The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Six

The Horologe of the Dead Horse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Crooked as a coon’s hind leg.”

“And the Obion?”

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

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

Chapter Thirty Seven

A Lookout from aloft

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Eight

The white Fog

Vain vigil it proved. I shall not tire the reader with details. Suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning’s dawn; and then, profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of observation, where we continued our surveillance – watching and sleeping in turn. Throughout the following day, and into the second, was our vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed finally to abandon it. But for one circumstance, we might have felt surprise at the result. We were both convinced that we had reached the river’s mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could not possibly have “headed” us. But for the same circumstance, we might have believed, that they had not yet come down the Obion; and perhaps would have remained at our post a day longer.

The explanation is this: On the first night of our watch, a few hours after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both. It was the white fog– a well-known phenomenon of the Mississippi – that often extends its dangerous drapery over the bosom of the “Father of Waters:” a thing of dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream. On that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my position near the top of the tree I was entirely clear of its vapoury disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy cumuli floating gently over the surface – white and luminous under the silvery moonlight. The moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen as clearly as ever. The water-surface alone was hidden from my sight – the very thing I was most anxious to observe. As if by some envious demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as the fog had fairly unfurled itself, I fancied I could hear the dipping of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream. Moreover, gazing intently into the mist – as yet thin and filmy – I fancied I saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes of human forms outlined above it – just as of a canoe en profile with passengers in it. I even noted the number of the upright forms: three of them – which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were expecting. So certain was I at the moment, of seeing all this, that I need not have shouted to assure myself. Excited with over-eagerness, I did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer. My summons produced not the desired effect. On the contrary, it seemed to still the slight plashing I had heard; and, before the echoes of my voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight – having passed under thick masses of the floating vapour. Over and over, I repeated my summons – each time changing the form of speech, and each time with like fruitless effect! The only answer I received was from the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree. Whether the forms I had seen were real – or only apparitions conjured up by my excited brain – they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the very next moment, I inclined to the belief that my senses had been deceiving me!

From that time, my comrade and I were uncertain; and this, uncertainty will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and why we waited no longer for its coming. The most probable conjectures were that it had passed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the Mississippi – no longer trusting to such a frail craft, but passengers on one of the numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite directions, we had seen passing the mouth of the Obion.

In all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of Tennessee; and we felt sufficiently assured of this. But the more important point remained undetermined – whether they had gone northward or southward – whether by the routes of the Missouri or those of the Arkansas? Upon this question we were as undecided as ever. At that season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring. I knew, moreover, that the Mormons had their own “trains,” and ways of travelling; and that several new routes or “trails” had been discovered during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for Oregon and California, and by the Mormons themselves. This knowledge only complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision. Thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further. Our only hope lay in returning to Swampville. And whence this hope? What was to be expected in Swampville? Who was there in that village of golden dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love? No one – no human being. The index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a letter! Assuredly, I had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet sweetly expressed: “If I thought you would like to know where we are gone, I would write to you;” and again: “If you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you where we are going.” Oh! that I could have told her how much I “would like to know,” and how freely she had my permission to write! Alas! that was impossible. But the contingencies troubled me not much; I was full of hope that she would waive them. Communicating this hope to my companion, we rode back to Swampville: with the design of laying siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the promised epistle.