The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Thirty Nine

The promised Epistle

Under any circumstances, a return to Swampville would have been necessary: certain pecuniary requirements called me back to that interesting village. A journey, even across the desert, cannot be made without money; and the hundred dollars I had paid to Holt, with hotel and other incidental outlays, had left me with a very light purse. It would have taken three times as much as I was master of, to provide us with the scantiest equipment required for a prairie journey; and toward this the young hunter, willing to give his all, was able to contribute nothing. He would cheerfully have parted with his patrimony – as I with my purchase – for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the Californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and neither his clearing nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had the payment been required in cash. A credit sale could not have served us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our depreciated property – upon which not a single cent could be borrowed.

Never stood I in more need of my Nashville friend; and my appeal, already made, was promptly responded to – as I expected it would be. On the third day after my despatch, the answer arrived – with a handsome enclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if need be. We were now ready for the road. We waited only for that other letter, that was to be the index to our destination.

How we passed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth describing. We enjoyed the hospitality of the Jackson hotel; and contrived to escape the espièglerie of its husband-hunting denizens, by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest. During the whole time, we went not near our respective “plantations” on Mud Creek. Wingrove had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and I had no inclination to trust myself to its souvenirs. Moreover, the hours of the mail-rider were neither fixed nor regular; and on this account I avoided a prolonged absence from the post-office.

Six days of this expectancy I endured – six days of alternate hope and doubt – the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts! More than once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean – trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. On the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. The seventh proved the day of joy. Our doubts were dispelled. The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of the expected epistle! My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. He must have observed my emotion – though I did not open the letter in his presence. The superscription was enough to tell me from whom it came. I had studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognise it at a glance. I did not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. The post-mark, “Van Buren, Arkansas,” sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were en route for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal. The address was simply as before: “To Edward Warfield;” and so to the apostrophic commencement: “Stranger!” I could have wished for some less distant word – some familiar phrase of endearment, but I was contented – for I knew that Lilian’s too recent love had lacked the opportunity of learning its language. Before it had time to achieve the employment of those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted. Thus ran the letter:

“Stranger! – I hope you got my other letter, and that you were able to read it, for I had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better – only a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother’s, and a leaf which father said you tore out of a book. But I think I could have wrote it better, only I was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and I wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the canoe. I thought no one would come to the house before you, and I hoped all the morning you might come before we were gone. I would have given a great deal to have been able to see you again; and I think father would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay longer, but hurried us away. But I hope you got the letter, and that you will not be offended at me for writing this one I send you, without your leave. I promised that if you would allow me, I would write from some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but I forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as you could not see me, nor yet know where to write it to me. I now know what country it is, for everybody we have seen is talking about it, and saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big as hickory nuts; and I hear the name a many a time, over and over again. Father calls it ‘Californey,’ and some ‘California,’ and this, I suppose, is the right way of spelling it. It is near a great sea, or ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at Philadelphia and New York, but far greater and bigger than the Mississippi and the Obion, and all the rivers put together. It must be a very large sea to be bigger than the Mississippi! But I am sure you must know all about it, for I have heard them say you have travelled in these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and had been fighting there with the Mexicans. I am glad you were not killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been killed, I should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if I am never to see you again. O sir! I would write to you from that country when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then, and will not care to hear anything more about us.

“I shall never forget our dear Tennessee. I am very sorry at leaving it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold – for what good can gold be to me? I should so like to hear sometimes from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the only one we knew is gone away like ourselves.

“Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us – only a very short letter, to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father say you intended to do. I shall always like to hear that you are in good health, and that you are happy.

“I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us. At the mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time – for we travelled all that night – we heard some one shouting to us, and O Sir! it was so like your voice that I trembled when I heard it, for it appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. It was a thick mist, and we could see no one; but for all that, I would have cried out, but father would not let me speak. It appeared to be right above our heads; and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree. I suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made me wonder all the more.

“We arrived at this place yesterday. It is a large town on the Arkansas river: and we came to it in a steam-boat. From here we are to travel in a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a ‘caravan,’ and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the journey. It is a long time to wait before I can write again, for there are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a letter. But though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute. In one of my mother’s books which I brought with me, I have read a pretty piece. It is in poetry; and it is so like what I have been thinking of you, that I have learnt it off by heart. It is so true-like and so pretty a piece that I thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you, I write it at the end of my letter, which I fear I have already made too long; but I hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read the poetry: —

“I think of thee when Morning springs
From sleep with plumage bathed in dew;
And like a young bird lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.
And when at noon the breath of love
O’er flower and stream is wandering free,
And sent in music from the grove —
I think of thee – I think of thee!

“I think of thee, when soft and wide
The Evening spreads her robe of light,
And like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of Night.
And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs
In light or heaven’s deep, waveless sea,
And stars are forth like blessed things —
I think of thee – I think of thee!

“O sir! it is very, very true! I do think of you, and I am sure I shall do so as long as I live.

“Lilian Holt.”

Ah, Lilian! I too think of thee, and thy sweet song! Simple, but suggestive words. Knew I but where to address thee, you should know how responsive to them are the echoes of my heart!

Chapter Forty

The Caravan

We rode on to Memphis as rapidly as our horses could travel – far too slow for our desires. Thence a steam-boat carried us to Little Rock, and another to Van Buren. Many days had been consumed while waiting for each boat – so many that on arriving at Van Buren, we found that the caravan had the start of us by full two weeks! Its probable route we ascertained without any difficulty – up along the Arkansas to the Rocky Mountains, through the valley of the Huerfano, and the passes Robideau and Coochetopa – thence across the head waters of the Colorado, and by the old Spanish trail to California. It was principally a caravan of gold-seekers: adventurers of all nations. Even Indians had gone with it – of the half-civilised tribes of the frontier – red and white equally tempted by the yellow attractions spread out for them in California. Though large, it was what is termed a “light train” – having more pack-animals than waggons. On this account, it would make way all the faster; and unless delayed by some accident, we might be a long time in coming up with it. It was not without a large measure of vexation that we learnt how far it had got the start of us.

I should have submitted with less resignation to the necessary delays, but that my mind had been to some extent tranquillised by the contents of Lilian’s letter. They had inclined me to the belief that the emigrants were simply en route for California – as was all the world just then – and that the Mormon was, after all, not so strong in his new faith as to resist the universal golden lure. His design in taking the squatter with him might be merely of a secular character – having for its object the securing of a partner, in whose brawny arms the wash-pan and rocker might be handled to advantage. That they whom we sought were gone with the caravan, we were soon satisfied. Holt was too marked a man to have escaped observation, even in a crowd of rough squatters like himself; but more than one eye had rested upon his fair daughter that longed to look upon her again. Her traces were easily told – as testified by the answers to my shy inquiries. Like some bright meteor, whose tract across the heavens remains marked by its line of luminous phosphorescence, her radiant beauty was remembered. I needed not to inquire of her. Scarcely a coterie of which she was not the subject of conversation – to my infinite jealousy and chagrin. Not that aught was said of her, that should have given rise to such feelings: they were but the offspring of love’s selfishness.

Not long had I to submit to such torture. Our stay in Van Buren was of the shortest. In less than twenty hours after our arrival in the village, we took our departure from it – turning our faces towards the almost limitless wilderness of the west. I had endeavoured to add to our company but without success. The caravan had cleared Van Buren of its unemployed population; and not an idler remained – at least not one who felt inclined to adventure with us. Even the needy “loafer” could not be induced to try the trip – deeming ours too dangerous an expedition. To say the least, it was reckless enough; but impelled by motives far more powerful than the thirst of gold, my comrade and I entered upon our journey with scarce a thought about its perils. The only addition to our company was a brace of stout pack-mules, that carried our provisions and other impedimenta; while the old horse of the hunter had been replaced by a more promising roadster.

It would be idle to detail the incidents of a journey across the prairies. Ours differed in no way from hundreds of others that have been made, and described – except, perhaps, that after reaching the buffalo range, we travelled more by night than by day. We adopted this precaution simply to save our scalps – and along with them our lives – since the buffalo range – especially upon the Arkansas – is peculiarly the “stamping” ground of the hostile savage. Here may be encountered the Pawnee and Comanche, the Kiowa and Cheyenne, the Waco and fierce Arapaho. Though continually engaged in internecine strife among themselves, all six tribes are equally enemies to the pale-faced intruders on their domain. At this time they were said to be especially hostile – having been irritated by some late encounters with parties, of ill-behaved emigrants. It was not without great peril, therefore, that we were passing through their territory; and what we had heard, before leaving Van Buren, had made us fully conscious of the risk we were running.

To meet with one of the hunting or war-parties of these Indians, might not be certain death; but certain they would be to disarm and dismount us; and that, in the midst of the great prairie ocean, is a danger that often conducts to the same dénouement. It was not preference, then, but precaution, that led us to adopt the “secret system” of travelling by night. Our usual plan was to lie by during the day or for the greater part of it, concealed in some selected cover – either among rocks or copsewood. By stealing to a conspicuous eminence, we were enabled to view the route ahead of us, and map out our journey for the night. Upon this we would enter an hour or two before sundown: for then the Indian hunter has returned to his encampment, which can be easily avoided, by seeing its smoke from afar. We often saw their smokes, and more than once the Indians themselves; but were never seen by them – so cautiously did we carry out our measures.

In this fashion we “groped” our way with considerable rapidity. Guided by the waggon tracks – especially when there was a moon – we could travel almost as fast as by daylight. Only upon dark nights was our progress retarded; but, notwithstanding every impediment, we were enabled to travel faster than the caravan, and we knew that we were rapidly gaining upon it. We could tell this by the constantly freshening trail; but we had a more accurate criterion in the count of the camps. By the number of these, we knew to a certainty that we were approaching the caravan. We were in high hopes of being able to come up with it, before it should enter the mountain-passes – more dangerous to the traveller than even the plains themselves: because at that season more beset by bands of marauding savages. Under the influence of these hopes, we were pressing forward, with all the haste it was in our power to make; when our journey was varied by an incident of a somewhat unexpected character.

Chapter Forty One

An un-prairie-like Apparition

The incident referred to occurred high up the Arkansas, at the celebrated grove known as the “Big Timbers.” We had started about two hours before sundown, and were riding in a due westerly direction, over a “rolling” prairie – the ridges of which, as ill-luck would have it, ran transversely to our course: causing the path to be constantly going upward or downward. It was not this that troubled us; but the fact that, as we crested each swell, we were freshly exposed to observation from a distance; and this recurring so often, kept us continuously on the alert.

Once or twice, we thought of halting again till after the sun had gone down: for we knew that we were treading upon dangerous ground; but, failing to perceive any fresh Indian sign, we gave way to our irresolution, and continued on. We proceeded with caution, however: always ascending in stealthy silence, and peeping carefully over the ridges before crossing them. After reconnoitring the intervening valleys, we would ride rapidly across, to make up the time we had lost in our reconnoissance. In this way we had travelled some eight or ten miles – until the sun was so far down, that his lower limb rested on the horizon. We were ascending a ridge, and had got our eyes on a level with its crest, when upon the face of another ridge – about half a mile further on – we beheld two forms outlined against the declivity. We saw that they were human forms; and that they were Indians was our first thought; but a moment’s observation convinced us we were in error. They were afoot – Indians would have been on horseback. There was no floating drapery about their bodies – Indians would have had something of this sort; besides there were other circumstances observable in their figures and movements, that negatived the supposition of their being red-skins. They were singularly disproportioned in size: one appearing at least a foot the taller, while the shorter man had twice this advantage in girth!

“What, in Old Nick’s name, kin they be?” inquired my companion – though only in soliloquy, for he saw that I was as much puzzled as himself. “Kin ye make ’em out wi’ your glass, capt’n?” I chanced to have a small pocket-telescope. Adopting the suggestion, I drew it forth, and levelled it. In another instant, I had within its field of vision a tableau that astonished me.

The figures composing it were but two – a very tall man, and a very short one. Both were dressed in round-about jackets and trousers. One, the shorter, had a little dark cap upon his head; while the height of the taller man was increased full ten inches, by what appeared to be a black silk or beaver hat. The cut of their respective costumes was nearly the same; but the colour was entirely different – the tall personage being all over of a bottle-green tint, while his shorter companion shone more conspicuously in sky-blue. Notwithstanding their vivid colours, neither costume had anything Indian about it: nor was it like any other sort of “rig” that one might expect to encounter upon the prairies. What fashion it was, did not occur to me at the moment; for the sun, glancing upon the object-glass of the telescope, hindered me from having a fair view. Moreover, my attention was less directed to the dress of the men, than to their movements. The backs of both were towards us; and they were going forward in the same direction as ourselves. The tall man was in the lead, carrying what appeared to be two guns – one over his left shoulder, and another in his right hand. He was advancing in slow irregular strides, his thin body slightly stooped forward, and his long neck craned out in front of him as if trying to look over the ridge, whose crest he was just approaching. The short man was some half-dozen paces in the rear; and moving in a fashion altogether different. His body was bent against the hill at an angle of less than forty-five degrees with the horizon; and his short stout legs were playing in rapid steps, as if keeping time to a treadmill! He appeared to be pushing something before him; but what it was, I could not guess: since it was completely covered by the disc of his body spread broadly against the hill. It was not till he had reached the summit, and made a slight turn along the ridge, that I saw what this object was. The exclamation of ludicrous surprise, that escaped my companion, told me that he had also made it out. “Good gosh, capt’n!” cried he, “look yander! Consarn my skin! ef ’t ain’t a wheelberra!” A wheelbarrow it certainly was: for the two men were now traversing along the top of the ridge, and their bodies from head to foot, were conspicuously outlined against the sky. There was no mistaking the character of the object in the hands of the shorter individual – a barrow beyond the shadow of a doubt – trundle and trams, box, body, and spoke-wheel complete!

The sight of this homely object, in the midst of the savage prairies, was as ludicrous as unexpected; and we might have hailed it with roars of laughter, had prudence permitted such an indecorous exhibition. As it was, my companion chuckled so loudly, that I was compelled to caution him. Whether my caution came too late, and that the laughter was heard, we could not tell; but at that moment the tall pedestrian looked back, and we saw that he had discovered us. Making a rapid sign to his companion, he bounded off like a startled deer; and, after a plunge or two, disappeared behind the ridge – followed in full run by the man with the wheelbarrow! One might have supposed that the fright would have led to the abandonment of the barrow. But no: it was taken along – hurried out of our sight in an instant – and in the next, both man and machine disappeared as suddenly as if some trap had admitted them into the bowels of the earth! The singular fashion of their flight – the long strides taken by the gander-like leader, and the scrambling attempt at escape made by the barrow-man – produced a most comic effect. I was no longer able to restrain myself, but joined my companion in loud and repeated peals of laughter.

In this merry mood, and without any apprehension of danger, we advanced towards the spot where the odd figures had been seen. Some broken ground delayed us; and as half a mile of it had to be passed over, we were a considerable time in reaching the summit of the hill. On arriving there, and looking over the swell, behind which they had disappeared, neither tall nor short man was to be seen. A timbered valley lay beyond: into this they had evidently escaped. The track of the wheelbarrow, where it had pressed down the grass, alone indicated their recent presence upon the spot – as it did also the direction they had taken. Their retreating from us was easily accounted for: they could have seen only the tops of our heads, and had no doubt taken us for Indians!

Chapter Forty Two

A Foot of thirteen Inches

The presence of the wheelbarrow explained a point that had been puzzling us for some days. We had fallen upon its track more than once, and supposed it to have been made by the wheel of a cart; but in no instance being able to find the corresponding one, had given it up as a hopeless enigma. The only explanation we had succeeded in offering ourselves was: that some light cart had accompanied the caravan – the load of which, being badly balanced, had thrown the weight upon one wheel, allowing the other to pass over the ground without making an impression. As it was only on dry grass we had traced it, this explanation had sufficed – though far from being satisfactory. Neither my companion nor myself ever thought of a wheelbarrow. Who would, in such a place?

“In the name o’ Old Nick, who kin they be?” asked Wingrove, as we halted on the ridge, where the fugitives had been last seen. “I’m not without my suspicions,” I replied, just then thinking of a peculiarity that had but slightly occupied my attention – the cut and colour of their dresses. “If I am not mistaken, the two shy birds that have fled from us are a brace of uncle Sam’s eagles.”

“Sojers?”

“In all probability, and ‘old sojers’ at that.”

“But what ’ud sojers be a doin’ out hyar?”

“Travelling to California, like ourselves.”

“Desarters, may be?”

“Just what I suspect. No doubt the pair have slipped off from some of the frontier posts; and having no opportunity to provide themselves with a better means of transport, have brought the wheelbarrow with them. It is ludicrous enough, but by no means improbable. There are some queer customers in the service of Uncle Sam.”

“I think there be – ha, ha, ha! What shed we do, capt’n? Hedn’t we better catch up to ’em?”