The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Wingrove and I could hold in no longer, but joining in the loud cachinnation – as if we had been its echoes – sprang forward to the front. Infantry and rifleman bounded to their feet, with a simultaneous shout of “Indians!” and dropping their spits and half-eaten appolas of meat, dashed into the bushes like a pair of frightened rabbits! In an instant, both were out of sight; and their whereabouts was alone indicated by the rattling of the branches as they passed through them. I was apprehensive of losing them altogether; and regretted not having used more caution in approaching them. At that crisis, an idea came to my aid; and giving out an old signal, well-remembered by the ci-devant rangers, I had the gratification of receiving a double response. The utterance of the signal had brought them to an instantaneous halt; and I could hear them exchanging surmises and exclamations of astonishment, as they retraced their steps towards the fire. Presently, a pair of short, snub-nosed faces were seen peering through the leaves; while from the lips of their owners burst simultaneously, “The cyaptin’!” “The capting!” with various other phrases in their respective patois, expressive of surprise and recognition.

A few words sufficed to explain all. As we had surmised, the men were deserters. Neither attempted to deny what, in time of peace, is not considered a very heinous crime; and for which, just then, the “Californian fever” was considered an ample justification. It was no affair of ours. I was only too rejoiced to join company with the runaways, of whose loyalty to myself I had proofs of old. Their guns – more especially the rifle of Sure-shot – would be a valuable addition to our strength; and, instead of crawling along under the cover of night, we might now advance with more freedom and rapidity. It was determined, therefore, to share our means of transport with our new comrades – an offer by them eagerly and readily accepted. The partial consumption of our stores had lightened the packs upon our mules; and the contents of the wheelbarrow, equally divided between them, would give to each only its ordinary load. The barrow itself was abandoned – left among the Big Timbers – to puzzle at a future period some red-skinned archaeologist – Cheyenne or Arapaho!

Chapter Forty Seven

The Mountain Parks

We now proceeded along the route with more confidence; though still acknowledging the necessity of caution, and always reconnoitring the ground in advance. Although the four of us might have defended ourselves against four times our number of Indian enemies, we were passing through apart of the country, where, if Indians were to be met at all, it would be in large bands or “war-parties.” The Arkansas heads in that peculiar section of the Rocky Mountain chain known as the “Parks” – a region of country celebrated from the earliest times of fur-trading and trapping – the arena of a greater number of adventures – of personal encounters and hair-breadth escapes – than perhaps any other spot of equal extent upon the surface of the globe. Here the great Cordillera spread out into numerous distinct branches or “Sierras,” over which tower those noted landmarks of the prairie traveller, “Pike’s” and “Long’s” Peaks, and the “Wa-to-ya” or “Cumbres Españolas”; – projected far above their fellows, and rising thousands of feet into the region of eternal snow. Between their bases – embosomed amid the most rugged surrounding of bare rocky cliffs, or dark forest-clad declivities – lie vallées, smiling in the soft verdure of perpetual spring – watered by crystal streams – sheltered from storms, and sequestered from all the world. The most noted of these are the Old and New “Parks,” and the “Bayou Salade” – because these are the largest; but there are hundreds of smaller ones, not nameless, but known only to those adventurous men – the trappers – who for half a century have dwelt in this paradise of their perilous profession: since here is the habitat of the masonic beaver – its favourite building ground.

Over these valley-plains roam “gangs” of the gigantic buffalo; while in the openings between their copses may be descried the elk, antelope, and black-tailed deer, browsing in countless herds. On the cliffs that overhang them, the noble form of the carnero cimmaron (ovis montana) – or, “Bighorn” of the hunters – maybe seen, in bold outline against the sky; and crawling through the rocky ravines is encountered the grizzly bear – the most fierce and formidable of American carnivora. The red couguar and brown wolverene crouch along the edges of the thicket, to contest with jackal and wolf the possession of the carcass, where some stray quadruped has fallen a victim to the hungry troop; while black vultures wheeling aloft, await the issue of the conflict. Birds of fairer fame add animation to the scene. The magnificent meleagris, shining in metallic lustre, with spread wings and tail, offers a tempting aim to the hunter’s rifle – as it promises to afford him a rich repast; and the coq de prairie, and its gigantic congener the “sage grouse,” whirr up at intervals along the path. The waters have their denizens, in the grey Canada and white-fronted geese – ducks of numerous species – the stupid pelican and shy loon – gulls, cormorants, and the noble swan; while the groves of alamo ring with the music of numerous bright-winged songsters, scarcely known to the ornithologist.

But no land of peace is this fair region of the Rocky Mountains. There are parks, but no palaces – there are fertile fields, but none to till them – for it is even dangerous to traverse them in the open light of day. The trapper skulks silently along the creek – scarcely trusting himself to whisper to his companion – and watching warily as he renews the bait of castoreum. The hunter glides with stealthy tread from copse to copse – dreading the echo of his own rifle. Even the red-skinned rover goes not here alone, but only with a large band of his kindred – a “hunting” or “war-party.” The ground is neutral, as it is hostile – claimed by many tribes and owned by none. All enter it to hunt or make war, but none to settle or colonise. From every quarter of the compass come the warrior and hunter; and of almost as many tribes as there are points upon the card. From the north, the Crow and Sioux; from the south, the Kiowa, the Comanche, the Jicarilla-Apache – and even at times the tame Taosa. From the east penetrate, the Cheyenne, the Pawnee, and Arapaho; while through the western gates of this hunters’ paradise, pour the warlike bands of the Utah and Shoshonee. All these tribes are in mutual enmity or amity amongst themselves, of greater or less strength; but between some of them exists a hostility of the deadliest character. Such are the vendettas between Crow and Shoshonee, Pawnee and Comanche, Utah and Arapaho. Some of the tribe have the repute of being friendly to the whites. Among these may be mentioned the Utahs and Crows; while the more dreaded names are Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Arapaho; the last in hostility to the whites equalling the noted Blackfeet farther north. In all cases, however, the amity of the prairie Indian is a friendship upon which slight faith can be placed; and the trapper – even in Crow or Utah land – is accustomed “to sleep with one eye open.” In past times, Utahs have been more partial to the pale-faces than most other tribes of North Americans; and in their territory many of the celebrated trapper-stations, or “rendezvous,” are situated. At times, mutual provocations have led to dire encounters; and then are the Utahs to be dreaded – more, perhaps, than any other Indians. In their association with their trapper allies, they have learnt how to handle – and with skill – that most formidable of weapons, for partisan warfare – the hunter’s rifle.

At the time of which I write, the Utahs were reported to be on good terms with the whites. The Mormons had done everything to conciliate them; and it was said that a single white man might traverse their territory with perfect safety. It was chiefly in the passes that led to the Utahs’ country, that danger from Indians was to be apprehended – in the valleys and ravines above mentioned – where Cheyennes, Comanches, Pawnees, and Arapahoes were more likely to be met with than the Utahs themselves.

We were not yet certain by which pass the caravan might cross the great Cordillera. From beyond the Big Timbers, three routes were open to it. First was the southern route through the Eaton mountains, which leads to Santa Fé, in New Mexico, and is known as the “Santa Fé trail.” I did not anticipate their taking this one. It was not their design, on leaving Fort Smith, to pass by Santa Fé – else would they have kept up the Canadian, by the head of the Llano Estacado; and thence to California by the Gila. Another route parts from the Arkansas still higher up – by one of its affluents, the Fontaine que bouit. This is the “Cherokee trail,” which, after running north along the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, crosses them by the Cheyenne Pass, and on through Bridger’s Pass into the central valley of the Great Basin. Neither did I believe that the train would travel by this trail. The season of the year was against the supposition. In all probability, the central route of the three would be the one followed – leading from the Arkansas up the Huerfano river, and through “Robideau’s Pass,” or that of the “Sangre de Cristo.” Either of these conducts into the valley of the Rio del Norte; thence by the famed “Coochetopa,” or “gate of the buffaloes,” on the head waters of the Western Colorado.

This pass, though long known to the trappers and ciboleros of New Mexico, had only just come into notice as a road to the Pacific; but, being one of the most central and direct, it had already been tried both by Californian and Mormon emigrants, and found practicable for waggons. The caravan had left Van Buren with the design of taking this road; but I knew that the design might be altered by contingencies – hence our uncertainty.

The Rocky Mountains could be crossed, by following up the Arkansas to its remotest sources on the southern side of the Bayou Salade; but the stupendous gorges through which that river runs leave no pass practicable for wheeled vehicles. Only by mounted men, or pack-mules, can the Cordillera be crossed at that point; and of course it did not occur to us that the caravan we were following would attempt it. At three points, then, might we expect to find its trace parting from the Arkansas – near Bent’s Old Fort, for the southern route: at the Fontaine que bouit river, for the northern; and for the central, it should diverge up the valley of the Huerfano. In any case, our risk would be unquestionably great. We should have to travel through districts of country, where white man and red man meet only as foes; where to kill each other at sight is the instinct and practice of both; and where, though it may sound strange to civilised ears, to scalp, after killing each other, is equally a mutual custom!

Such was the character of the region through which we should have to travel. No wonder we were anxious to come up with the caravan, before it should have passed through the dangerous gorges of the mountains. Independent of other motives, our personal safety prompted us to hasten on. At first, our new comrades were not exactly agreeable to the design of overtaking the train. They had the escort in their thoughts, and along with it, the dread of the nine-tailed cat. But a little instruction as to the far greater danger they were in from Indians – of which up to that hour they had been in happy ignorance – reconciled them to our purpose; and thenceforward they picked up their feet with a pleasing rapidity. Both preferred risking the skin of their backs to losing that of their heads; but of the former they had now less fear: since I had promised to disguise them, before bringing them face to face with the troopers of the escort.

Notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion. We made most way under the friendly shadow of night – sometimes by the light of the moon – and only by day, when we could discover no Indian sign in our neighbourhood. Only two of us could ride at a time – the other two taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well, as when each has a horse to himself. Our pack-animals gave us little trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow in file, and without requiring to be led. We refrained from making fires, where the ground was unfavourable. Only when we could choose our camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple cuisine. These precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely necessary in a passage across the prairies – at least by a party so small as ours. Perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be told.

Chapter Forty Eight

The abandoned Bouquet

Having passed Bent’s Fort – of wide celebrity in trapper lore – whilom the scene of many a wild revel of the “mountain-men,” but now abandoned and in ruins – we arrived at the confluence of the Huerfano. As we expected, the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream – thus deciding the route taken by the caravan.

We rode on through a forest of grand cotton-woods and willows; and at about seven miles distant from the mouth of the Huerfano river, reached a point, where the caravan had crossed over to its left bank. On the other side, we could see the ground of their encampment of the night before. We could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and waggons – débris of the morning’s repast – and half-burnt faggots of the tires that had cooked it, still sending up their clouds of oozing smoke.

The stream at this point was fordable; and crossing over, we stood upon the deserted camp-ground. With singular emotions, I walked amid the smouldering fires – forming conjectures as to which of them might have been graced by that fair presence. Where had she passed the night, and what had occupied her thoughts? Were those gentle words still lingering in her memory? Were they upon her lips? It was pleasant for me to repeat them. I did not need to draw the writing forth. Long since were the lines fixed in my remembrance – oft through my heart had vibrated the burden of that sweet song:

“I think of thee – I think of thee!”

My reflections were not altogether unmingled with pain. Love cannot live without doubts and fears. Jealousy is its infallible concomitant – ever present as the thorn with the rose. How could I hope that one hour of my presence had been sufficient to inspire in that young bosom the passion of a life? It could scarcely be other than a slight impression – a passing admiration of some speech, word, or gesture – too transient to be true? Perhaps I was already forgotten? Perhaps only remembered with a smile, instead of a sigh? Though still but a short time since our parting, many scenes had since transpired – many events had occurred in the life of that young creature to give it experience. Forms of equal – perhaps superior elegance – had come before her eye. Might not one of these have made its image upon her heart?

The caravan was not a mere conglomeration of coarse rude adventurers. There were men of all classes composing it – not a few of accomplished education – not a few who, using a hackneyed phrase, were “men of the world,” – familiar with its ways and its wiles – and who perfectly understood all those intricate attentions and delicate lures, by which the virgin heart is approached and captured. There were military men too – those ever to be dreaded rivals in love – young officers of the escort, laced, booted, and spurred – bedecked, moreover, with that mysterious influence which authority ever imparts to its possessor. Could these be blind to the charms of such a travelling companion? Impossible. Or could she – her young bosom just expanding to receive the god of love – fail to acknowledge the nearest form as his image? Painfully improbable!

It was therefore with feelings of no very pleasant kind that I sought around for some souvenir. The remains of a fire, a little apart from the rest, near the edge of a piece of copsewood, drew my attention. It looked as if it had been a spot on which some family group had encamped. I was led to this conjecture, by observing some flowers scattered near – for the grassy sward showed no other sign. The flowers betokened the presence of womankind. Fair faces – or one at least – had beamed in the light of that fire. I felt morally certain of it. I approached the spot. The shrubbery around was interlaced with wild roses; while blue lupins and scarlet pelargoniums sparkled over the glade, under the sheltering protection of the trees. By the edge of the shrubbery lay a bouquet, that had evidently been put together with some care! Dismounting, I took it up. My fingers trembled as I examined it: for even in this slight object I read indications of design. The flowers were of the rarest and prettiest – of many kinds that grew not near. They had been plucked elsewhere. Some one had given both time and attention to their collection and arrangement. Who? It would have been idle to shape even a conjecture, but for a circumstance, that appeared to offer a certain clue; and, not without bitter thoughts, did I try to unwind it. The thread which was warped around the flower-stalks was of yellow silk. The strands were finely twisted; and I easily recognised the bullion from the tassel of a sash. That thread must have been taken from the sash of a dragoon officer!

Had the bouquet been a gift? To whom? and by whom? Here all conjecture should have ended; but not without a feeling of painful suspicion did I examine those trivial signs; and the feeling continued to annoy me, long after I had flung the flowers at my feet.

A reflection came to my relief, which went far towards restoring my spirits’ equanimity. If a gift, and to Lilian Holt, she had scarcely honoured it – else how could the flowers have been there? Had they been forgotten, or left unregarded? There was consolation in either hypothesis; and, in the trust that one or the other was true, I sprang back into my saddle, and with a more cheerful heart, rode away from the spot.

Chapter Forty Nine

An Unexpected Appearance

The finding of the flowers, or rather the reflections to which they gave rise, rendered me more anxious than ever to come up with, the caravan. The little incident had made me aware of a new danger hitherto unthought of. Up to that hour, my chief anxiety with regard to Lilian Holt had been the companionship of the Mormon. This had been heightened by some information incidentally imparted by the deserters – chiefly by Sure-shot. It related to the destination of a number of the emigrants, who accompanied the caravan; and with whom the rifleman had held intercourse, previous to their departure from Van Buren. These were not prospective gold-diggers, but persons migrating westward from motives more spiritual: they were Saints bound for the Salt Lake – there intending to stay and settle.

There was a large party of these “Latter-day” converts under the conduct of an apostolic agent. This much had Sure-shot ascertained. He had not seen their leader, nor heard his name. Joshua Stebbins might be the very man? Even as a conjecture, this was bitter enough. Up to the time of joining with the deserters, I had consoled myself with the belief, that California was the destination of this saint and his squatter protégé; though at times I was troubled with the remembrance of Su-wa-nee’s words. Their truth was almost confirmed by the report of the ex-rifleman. I could not now think otherwise, than that Stebbins was bound for the Mormon city; and that he was the fox in charge of the flock of geese that accompanied the emigrant train. It was more than probable. While waiting in Swampville for the letter of Lilian, I had learnt something of the history of the ci-devant schoolmaster – not much of the period subsequent to his departure from that place – little more than the fact that he had joined the Mormons, and had risen to high office in their church – in short, that he was one of their “apostles.” This fact, however, was one of primary significance.

Had the squatter also submitted to the hideous delusion? Was he also on his way to the shrine of the faith? The answer to the former question was of slight importance, so long as that to the latter might be conceived in the affirmative. If Holt was bound to the Salt Lake, then was the fate of his daughter to be dreaded. Not long there may a virgin dwell. The baptism of the New Jordan soon initiates its female neophytes into the mysteries of womanhood – absolutely compelling them to the marriage-tie – forcing them to a wedlock loveless and unholy.

Suffering under such apprehensions, I scarcely needed the additional stimulus of jealousy to urge me onward; and yet, strange as it may appear, the finding of the bouquet had produced this effect. I would have ridden on, without halt, but our animals required rest. We had been travelling nearly all night, and throughout the morning – under the friendly shelter of the cotton-wood forest. We all needed an hour or two of repose; and, seeking a secure place near the ground of the deserted camp, we stopped to obtain it. The train could not be far ahead of us. While seated in silence around the fire we had kindled, we could hear at intervals the reports of guns. They came from up the valley, and from a far distance. The sounds reached us but faintly – now single shots, and then two or three together, or following in quick succession. We were at no loss to account for the reports. They were caused by the hunters of the caravan, in pursuit of game. We had now entered that charming region where elk and antelope abounded. On our morning-march we had seen herds of both trooping over the sward – almost within range of our rifles. Even as we sat, a band of beautiful antelopes appeared in the open ground near our bivouack fire; and, after satisfying their curiosity by gazing at us for a moment, they trotted off into the covert. It was a tempting sight – too tempting for the young backwoods hunter to resist. Seizing his rifle, he took after them – promising us as he went off a more savoury breakfast than the dry buffalo-meat we were broiling. Soon after, we heard the report of his piece; and, presently, he re-appeared with a dead “prong-horn” upon his shoulders.

As Wingrove came up to the fire, I noticed a singular expression upon his countenance. Instead of being rejoiced at his success, his looks betrayed anxiety! I questioned him as to the cause. He did not answer directly; but, drawing me to one side, inquired in a whisper, if I had seen any one in his absence.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“If it wan’t altogether unpossible, I’d swar I seed that girl.”

“What girl?”

I trembled, as I put the question: I was thinking of Lilian.

“That darnationed devil of a Chicasaw.”

“What! Su-wa-nee?”

“Yes – Su-wa-nee.”

“Oh – that cannot be? It could not be her?”

“So I’d a thort myself; but darn me, capt’n! if I kin b’lieve it wa’nt her. What I seed war as like her as two eggs.”

“What did you see?”

“Why, jest arter I’d killed the goat, an’ war heisting it on my shoulders, I spied a Injun glidin’ into the bushes. I seed it war a squaw; an’ jest the picter o’ the Chicasaw. She ’peared as ef she hed kim right from hyar, an’ I thort you must a seed her.”

“Did you get sight of her face?”

“No, her back war torst me, an’ she kep on ’ithout turnin’ or stoppin’ a minnit. ’Twar the very duds that girl used to wear, an’ her bulk to an inch. It kudn’t a been liker her. Darn me, ef ’twan’t eyther her or her ghost!”

“It is very improbable that it could have been either?”

I did not for a moment entertain the idea that it was the Chicasaw he had seen; and yet my comrade was fully impressed with the belief, and reiterated the assertion that he had either seen Su-wa-nee or her “shadder.” Though the thing was improbable, it was not beyond possibility. We knew that there were Indians travelling with the train: we had heard so before starting out. But what likelihood was there of Su-wa-nee being among them? Certainly not much. That there were prairie Indians around us, was probable enough. We had already observed their traces upon the ground of the deserted camp. The “squaw” seen by Wingrove might be one of these.

Whether or not, her presence proved the proximity of red-skins; and the knowledge of having such dangerous neighbours, summoned us to a fresh exercise of vigilance and caution. Our fire was instantly extinguished; and, contenting ourselves with a morsel of the half-broiled buffalo-beef, we moved to some distance from the spot, before proceeding, to cook the antelope. A dark covert in the thick woods offered us a more secure kitchen. There we rekindled our fire – and roasting the ribs of the prong-horn, refreshed ourselves with an ample meal. After an hour’s repose, we resumed our journey – in confident expectation, that before sunset we should get within sight of the caravan.

Chapter Fifty

Up the Cañon

We had not ridden far from our halting-place, when we arrived at the end of the great cotton-wood forest. Beyond that, the trace led over open ground – here and there dotted by groves and “islands” of timber. Through these we threaded our way – keeping as much as possible among the trees. Further on, we came upon a gorge – one of the noted cañons through which the Huerfano runs. Here the river sweeps down a narrow channel, with rocky banks that rise on each side into precipitous cliffs of stupendous height.