The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

The plain at this moment presented an animated spectacle. He upon the summit of the butte, if still alive, must have viewed it with singular emotions. The painted Arapahoes clustered around their chief, and for the moment appearing in a close crowd, silent and immobile: from north, south, east, and west, the four bands of the Utahs approaching in rapid gallop, each led by its war-chief; while the “Ugh! aloo!” pealing from five hundred throats, reverberated from cliff to cliff, filling the valley with its vengeful echoes! The charge might have been likened to a chapter from the antique – an onslaught of Scythians! Would the Arapahoes await the shock of all four divisions at once? All were about equally distant, and closing in at equal speed. Surely the Red-Hand would not stay to be thus attacked.

“Carrambo! I wonder they are not off before this!” shouted Archilete, who was galloping by my side. “Ha, yonder!” added he, “a party on foot making from the grove of alamos! They are waiting for those to come up – that’s what’s been detaining them. Mira!”

As the Mexican spoke, he pointed to a small tope of cotton-woods, which grew isolated about three or four hundred yards from the mound. Out of this was seen issuing some fifteen or twenty Arapahoes. They were on foot – except three or four, who appeared to be carried by the others.

“Their wounded!” continued the trapper. “They’ve had them under the bushes to keep the sun off them, I suppose. Mira! they are meeting them with horses! They mean flight then.”

A party with led-horses were seen galloping out from the base of the butte, evidently to take up the men on foot – who were still hurrying towards their mounted comrades, as fast as the nature of their duty would permit them. There were several groups of the Indians on foot – each no doubt in charge of a disabled comrade. One crowd appeared to encircle a man who was not borne upon their shoulders, but was moving forward on his own feet. The violent gesticulations of those who surrounded him drew our attention. The man was evidently being menaced and urged forward – as if he went against his will!

“Carrai!” exclaimed the Mexican, “he is not one of their wounded. A captive! One of your camarados, I dare say?”

“No doubt of it,” I replied, at that moment equally guided to the conjecture.

“Wagh!” exclaimed the trapper, “the poor fellow’s scalp is in danger just now. I wonder they take all that trouble to get him away alive! – that puzzles me, amigo! I think it high time they looked to their own lives, without being so particular about that of their prisoner. Santissima Virgen! As I live, there’s a woman among them!”

“Yes – I see her – I know her. Her presence explains why they are taking him alive.”

“You know her?”

“And him too. Poor fellow! I hope she will befriend him; but – ”

I was hindered from continuing the explanation. Just at that moment, the led-horses were rushed up to: and those in charge of the wounded were seen to spring to their backs. Here and there, a double mount proclaimed that the disabled men were still capable of making a last effort for their lives. All had got upon their horses, and in a straggling crowd were making to join the main band; when, just at that moment, one of the horses that carried two men was seen to swerve suddenly from the line, and, heading up the valley, come galloping in our direction. The horse appeared to have taken fright, and shied away from the others; while the men upon his back were tossing and writhing about, as if trying to restrain him! At the same instant, half-a-dozen mounted Arapahoes were seen shooting forth from the crowd, and with loud yells galloping in pursuit of the runaway! The double-loaded steed – a powerful animal – kept on his course; but, not until he had approached within three or four hundred paces of our own front, could I account for this strange manoeuvre. Then was I enabled to comprehend the mysterious escapade. The rider upon the croup was Frank Wingrove! He upon the saddle was a red Arapaho. The bodies of the two men appeared to be lashed together by a raw-hide rope; but, in front of the Indian, I could perceive the muscular arms of the young backwoodsman tightly embracing the chest of the savage, while with the reins in his fingers he was guiding the gallop of the horse! With a shout of joy I hailed the escape of my comrade, now no longer problematical. In a score of seconds more, we should meet.

The pursuers – satisfied that his recapture was hopeless without risking their own scalps – had already turned with a despairing shout, and were galloping back. Wingrove was near enough to hear the cry of encouragement that passed from my lips; and, soon recognising me, despite the disguise of the serapé, headed his horse directly towards us.

“Hooraw, capt’n!” cried he, as he came up. “Hev you e’er a knife to cut me clar o’ this Indjun? Durn the niggur! I’ve got him in a leetle o’ the tightest fix he’s been in for a while, I reck’n. Dog-gone ye! keep still, ye skunk, or I’ll smash every rib in yur body! Quiet now!”

During all this time, the Indian was making the most strenuous efforts to free himself from the grasp of his powerful adversary – now endeavouring to throw himself down from the horse, anon trying to turn the animal in an opposite direction. But the thongs intended to secure his captive – and which had no doubt been wound around both of them by a third hand – had become bonds for himself. Wingrove, who had by some means wrenched his wrists free from their fastenings, had turned the tables upon his captor, by transforming him into a captive! I chanced to be without a knife; but the Mexican was supplied with the necessary implement; and, drawing it from its sheath, shot past me to use it. I thought he intended to cut the thongs that bound the two men together. So did he: but not till after he had performed another operation – which consisted in plunging his blade between the ribs of the Arapaho! At the stab, the Indian gave utterance to his wild death-shout. In the same instant his head coggled over upon his shoulder, his body relaxed its muscular tension, and hung limp over the raw-hide rope. A snig of the red blade severed the thong; and the Indian’s body sliding down from the withers of the horse, fell with a dull dead sound upon the turf.

“Here Americano!” cried the trapper, holding out the ensanguined knife to Wingrove; “take this weapon for want of a better. Let us on! See! the picaros are making off. Vamos! nos vamonos!”

The incident had delayed us but for a very short while – perhaps not half a minute; but as we returned to the charging gallop, most of our party had passed us; and the foremost were already within rifle range, and opening fire upon the Arapahoes.

Chapter Seventy Eight

The Charge

The horsemen who had forged ahead, for a while, hindered me from seeing the enemy. The Utahs had halted, and were discharging their guns. The smoke from their shots shrouded both allies and enemies; but, from the fact of a halt having been made, I presumed the Arapahoes were making stand by the butte. It was not so. After the first round of shots, the firing ceased; and the Utahs again went charging onward.

The Arapahoes had given way, and were fleeing down the valley. There they must meet Wa-ka-ra. And this or something like it, was their intention. With the four divisions closing upon them from all sides at once, they saw there was no chance of saving themselves – except by making a desperate charge on some one singly, in the hope of causing it to yield, and thus open for them a way of escape. They had no difficulty in making choice of which they should meet. The band of Wa-ka-ra was between them and their own country. It was the direction in which they must ultimately retreat; and this decided them to take down the valley.

A slight swell in the plain, which we were at that moment crossing, gave me a view of the retreating Arapahoes. In the distance, I could see the band of Wa-ka-ra advancing towards them at full speed. In a few seconds would meet in shivering charge these mortal foes.

The Utahs of our party were urging their horses to utmost speed. Well-mounted as were myself and companions, we were unable to overtake them. Those that came from right and left had suddenly swerved from their course; and in two converging lines were sweeping down the valley to the assistance of their chief. We passed close under the edge of the butte. In the excitement of the chase, I had almost forgotten to look up – when a shrill shout recalled to my memory the captive on the cross. The cry came from the summit – from Sure-shot himself. Thank Heaven! he lived!

“Hooza! hoozay!” shouted the voice. “Heaving speed yees, whos’ever ye be! Hooza! hoozay! Arter the verming, an’ gie ’em goss! Sculp every mother’s son o’ ’em. Hooza! hoozay!”

There was no time to make reply to these cries of encouragement. Enough to know that it was our old comrade who gave utterance to them. It proved he was still living; and, echoing his exulting shout, we galloped onward.

It was a fearful sight to behold the two dark bands as they dashed forward upon one another – like opposing waves of the angry ocean. Through the horsemen in front of me, I could see the meeting, and hear the shock. It was accompanied by wild yells – by voices heard in loud taunting tones – by the rattling of shields, the crashing collision of spear-shafts, and the sharp detonations of rifles. The band of Wa-ka-ra recoiled for a moment. It was by far the weakest; and had it been left to itself, would have sustained defeat in this terrible encounter. But the Utahs were armed both with rifles and pistols; and the latter, playing upon the ranks of the Arapahoes, were fast thinning them. Dusky warriors were seen dropping from their horses; while the terrified animals went galloping over the field – their wild neighs adding to the uproar of the fight. There was but one charge – a short but terrible conflict – and then the fight was over. It became transformed, almost in an instant, to a disorderly flight. When the hot skurry had ended, the remnant of the prairie-horsemen was seen heading down the valley, followed by the four bands of the Utahs – who had now closed together. Pressing onward in the pursuit, they still vociferated their wild Ugh! aloo! – firing shots at intervals, as they rode within reach of their flying foemen.

Neither Wingrove nor I had an opportunity of taking part in the affray. It was over before we could ride up; and, indeed, had it been otherwise, neither of us could have been of much service to our allies. Painted as both were, and in full war-costume – in other words, naked to the breech-clout – we could not have distinguished friends from foes! It was partly this consideration that had occasioned us to halt. We drew up on the ground where the collision had occurred with the band of Wa-ka-ra. We looked upon a spectacle that might at any other time have horrified us. A hundred bodies lay over the sward, all dead. There were Utahs as well as Arapahoes; but, though we could not distinguish the warriors of the two tribes in the confusion of the fight, there was no difficulty in identifying their dead. There was a signal difference in the aspect of the slain Indians. Around the skulls of the Utahs, the thick black tresses were still clustering; while upon the heads of the Arapahoes there was neither hair nor skin. Every one of them had been already scalped. Wounded men were sitting up, or propped against dead bodies – each with two or three comrades bending over him. Horses were galloping around, their lazos trailing at will; while weapons of every kind – spears, shields, bows, quivers, and arrows – were strewed over the sward.

A group of about a dozen men appeared at some distance, clustered around a particular object. It was the dead body of a man – a chief, no doubt? Not without feelings of apprehension did I approach the spot. It might be the noble Wa-ka-ra? I rode up, and looked over the shoulders of those who encircled the corpse. A glance was sufficient to put an end to my apprehensions. The body was covered with blood, and pierced with many wounds. It was frightfully mutilated; but I was able to identify the features as those of Red-Hand, the chief of the Arapahoes! Scarred and gashed though it was, I could still trace those sinister lines that in life had rendered that face so terrible to behold. It was even more hideous in death; but the Utahs who stood around no longer regarded it with fear. The terror, which their dread foeman had oft inspired within them, was now being retaliated in the mockery of his mutilated remains! The Mexican had ascertained that Wa-ka-ra was still unhurt, and heading the pursuit. Having myself no further interest in the scene, I turned away from it; and, with Wingrove by my side, rode back towards the butte.

Chapter Seventy Nine

Tragic and Comic

Some words passed between us as we went. For my companion, I had news that would make him supremely happy. Our conversation turned not on that. “Soon enough,” thought I, “when they shall come together. Let both hearts be blessed at the same time.” Ah! how my own was bleeding. Little suspected the Spanish hunter how his tale had tortured me!

Wingrove, in brief detail, gave me the particulars of his escape. Like myself, he had been captured without receiving any serious injury. They would have killed him afterwards, but for the interference of the Chicasaw, who, by some means, had gained an ascendancy over the Red-Hand! In the breast of this desperate woman burned alternately the passions of love and revenge. The former had been for the time in the ascendant; but she had saved the captive’s life, only in the hope of making him her captive. She had carried him to the copse, where he had passed the night in her company – one moment caressed and entreated – in the next reviled, and menaced with the most cruel death! In vain had he looked for an opportunity to get away from her. Like a jealous tigress had she watched him throughout the live-long night; and it was only in the confusion, created by our sudden approach, that he had found a chance of escape from the double guardianship in which he had been held. All this was made known to me in a few hurried phrases.

Sure-shot! we were within speaking distance; but who could have identified the Yankee in such a guise? The tricoloured escutcheon I had myself so lately borne – the black face, shoulders, and arms – the white circle on the breast – the red spot – all just as they had painted me!

“Jehosophet an’ pigeon-pie!” cried he, as he saw us approach; “air it yeou, capting? an’ Wingrove, teoo!”

“Yes, brave comrade! Your shot has saved us all. Patience! we shall soon set you free!”

Leaping down from our horses, we hurried up the sloping path. I was still anxious about Sure-shot’s safety; but in another moment, my anxiety was at an end. He was yet unscathed. Like myself, he had received some scratches, but no wound of a dangerous character. Like myself, he had died a hundred deaths, and yet lived! His gleesome spirit had sustained him throughout the dread ordeal. He had even joked with his cruel tormentors! Now that the dark hour was past, his jeux d’esprit were poured forth with a continuous volubility. No; not continuous. At intervals, a shadow crossed his spirit, as it did that of all of us. We could not fail to lament the fate of the unfortunate Hibernian.

“Poor Petrick!” said Sure-shot, as we descended the slope, “he weer the joyfulest kimrade I ever hed, an’ we must gi’ him the berril o’ a Christyan. I wonder neow what on airth them verming lies done wi’ him? Wheer kin they have hid his body?”

“True – where is it? It was out yonder on the plain? I saw it there: they had scalped him.”

“Yees; they sculped him at the time we weer all captered. He weer lying jest out theer last night at sundown. He ain’t theer now; nor ain’t a been this mornin’, or I’d a seed him. What do ees think they’ve done wi’ him anyhow?”

The disappearance of the body was singular enough. It had undoubtedly been removed from the spot where it had lain; and was now nowhere to be seen! It was scarcely probable that the wolves had eaten it, for the Indians had been all night upon the ground; and their camp-fires were near. True, the coyotes would have cared little for that; but surely the brutes could not have carried the body clear away? The bones, at least, would have remained? There were none – not a trace either of body or bones! We passed around the butte, and made search on the other side. There was no dead body there – no remains of one. Ha – the river! It swept past within fifty yards of the mound. It would account for the disappearance of the corpse. Had the Indians thrown it into the water? We walked towards the stream, half mechanically. We had little expectation of finding the remains of the unfortunate man. The current rushed rapidly on: the body would have been taken along with it?

“Maybe it mout hev lodged somewheres?” suggested Sure-shot. “Ef we shed find it, capting, I’d like to put a sod over him, for old times’ sake. Shell we try down the stream?”

We followed the bank downward. A little below grew willows, forming a selvedge to the river’s edge. Their culms curved over, till the long quivering leaves dipped into the water. Here and there were thickets of them extending back into the plain. Only by passing through these could the bank of the river be reached. We entered among the willows, Wingrove going in the advance.

I saw him stoop suddenly, as if to examine the ground. An exclamation escaped him, and the words:

“Someb’dy’s crawled through hyar, or been dragged through – one o’ the two ways.”

“No!” added he, after a moment, “he’s not been dragged; he’s been creepin’ on his hands an’ knees. Look thar! the track o’ a knee, as clar as daylight; an’, by the tarnal! it’s been covered wi’ broad-cloth. No Injun kud a made that mark!”

We all bent over to examine the sign. Sure enough, it was the track of a man’s knee; and the plastic mud exhibited on its surface a print of fretted lines, which must have been made by coarse threadbare cloth!

“By Gosh!” exclaimed Sure-shot, “that eer’s the infantry overall – the givernment cloth to a sartingty. Petrick’s been abeout heer. Lordy, tain’t possyble he’s still living?”

“Shure-shat! Shure-shat! Mother ov Moses! is it yerself I hear?”

The voice reached us in a hoarse whisper. It appeared to rise out of the earth! For some moments, we all stood, as if petrified by surprise.

“Shure-shat!” continued the voice, “won’t yez help me out? I’m too wake to get up the bank.”