portrait of the Author. Complete
in two large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one
volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE. With illustrations. Complete
in two large volumes, paper cover, 600 pages, price One Dollar,
or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. Complete
in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one
volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
ROBERT GRAHAM. The Sequel to, and continuation of Linda. Being
the last book but one that Mrs. Hentz wrote prior to her death.
Complete in two large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or
bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
RENA; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life. Complete in two
volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume,
cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. A Tale of
the South. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar,
or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE; and other Stories. Complete in two volumes,
paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth
gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.
EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE. Complete in two volumes, paper
cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25.
THE BANISHED SON; and other Stories. Complete in two volumes,
paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25.
HELEN AND ARTHUR. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price
One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25.
The whole of the above are also published in a very fine style, bound
in the very best and most elegant and substantial manner, in full Crimson,
with beautifully gilt edges, full gilt sides, gilt backs, etc., etc., making
them the best and most acceptable books for presentation at the price,
published in the country. Price of either one in this style, Two Dollars.
T. S. ARTHUR'S WORKS.
Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are
the most moral, popular and entertaining in the world. There are no
better books to place in the hands of the young. All will profit by them.
YEAR AFTER MARRIAGE.
THE DIVORCED WIFE.
THE BANKER'S WIFE.
PRIDE AND PRUDENCE.
CECILIA HOWARD.
MARY MORETON.
LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
LOVE IN HIGH LIFE.
THE TWO MERCHANTS.
LADY AT HOME.
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH.
THE ORPHAN CHILDREN.
THE DEBTOR'S DAUGHTER
INSUBORDINATION.
LUCY SANDFORD.
AGNES, or the Possessed.
THE TWO BRIDES.
THE IRON RULE.
THE OLD ASTROLOGER.
THE SEAMSTRESS.
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[figure description] Page 006.[end figure description]
CHARLES LEVER'S NOVELS.
CHARLES O'MALLEY, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. Complete
in one large octavo volume of 324 pages. Price Fifty cents; or
an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One
Dollar.
THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE. A tale of the time of the Union. By
Charles Lever. Complete in one fine octavo volume. Price Fifty
cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated.
Price One Dollar.
JACK HINTON, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever. Complete in one
large octavo volume of 400 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an edition
on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.
TOM BURKE OF OURS. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large
octavo volume of 300 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on
finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.
ARTHUR O LEARY. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large octavo
volume. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in
cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.
KATE O'DONOGHUE. A Tale of Ireland. By Charles Lever. Complete
in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents; or an edition
on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.
HORACE TEMPLETON. By Charles Lever. This is Lever's New
Book. Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents; or
an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.
HARRY LORREQUER. By Charles Lever, author of the above seven
works. Complete in one octavo volume of 402 pages. Price Fifty
cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price
One Dollar.
VALENTINE VOX.—LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF VALENTINE
VOX, the Ventriloquist. By Henry Cockton. One of the most
humorous books ever published. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on
finer paper, bound in cloth. Price One Dollar.
PERCY EFFINGHAM. By Henry Cockton, author of “Valentine Vox,
the Ventriloquist.” One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents.
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. By Samuel C. Warren. With Portraits
of Snap, Quirk, Gammon, and Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq. Two large
octavo vols., of 547 pages. Price One Dollar; or an edition on finer
paper, bound in cloth, $1,50.
CHARLES J. PETERSON'S WORKS.
KATE AYLESFORD. A story of the Refugees. One of the most popular
books ever printed. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover.
Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, gilt. Price $1 25.
CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR. A Naval Story of the War of 1812.
First and Second Series. Being the complete work, unabridged. By
Charles J. Peterson. 228 octavo pages. Price 50 cents.
GRACE DUDLEY; OR, ARNOLD AT SARATOGA. By Charles J.
Peterson. Illustrated. Price 25 cents.
THE VALLEY FARM; OR, the AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ORPHAN.
A companion to Jane Eyre. Price 25 cents.
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EUGENE SUE'S NOVELS.
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS; AND GEROLSTEIN, the Sequel to it.
By Eugene Sue, author of the “Wandering Jew,” and the greatest
work ever written. With illustrations. Complete in two large volumes,
octavo. Price One Dollar.
THE ILLUSTRATED WANDERING JEW. By Eugene Sue. With
87 large illustrations. Two large octavo volumes. Price One Dollar.
THE FEMALE BLUEBEARD; or, the Woman with many Husbands.
By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty-five cents.
FIRST LOVE. A Story of the Heart. By Eugene Sue. Price Twentyfive
cents.
WOMAN'S LOVE. A Novel. By Eugene Sue. Illustrated. Price
Twenty-five cents.
MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN. A Tale of the Sea. By Eugene Sue. Price
Twenty-five cents.
RAOUL DE SURVILLE; or, the Times of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1810.
Price Twenty-five cents.
SIR E. L. BULWER'S NOVELS.
FALKLAND. A Novel. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, author of “The Roue,”
“Oxonians,” etc. One volume, octavo. Price 25 cents.
THE ROUE; OR THE HAZARDS OF WOMEN. Price 25 cents.
THE OXONIANS. A Sequel to the Roue. Price 25 cents.
CALDERON THE COURTIER. By Bulwer. Price 12½ cents.
MRS. GREY'S NOVELS.
Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are
printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume,
complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover.
DUKE AND THE COUSIN.
GIPSY'S DAUGHTER.
BELLE OF THE FAMILY.
SYBIL LENNARD.
THE LITTLE WIFE.
MANŒUVRING MOTHER.
LENA CAMERON; or, the Four
Sisters.
THE BARONET'S DAUGHTERS.
THE YOUNG PRIMA DONNA.
THE OLD DOWER HOUSE.
HYACINTHE.
ALICE SEYMOUR.
HARRY MONK.
MARY SEAHAM. 250 pages.
Price 50 cents.
PASSION AND PRINCIPLE.
200 pages. Price 50 cents.
GEORGE W. M. REYNOLD'S WORKS.
THE NECROMANCER. A Romance of the times of Henry the Eighth.
By G. W. M. Reynolds. One large volume. Price 75 cents.
THE PARRICIDE; OR, THE YOUTH'S CAREER IN CRIME. By
G. W. M. Reynolds. Full of beautiful illustrations. Price 50 cents.
LIFE IN PARIS; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALFRED DE ROSANN
IN THE METROPOLIS OF FRANCE. By G. W. M. Reynolds.
Full of Engravings. Price 50 cents.
-- 008 --
[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
AINSWORTH'S WORKS.
JACK SHEPPARD.—PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
JACK SHEPPARD, the most noted burglar, robber, and jail breaker,
that ever lived. Embellished with Thirty-nine, full page, spirited
Illustrations, designed and engraved in the finest style of art, by
George Cruikshank, Esq., of London. Price Fifty cents.
ILLUSTRATED TOWER OF LONDON. With 100 splendid engravings.
This is beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever
published in the known world, and can be read and re-read with
pleasure and satisfaction by everybody. We advise all persons to
get it and read it. Two volumes, octavo. Price One Dollar.
PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF GUY FAWKES, The
Chief of the Gunpowder Treason. The Bloody Tower, etc. Illustrated.
By William Harrison Ainsworth. 200 pages. Price Fifty cents.
THE STAR CHAMBER. An Historical Romance. By W. Harrison
Ainsworth. With 17 large full page illustrations. Price 50 cents.
THE PICTORIAL OLD ST. PAUL'S. By William Harrison Ainsworth.
Full of Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.
MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE. By William
Harrison Ainsworth. Price Fifty cents.
MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF THE STUARTS. By Ainsworth.
Being one of the most interesting Historical Romances ever written.
One large volume. Price Fifty cents.
DICK TURPIN.—ILLUSTRATED LIFE OF DICK TURPIN, the
Highwayman, Burglar, Murderer, etc. Price Twenty-five cents.
HENRY THOMAS.—LIFE OF HARRY THOMAS, the Western Burglar
and Murderer. Full of Engravings. Price Twenty-five cents.
DESPERADOES.—ILLUSTRATED LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
THE DESPERADOES OF THE NEW WORLD. Full of engravings.
Price Twenty-five cents.
NINON DE L'ENCLOS.—LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NINON
DE L'ENCLOS, with her Letters on Love, Courtship and Marriage.
Illustrated. Price Twenty-five cents.
THE PICTORIAL NEWGATE CALENDAR; or the Chronicles of Crime.
Beautifully illustrated with Fifteen Engravings. Price Fifty cents.
PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF DAVY CROCKETT.
Written by himself. Beautifully illustrated. Price Fifty cents.
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR SPRING, the murderer of
Mrs. Ellen Lynch and Mrs. Honora Shaw, with a complete history of
his life and misdeeds, from the time of his birth until he was hung.
Illustrated with portraits. Price Twenty-five cents.
JACK ADAMS.—PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK
ADAMS; the celebrated Sailor and Mutineer. By Captain Chamier,
author of “The Spitfire.” Full of illustrations. Price Fifty cents.
GRACE O'MALLEY.—PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
GRACE O'MALLEY. By William H. Maxwell, author of “Wild
Sports in the West.” Price Fifty cents.
THE PIRATE'S SON. A Sea Novel of great interest. Full of beautiful
illustrations. Price Twenty-five cents.
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ALEXANDRE DUMAS' WORKS.
THE IRON MASK, OR THE FEATS AND ADVENTURES OF
RAOULE DE BRAGELONNE. Being the conclusion of “The
Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years After,” and “Bragelonne.” By
Alexandre Dumas. Complete in two large volumes, of 420 octavo
pages, with beautifully Illustrated Covers, Portraits, and Engravings.
Price One Dollar.
LOUISE LA VALLIERE; OR THE SECOND SERIES AND FINAL
END OF THE IRON MASK. By Alexandre Dumas. This work
is the final end of “The Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years After,”
“Bragelonne,” and “The Iron Mask,” and is of far more interesting
and absorbing interest, than any of its predecessors. Complete in
two large octavo volumes of over 400 pages, printed on the best of
paper, beautifully illustrated. It also contains correct Portraits of
“Louise La Valliere,” and “The Hero of the Iron Mask.” Price One
Dollar.
THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN; OR THE SECRET HISTORY OF
LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH. By Alexandre Dumas. It is beautifully
embellished with thirty engravings, which illustrate the principal
scenes and characters of the different heroines throughout the work.
Complete in two large octavo volumes. Price One Dollar.
THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE: OR THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE
COURT OF LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH. A Sequel to the Memoirs
of a Physician. By Alexandre Dumas. It is beautifully illustrated
with portraits of the heroines of the work. Complete in two large
octavo volumes of over 400 pages. Price One Dollar.
SIX YEARS LATER; OR THE TAKING OF THE BASTILE. By
Alexandre Dumas. Being the continuation of “The Queen's Necklace;
or the Secret History of the Court of Louis the Sixteenth,” and
“Memoirs of a Physician.” Complete in one large octavo volume.
Price Seventy-five cents.
COUNTESS DE CHARNY; OR THE FALL OF THE FRENCH
MONARCHY. By Alexandre Dumas. This work is the final conclusion
of the “Memoirs of a Physician,” “The Queen's Necklace,”
and “Six Years Later, or Taking of the Bastile.” All persons who
have not read Dumas in this, his greatest and most instructive production,
should begin at once, and no pleasure will be found so
agreeable, and nothing in novel form so useful and absorbing. Complete
in two volumes, beautifully illustrated. Price One Dollar.
DIANA OF MERIDOR; THE LADY OF MONSOREAU; or France in
the Sixteenth Century. By Alexandre Dumas. An Historical Romance.
Complete in two large octavo volumes of 538 pages, with
numerous illustrative engravings. Price One Dollar.
ISABEL OF BAVARIA; or the Chronicles of France for the reign of
Charles the Sixth. Complete in one fine octavo volume of 211 pages,
printed on the finest white paper. Price Fifty cents.
EDMOND DANTES. Being the sequel to Dumas' celebrated novel of
the Count of Monte Cristo. With elegant illustrations. Complete in
one large octavo volume of over 200 pages. Price Fifty cents.
THE CORSICAN BROTHERS. This work has already been dramatized,
and is now played in all the theatres of Europe and in this country,
and it is exciting an extraordinary interest. Price Twenty-five cents.
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[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]
ALEXANDRE DUMAS' WORKS.
SKETCHES IN FRANCE. By Alexandre Dumas. It is as good a
book as Thackeray's Sketches in Ireland. Dumas never wrote a
better book. It is the most delightful book of the season. Price
Fifty cents.
GENEVIEVE, OR THE CHEVALIER OF THE MAISON ROUGE.
By Alexandre Dumas. An Historical Romance of the French Revolution.
Complete in one large octavo volume of over 200 pages,
with numerous illustrative engravings. Price Fifty cents.
GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS.
WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS; or, Legends of the American
Revolution. Complete in two large octavo volumes of 538 pages,
printed on the finest white paper. Price One Dollar.
THE QUAKER CITY; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. A Romance of
Philadelphia Life, Mystery and Crime. Illustrated with numerous
Engravings. Complete in two large octavo volumes of 500 pages.
Price One Dollar.
THE LADYE OF ALBARONE; or, the Poison Goblet. A Romance of
the Dark Ages. Lippard's Last Work, and never before published.
Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Seventy-five cents.
PAUL ARDENHEIM; the Monk of Wissahickon. A Romance of the
Revolution. Illustrated with numerous engravings. Complete in
two large octavo volumes, of nearly 600 pages. Price One Dollar.
BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, September the Eleventh, 1777. A
Romance of the Poetry, Legends, and History of the Battle of Brandywine.
It makes a large octavo volume of 350 pages, printed on the
finest white paper. Price Seventy-five cents.
LEGENDS OF MEXICO; or, Battles of General Zachary Taylor, late
President of the United States. Complete in one octavo volume of
128 pages. Price Twenty-five cents.
THE NAZARENE; or, the Last of the Washingtons. A Revelation of
Philadelphia, New York, and Washington, in the year 1844. Complete
in one volume. Price Fifty cents.
B. D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS.
VIVIAN GREY. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. Complete in one large octavo
volume of 225 pages. Price Fifty cents.
THE YOUNG DUKE; or the younger days of George the Fourth. By
B. D'Israeli, M. P. One octavo volume. Price Thirty-eight cents.
VENETIA; or, Lord Byron and his Daughter. By B. D'Israeli, M. P.
Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents.
HENRIETTA TEMPLE. A Love Story. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. Complete
in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents.
CONTARINA FLEMING. An Autobiography. By B. D'Israeli, M. P.
One volume, octavo. Price Thirty-eight cents.
MIRIAM ALROY. A Romance of the Twelfth Century. By B. D'Israeli,
M. P. One volume octavo. Price Thirty-eight cents.
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EMERSON BENNETT'S WORKS.
CLARA MORELAND. This is a powerfully written romance. The
characters are boldly drawn, the plot striking, the incidents replete
with thrilling interest, and the language and descriptions natural and
graphic, as are all of Mr. Bennett's Works. 336 pages. Price 50
cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in cloth, gilt.
VIOLA; OR, ADVENTURES IN THE FAR SOUTH-WEST. Complete
in one large volume. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents
in cloth, gilt.
THE FORGED WILL. Complete in one large volume, of over 300
pages, paper cover, price 50 cents; or bound in cloth, gilt, price $1 00.
KATE CLARENDON; OR, NECROMANCY IN THE WILDERNESS.
Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.
BRIDE OF THE WILDERNESS. Complete in one large volume.
Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.
THE PIONEER'S DAUGHTER; and THE UNKNOWN COUNTESS.
By Emerson Bennett. Price 50 cents.
HEIRESS OF BELLEFONTE; and WALDE-WARREN. A Tale of
Circumstantial Evidence. By Emerson Bennett. Price 50 cents.
ELLEN NORBURY; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN ORPHAN.
Complete in one large volume, price 50 cents in paper cover, or in
cloth gilt, $1 00.
MISS LESLIE'S NEW COOK BOOK.
MISS LESLIE'S NEW RECEIPTS FOR COOKING. Comprising new
and approved methods of preparing all kinds of soups, fish, oysters,
terrapins, turtle, vegetables, meats, poultry, game, sauces, pickles,
sweet meats, cakes, pies, puddings, confectionery, rice, Indian meal
preparations of all kinds, domestic liquors, perfumery, remedies,
laundry-work, needle-work, letters, additional receipts, etc. Also,
list of articles suited to go together for breakfasts, dinners, and suppers,
and much useful information and many miscellaneous subjects
connected with general house-wifery. It is an elegantly printed duodecimo
volume of 520 pages; and in it there will be found One Thousand
and Eleven new Receipts—all useful—some ornamental—and all
invaluable to every lady, miss, or family in the world. This work has
had a very extensive sale, and many thousand copies have been sold,
and the demand is increasing yearly, being the most complete work
of the kind published in the world, and also the latest and best, as,
in addition to Cookery, its receipts for making cakes and confectionery
are unequalled by any other work extant. New edition, enlarged
and improved, and handsomely bound. Price One Dollar a
copy only. This is the only new Cook Book by Miss Loslie.
GEORGE SANDS' WORKS.
FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. A True Love Story. By George Sand,
author of “Consuelo,” “Indiana,” etc. It is one of the most charming
and interesting works ever published. Illustrated. Price 50 cents.
INDIANA. By George Sand, author of “First and True Love,” etc.
A very bewitching and interesting work. Price 50 cents.
THE CORSAIR. A Venetian Tale. Price 25 cents.
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HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS.
WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY DARLEY AND OTHERS,
AND BEAUTIFULLY ILLUMINATED COVERS.
We have just published new and beautiful editions of the following
HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. They are published in the best
possible style, full of original Illustrations, by Darley, descriptive of all the
best scenes in each work, with Illuminated Covers, with new and beautiful
designs on each, and are printed on the finest and best of white paper.
There are no works to compare with them in point of wit and humor, in
the whole world. The price of each work is Fifty cents only.
THE FOLLOWING ARE THE NAMES OF THE WORKS.
MAJOR JONES' COURTSHIP: detailed, with other Scenes, Incidents,
and Adventures, in a Series of Letters, by himself. With Thirteen
Illustrations from designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents.
DRAMA IN POKERVILLE: the Bench and Bar of Jurytown, and
other Stories. By “Everpoint,” (J. M. Field, of the St. Louis
Reveille.) With Illustrations from designs by Darley. Fifty cents.
CHARCOAL SKETCHES; or, Scenes in the Metropolis. By Joseph C.
Neal, author of “Peter Ploddy,” “Misfortunes of Peter Faber,” etc.
With Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.
YANKEE AMONGST THE MERMAIDS, and other Waggeries and
Vagaries. By W. E. Burton, Comedian. With Illustrations by
Darley. Price Fifty cents.
MISFORTUNES OF PETER FABER, and other Sketches. By the
author of “Charcoal Sketches.” With Illustrations by Darley and
others. Price Fifty cents.
MAJOR JONES' SKETCHES OF TRAVEL, comprising the Scenes,
Incidents, and Adventures in his Tour from Georgia to Canada.
With Eight Illustrations from Designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents.
STREAKS OF SQUATTER LIFE, and Far West Scenes. A Series of
humorous Sketches, descriptive of Incidents and Character in the
Wild West. By the author of “Major Jones' Courtship,” “Swallowing
Oysters Alive,” etc. With Illustrations from designs by Darley,
Price Fifty cents.
QUARTER RACE IN KENTUCKY, AND OTHER STORIES. By
W. T. Porter, Esq., of the New York Spirit of the Times. With
Eight Illustrations and designs by Darley. Complete in one volume.
Price Fifty cents.
SIMON SUGGS.—ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SIMON SUGGS, late
of the Tallapoosa Volunteers, together with “Taking the Census,”
and other Alabama Sketches. By a Country Editor. With a Portrait
from Life, and Nine other Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents
RIVAL BELLES. By J. B. Jones, author of “Wild Western Scenes,”
etc. This is a very humorous and entertaining work, and one that
will be recommended by all after reading it. Price Fifty cents.
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[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS.
YANKEE YARNS AND YANKEE LETTERS. By Sam Slick, alias
Judge Haliburton. Full of the drollest humor that has ever emanated
from the pen of any author. Every page will set you in a roar.
Price Fifty cents.
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF COL. VANDERBOMB, AND THE
EXPLOITS OF HIS PRIVATE SECRETARY. By J. B. Jones,
author of “The Rival Belles,” “Wild Western Scenes,” etc. Price
Fifty cents.
BIG BEAR OF ARKANSAS, and other Sketches, illustrative of Characters
and Incidents in the South and South-West. Edited by Wm. T.
Porter. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.
MAJOR JONES' CHRONICLES OF PINEVILLE; embracing Sketches
of Georgia Scenes, Incidents, and Characters. By the author of
“Major Jones' Courtship,” etc. With Illustrations by Darley. Price
Fifty cents.
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF PERCIVAL MABERRY. By J. H.
Ingraham. It will interest and please everybody. All who enjoy a
good laugh should get it at once. Price Fifty cents.
FRANK FORESTER'S QUORNDON HOUNDS; or, A Virginian at
Melton Mowbray. By H. W. Herbert, Esq. With Illustrations.
Price Fifty cents.
PICKINGS FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF THE REPORTER OF THE
“NEW ORLEANS PICAYUNE.” Comprising Sketches of the
Eastern Yankee, the Western Hoosier, and such others as make up
society in the great Metropolis of the South. With Illustrations by
Darley. Price Fifty cents.
FRANK FORESTER'S SHOOTING BOX. By the author of “The
Quorndon Hounds,” “The Deer Stalkers,” etc. With Illustrations by
Darley. Price Fifty cents.
STRAY SUBJECTS ARRESTED AND BOUND OVER; being the
Fugitive Offspring of the “Old Un” and the “Young Un,” that have
been “Laying Around Loose,” and are now “tied up” for fast keeping.
With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.
FRANK FORESTER'S DEER STALKERS; a Tale of Circumstantial
evidence. By the author of “My Shooting Box,” “The Quorndon
Hounds,” etc. With Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.
ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN FARRAGO. By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge.
For Sixteen years one of the Judges of the Supreme Court of
the State of Pennsylvania. With Illustrations from designs by Darley.
Price Fifty cents.
THE CHARMS OF PARIS; or, Sketches of Travel and Adventures by
Night and Day, of a Gentleman of Fortune and Leisure. From his
private journal. Price Fifty cents.
PETER PLODDY, and other oddities. By the author of “Charcoal
Sketches,” “Peter Faber,” &c. With Illustrations from original
designs, by Darley. Price Fifty cents.
WIDOW RUGBY'S HUSBAND, a Night at the Ugly Man's, and other
Tales of Alabama. By author of “Simon Suggs.” With original
Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.
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[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS.
MAJOR O'REGAN'S ADVENTURES. By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge.
With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.
SOL. SMITH; THEATRICAL APPRENTICESHIP AND ANECDOTAL
RECOLLECTIONS OF SOL. SMITH, Esq., Comedian, Lawyer,
etc. Illustrated by Darley. Containing Early Scenes, Wanderings
in the West, Cincinnati in Early Life, etc. Price Fifty cents.
SOL. SMITH'S NEW BOOK; THE THEATRICAL JOURNEY-WORK
AND ANECDOTAL RECOLLECTIONS OF SOL. SMITH, Esq.,
with a portrait of Sol. Smith. It comprises a Sketch of the second
Seven years of his professional life, together with some Sketches of
Adventure in after years. Price Fifty cents.
POLLY PEABLOSSOM'S WEDDING, and other Tales. By the author
of “Major Jones' Courtship,” “Streaks of Squatter Life,” etc. Price
Fifty cents.
FRANK FORESTER'S WARWICK WOODLANDS; or, Things as
they were Twenty Years Ago. By the author of “The Quorndon
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FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons.
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SALATHIEL; OR, THE WANDERING JEW. By Rev. George Croly.
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WORKS BY THE BEST AUTHORS.
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VICTIMS OF AMUSEMENTS. By Martha Clark, and dedicated by the
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ADMIRAL'S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Marsh, author of “Ravenscliffe.”
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AGNES GREY; AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. By the author of “Jane
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WORKS AT TWENTY-FIVE CENTS EACH.
KNOWLSON'S COMPLETE CATTLE, OR COW DOCTOR. Whoever
owns a cow should have this book. Price 25 cents.
KNOWLSON'S COMPLETE FARRIER, OR HORSE DOCTOR. All
that own a horse should possess this work. Price 25 cents.
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AND GENERAL USE. Price 25 cents.
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in the world. Price 25 cents.
THE EMIGRANT SQUIRE. By author of “Bell Brandon.” 25 cents.
PHILIP IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. By the author of “Kate in Search
of a Husband.” Price 25 cents.
MYSTERIES OF A CONVENT. By a noted Methodist Preacher. Price
25 cents.
THE ORPHAN SISTERS. It is a tale such as Miss Austen might have
been proud of, and Goldsmith would not have disowned. It is well
told, and excites a strong interest. Price 25 cents.
THE DEFORMED. One of the best novels ever written, and THE
CHARITY SISTER. By Hon. Mrs. Norton. Price 25 cents.
LIFE IN NEW YORK. IN DOORS AND OUT OF DOORS. By the
late William Burns. Illustrated by Forty Engravings. Price 25 cents.
JENNY AMBROSE; OR, LIFE IN THE EASTERN STATES. An excellent
book. Price 25 cents.
MORETON HALL; OR, THE SPIRITS OF THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
A Tale founded on Facts. Price 25 cents.
RODY THE ROVER; OR THE RIBBON MAN. An Irish Tale. By
William Carleton. One volume, octavo. Price 25 cents.
AMERICA'S MISSION. By Rev. Charles Wadsworth. Price 25 cents.
POLITICS IN RELIGION. By Rev. Charles Wardsworth. Price 12½ cts.
Professor LIEBIG'S Works on Chemistry.
AGRICULTURAL CHEMISTRY. Chemistry in its application to Agriculture
and Physiology. Price Twenty-five cents.
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Pathology. Price Twenty-five cents.
FAMILIAR LETTERS ON CHEMISTRY, and its relations to Commerce,
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THE POTATO DISEASE. Researches into the motion of the Juices in
the animal body.
CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS IN RELATION TO PHYSIOLOGY
AND PATHOLOGY.
T. B. PETERSON also publishes a complete edition of Professor
Liebig's works on Chemistry, comprising the whole of the above. They
are bound in one large royal octavo volume, in Muslin gilt. Price for the
complete works bound in one volume, One Dollar and Fifty cents. The
three last are not published separately from the bound volume.
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GREAT INDUCEMENTS FOR 1857
NOW IS THE TIME TO MAKE UP CLUBS.
PETERSON'S MAGAZINE
THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD FOR LADIES.
This popular Magazine, already the cheapest and best Monthly of its kind in the World,
will be greatly improved for 1857. It will contain 900 pages of double-column reading
matter; from twenty to thirty Steel Plates; and Five Hundred Wood Engravings: which
is proportionately more than any periodical, of any price, ever yet gave.
ITS THRILLING ORIGINAL STORIES
Are pronounced by the newspaper press, the best published anywhere. The editors are Mrs.
Ann S. Stephens, author of “The Old Homestead,” “Fashion and Famine,” and Charles
J. Peterson, author of “Mabel,” “Kate Aylesford,” “The Valley Farm,” etc. They are
assisted by a corps of original contributors, such as no lady's Magazine ever had. Mrs.
E. D. E. N. Southworth, author of “The Lost Heiress,” “Retribution,” etc., etc., is engaged
to write a nouvelletté for 1857. Alice Cary, Virginia F. Townsend, Caroline E.
Fairfield, Hetty Holyoke, E. W. Dewees, Ella Rodman, Carry Stanley, Clara Moreton,
Ellen Ashton, etc., etc., will also contribute regularly. New talent is continually being
added, regardless of expense, so as to keep “Peterson's Magazine” unapproachable in
merit. Morality and virtue are always inculcated.
Its Colored Fashion Plates in Advance.
&hand; It is the only Magazine whose Fashion Plates can be relied on. &hand;
Each number contains a Fashion Plate, engraved on Steel, colored à la mode, and of
unrivalled beauty. The Paris, London, Philadelphia, and New York Fashions are described,
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can be cut, without the aid of a mantua-maker, so that each number, in this way, will
save a year's subscription.
Its superb MEZZOTINTS, and other STEEL ENGRAVINGS.
Its Illustrations excel those of any other Magazine, each number containing a superb
Steel Engraving, either mezzotint or line, besides the Fashion Plate; and, in addition, numerous
other Engravings, Wood Cuts, Patterns, etc., etc. The Engravings, at the end
of the year, alone are worth the subscription price.
PATTERNS FOR CROTCHET, NEEDLEWORK, ETC.
In the greatest profusion, are given in every number, with instructions how to work them
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etc. Also, Patterns for Sleeves, Collars, and Chemisettes; Patterns in Bead-work, Hair-work,
Shell-work; Handkerchief Corners; Names for Marking and Initials. A piece of
new and fashionable Music is also published every month. On the whole, it is the most
complete Ladies' Magazine in the World. Try it for One Year.
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| One copy for One Year, |
$2 00 |
| Three copies for One Year, |
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| Five copies for One Year, |
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| Twelve copies for One year, |
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PREMIUMS FOR CETTING UP CLUBS.
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at the above price, and remitting the money, we will give, gratis, “The Garland of Art,”
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and “The Garland” in addition.
Address, post-paid,
CHARLES J. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
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&hand;In remitting, when the sum is large, a draft should be procured, the cost of which
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T. B. PETERSON'S
WHOLESALE AND RETAIL
Cheap Book, Magazine, Newspaper, Publishing
and Bookselling Establishment, is at
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
T. B. PETERSON has the satisfaction to announce to the public, that he has removed
to the new and spacious BROWN STONE BUILDING, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET,
just completed by the city authorities on the Girard Estate, known as the most central
and best situation in the city of Philadelphia. As it is the Model Book Store of the
Country, we will describe it: It is the largest, most spacious, and best arranged Retail
and Wholesale Cheap Book and Publishing Establishment in the United States. It is
built, by the Girard Estate, of Connecticut sand-stone, in a richly ornamental style.
The whole front of the lower story, except that taken up by the doorway, is occupied by
two large plate glass windows, a single plate to each window, costing together over three
thousand dollars. On entering and looking up, you find above you a ceiling sixteen
feet high; while, on gazing before, you perceive a vista of One Hundred and Fifty-Seven
feet. The retail counters extend back for eighty feet, and, being double, afford counterroom
of One Hundred and Sixty feet in length. There is also over Three Thousand feet
of shelving in the retail part of the store alone. This part is devoted to the retail business,
and as it is the most spacious in the country, furnishes also the best and largest
assortment of all kinds of books to be found in the country. It is fitted up in the most
superb style; the shelvings are all painted in Florence white, with gilded cornices for
the book shelves.
Behind the retail part of the store, at about ninety feet from the entrance, is the
counting-room, twenty feet square, railed neatly off, and surmounted by a most beautiful
dome of stained glass. In the rear of this is the wholesale and packing department,
extending a further distance of about sixty feet, with desks and packing counters for the
establishment, etc., etc. All goods are received and shipped from the back of the store,
having a fine avenue on the side of Girard Bank for the purpose, leading out to Third
Street, so as not to interfere with and block up the front of the store on Chestnut Street.
The cellar, of the entire depth of the store, is filled with printed copies of Mr. Peterson's
own publications, printed from his own stereotype plates, of which he generally keeps
on hand an edition of a thousand each, making a stock, of his own publications alone,
of over three hundred thousand volumes, constantly on hand.
T. B. PETERSON is warranted in saying, that he is able to offer such inducements
to the Trade, and all others, to favor him with their orders, as cannot be excelled by any
book establishment in the country. In proof of this, T. B. PETERSON begs leave to
refer to his great facilities of getting stock of all kinds, his dealing direct with all the
Publishing Houses in the country, and also to his own long list of Publications, consisting
of the best and most popular productions of the most talented authors of the United
States and Great Britain, and to his very extensive stock, embracing every work, new or
old, published in the United States.
T. B. PETERSON will be most happy to supply all orders for any books at all, no
matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at publishers' lowest cash
prices. He respectfully invites Country Merchants, Booksellers, Pedlars, Canvassers,
Agents, the Trade, Strangers in the city, and the public generally, to call and examine
his extensive collection of cheap and standard publications of all kinds, comprising a
most magnificent collection of CHEAP BOOKS, MAGAZINES, NOVELS, STANDARD
and POPULAR WORKS of all kinds, BIBLES, PRAYER BOOKS, ANNUALS, GIFT
BOOKS, ILLUSTRATED WORKS, ALBUMS and JUVENILE WORKS of all kinds,
GAMES of all kinds, to suit all ages, tastes, etc., which he is selling to his customers
and the public at much lower prices than they can be purchased elsewhere. Being located
at No. 102 CHESTNUT Street, the great thoroughfare of the city, and BUYING
his stock outright in large quantities, and not selling on commission, he can and will
sell them on such terms as will defy all competition. Call and examine our stock, you
will find it to be the best, largest and cheapest in the city; and you will also be sure to
and all the best, latest, popular, and cheapest works published in this country or elsewhere,
for sale at the lowest prices.
&hand;Call in person and examine our stock, or send your orders by mail direct, to the
CHEAP BOOKSELLING and PUBLISHING ESTABLISHMENT of
T. B. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia
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Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1857], The border rover. (T.B. Peterson, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf462T].
