The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

“Petrick, as I’m a livin’ sinner! Good Lordy, Petrick! wheer air ye? ’Tain’t possyble yeer alive?”

“Och, an’ shure I’m aloive, that same. But I’m more than half did, for all that; an’ nearly drownded to boot. Arrah, boys! rache me a hand, an’ pull me out – for I can’t move meself – one of my legs is broke.”

We all three rushed down to the water – whence the voice appeared to come. Under the drooping willows, where the current had undermined the bank, we perceived an object in motion. A fearful object it was to look upon: it was the encrimsoned skull of our scalped comrade! His body was submerged below the surface. His head alone was visible – a horrid sight! The three of us leaped at once into the stream; and, raising the poor fellow in our arms, lifted him out on the bank. It was as he had alleged. One of his legs was broken below the knee; and other frightful wounds appeared in different parts of his body. No wonder the Indians had believed him dead, when they stripped off that terrible trophy!

Notwithstanding the ill usage he had received, there was still hope. His wounds, though ugly to the eye, were none of them mortal. With care, he might recover; and, taking him up as tenderly as possible, we conveyed him back to the butte. The Arapahoes had left their impedimenta behind them – blankets and robes at discretion. With these, a soft couch was prepared under the shade of the waggon body, and the wounded man placed upon it. Such rude dressing, as we were able to give, was at once administered to his wounds; and we found new joy in the anticipation of his recovery. His disappearance – from the spot where he had been left for dead – was explained. He had “played ’possum,” as he himself expressed it. Though roughly handled, and actually senseless for a time, he had still clung to life. He knew that the Indians believed him dead – else why should they have scalped him? With a faint hope of being left upon the field, he had lain still, without stirring hand or foot; and the savages, otherwise occupied, had not noticed him after taking his scalp. By some accident, his hands had got over his face; and, perceiving that these screened his countenance from observation, he had permitted them to remain so. With half-opened eyes, he could see between his fingers, and note many of the movements that were passing upon the plain in front of him – all this without the Indians having the slightest suspicion that he lived!

It was a terrible time for him – an ordeal equal to that endured by Sure-shot and myself. Every now and then some half drunken savage would come staggering past; and he knew not how soon some one of these strollers might stick a spear into him, out of mere wantonness! On the arrival of night, his hopes had revived; and the cool air had also the effect of partially restoring his strength. The savages, carousing around their fires, took no notice of him; and, as soon as darkness was fairly down, he had commenced crawling off in the direction of the river. He had a double object in going thither. He was suffering from horrid thirst; and he hoped there to find relief, as well as a hiding-place. After crawling for more than an hour, he had succeeded in reaching the bank; and, taking to the water, he had waded down, and concealed himself under the willows – in the place where we had found him. Such was the adventure of the ci-devant soldier, Patrick O’Tigg – an escape almost miraculous!

As if fulfilling the laws of dramatic justice – that the farce should succeed the tragedy – our attention was at this moment called to a ludicrous incident. The Mexican trapper had ridden up, and halted beside the waggon; when all at once his eyes became fixed upon an object that lay near at hand upon the grass. It was the black silk hat of the ex-rifleman, already mentioned in our narrative. After gazing at it for a moment, the Mexican slid down from his horse; and, hobbling towards the hat, took it up. Then uttering a fierce “Carajo,” he dashed the “tile” back to the ground, and commenced stamping upon it, as if it had been some venomous serpent he desired to annihilate!

“Hilloo! theer, hombre!” shouted Sure-shot. “What the ole scratch air ye abeout? Why, ye yeller-bellied fool, thet’s my hat yeer stompin’ on!”

“Your hat!” echoed the trapper in a contemptuous tone. “Carrambo, señor! you should be ashamed of yourself. Any man who would wear a silk hat! Wagh!”

“An’ why ain’t a silk hat as good’s any other?”

“Maldito sea!” continued the trapper, taking the wooden leg from his waist, and hammering the hat with it against a stone – “maldito sombrero! but for that accursed invention, we poor trappers wouldn’t be as we are now. Carrambo! it’s fetched beaver down to a plew a plug; while only ten years ago, we could get six pesos the skin! Only think of that! Carrai-i-i!” Pronouncing this last exclamation with bitter aspirate, the incensed trapper gave the unfortunate hat one more blow with his timber leg; and then, spurning the battered tile from his toe, hobbled back to his horse! Sure-shot was disposed to be angry, but a word set all right. I perfectly comprehended the nature of the trapper’s antipathy to silk hats, and explained it to my comrade. In their eyes, the absurd head-gear is more hideous than even to those who are condemned to wear it – for the trappers well know, that the introduction of the silk hat has been the ruin of their peculiar calling.

“’Twan’t much o’ a hat, after all,” said Sure-shot, reconciled by the explanation. “It b’longed to the sutler at the Fort: for yee see, capting, as we left theere for a leetle bit o’ a hurry, I couldn’t lay my claws on my own ole forage-cap; so I took the hat in its place? an’ thet’s how I kim by the thing. But heer’s a hat perhaps, mister, this heer’ll pleeze ye better? Will it, eh?”

As Sure-shot put the question, he took up the plumed bonnet of an Arapaho warrior – which had been left lying among the rocks – and, adjusting the gaudy circlet upon his head, strode backward and forward over the ground with all the swelling majesty of an Indian dandy! The odd-looking individual and his actions caused the laughter of the bystanders to break forth in loud peals. The Mexican fairly screamed, interlarding his cachinnations with loud “santissimas,” and other Spanish exclamations; while even the wounded man under the waggon was unable to restrain himself at the mirth-provoking spectacle.

Chapter Eighty

Spiritual Wives

I joined not in the merriment of my companions. I took no share in their mirth. The trapper’s story had intensified the anguish of my thoughts; and now, that I found time to dwell upon its purport, my reflections were bitter beyond expression. I could have no doubt as to who was the heroine of that strange history. She who had been so shamefully deceived – she who had so nobly risked her life to save her honour – she the wild huntress, by the Utahs called Ma-ra-nee– could be no other than that Marian, of whom I had heard so much – Marian Holt!

The circumstances detailed by the trapper were perfectly conformable to this belief – they concurred in establishing it. The time – the place – the route taken – the Mormon train all agreed with what we had ascertained regarding Stebbins’s first expedition across the prairies. The Mexican had mentioned no names. It was likely he knew them not; or if so, it was scarcely probable he could have pronounced them. But it needed not names to confirm me in the belief that “Josh Stebbins” was the sham-husband, and that she whom he would have betrayed – this huntress-maiden, was the lost love of my comrade Wingrove – the sister of my own Lilian. This would account for the resemblance that had struck me. It no longer seemed vague, in my memory: I could now trace it palpably and clearly.

And this was the grand beauty upon which the young backwoodsman had so enthusiastically descanted. Often had he described it to my incredulous ear. I had attributed his praises to the partiality of a lover’s eye – having not the slightest suspicion that their object was possessed of such merits. No more should I question the justice of his admiration, nor wonder at its warmth. The rude hyperbole that had occasionally escaped him, when speaking of the “girl” – as he called her – no longer appeared extravagant. In truth, the charms of this magnificent maiden were worthy of metaphoric phrase. Perhaps, had I seen her first – before looking upon Lilian – that is, had I not seen Lilian at all – my own heart might have yielded to this half-Indian damsel? Not so now. The gaudy tulip may attract the eye, but the incense of the perfumed violet is sweeter to the soul. Even had both been presented together, I could not have hesitated in my choice. All the same should I have chosen the gold and the rose; and my heart’s preference was now fixed, fondly and for ever.

My love for Lilian Holt was a passion too profound to be otherwise than perpetual. It was in my bosom – in its innermost recesses, all-pervading – all-absorbing. There would it cling till death. Even in those dread hours when death seemed hovering above my head, the thought of Lilian was uppermost – even then did my mind dwell upon the perils that encompassed her path. And now that I was myself delivered from danger, had I reason to regard the future of my beloved with apprehensions less acute? No. The horrid scheme which the trapper’s story had disclosed in respect to her sister – might not she, too, be the victim of a similar procuration? O heaven! it was too painfully probable. The more I dwelt upon it, the more probable appeared this appalling hypothesis.

I have already spoken of my experience of Mormon life, and the insight I had incidentally obtained into its hideous characteristics. I have said that the spiritual-wife doctrine was long since exploded – repudiated even by the apostles themselves – and in its place the many-wife system had been adopted. There was no change in reality, only in profession. The practice of the Mormon leaders had been the same from the beginning; only that then polygamy had been carried on sub rosa. Publicity being no longer dreaded, it was now practised “openly and above board.” We term it polygamy – adopting an oriental phrase. It is nothing of the kind. Polygamy presupposes some species of marriage, according to the laws of the land; but for Mormon matrimony – at least that indulged in by the dignitaries of the church – there were no statutes, except such as they had chosen to set up for themselves. The ceremony is simply a farce; and consists in the sprinkling of a little water by some brother apostle, with a few mock-mesmeric passes – jocosely termed the “laying on of hands!” The cheat is usually a secret performance: having no other object than to overcome those natural scruples – not very strong among women of Mormon training – but which sometimes, in the case of young girls of Christian education, had opposed themselves to the designs of these impudent impostors. Something resembling matrimony may be the condition of a Mormon wife – that is, the wife of an ordinary “Saint,” whose means will not allow him to indulge in the gross joys of polygamy. But it is different with the score or two of well-to-do gentlemen who finger the finances of the church – the tenths and other tributes which they contrive to extract from the common herd. Among these, the so-called “wife” is regarded in no other light than that of une femme entretenue.

I knew that one of the duties specially enjoined upon those emissaries termed “apostles,” is to gather young girls from all parts of the world. The purpose is proclaimed with all the affectation of sanctified phraseology: – that they should become “mothers in the church,” and by this means lead to the more rapid increase of the followers of the true faith! This is the public declaration, intended for the common ear. But the leaders are actuated by motives still more infamous. Their emissaries have instructions to select the fairer forms of creation; and it is well-known that to making converts of this class, have their energies been more especially devoted.

It was this species of proselytising – alas! too often successful – that more than aught else had roused the indignation of the backwoodsmen of Missouri and Illinois, and caused the expulsion of the Saints from their grand temple-city of Nauvoo. In the ranks of their assailants were many outraged men – fathers who looked for a lost child – angry brothers, seeking revenge for a sister lured from her home – lovers, who lamented a sweetheart beguiled by that fatal faith – and no doubt the blood of the pseudo-Saint’s, there and then shed, was balm to many a chafed and sorrowing spirit.

In the category of this uxorious infamy, no name was more distinguished than that of him, on whose shoulders the mantle of the prophet had descended – the chief who now held ascendancy among these self-styled saints; and who, with an iron hand, controlled the destinies of their church. A man cunning and unscrupulous; a thorough plebeian in thought, but possessed of a certain portentous polish, well suited to deceive the stupid herd that follows him, and sufficient for the character he is called upon to play; a debauchee boldly declared, and scarcely caring for the hypocrisy of concealment; above all, an irresponsible despot, whose will is law to all around him; and, when needing enforcement, can at any hour pretend to the sanction of authority from heaven: such is the head of the Mormon Church! With both the temporal and spiritual power in his hands; legislative, executive, and judicial united – the fiscal too, for the prophet is sole treasurer of the tenths– this monster of imposition wields a power equalled only by the barbaric chiefs of Africa, or the rajahs of Ind. It might truly be said, that both the souls and bodies of his subjects are his, and not their own. The former he can control, and shape to his designs at will. As for the latter, though he may not take life openly, it is well-known that his sacred edict issued to the “destroying angels,” is equally efficacious to kill. Woe betide the Latter-day Saint, who dares to dream of dissent or apostasy! Woe to him who expresses disaffection, or even discontent! Too surely may he dread a mysterious punishment – too certainly expect the midnight visitation of the Danites!

Exercising such influence over Mormon men, it is almost superfluous to add, that his control over Mormon women is yet more complete. Virtue, assailed under the mask of a spiritual hypocrisy, is apt to give way – alas! too easily – in all parts of the world; but in a state of society, where such slips are rather a fashion than a disgrace, it is needless to say that they are of continual occurrence. The practice of the pseudo-prophet in wife-taking has very little limit, beyond that fixed by his own desires. It is true he may not outrage certain formalities, by openly appropriating the wives of his followers; but should he fancy to become the husband of their daughters, not only is there no opposition offered on the part of the parent, but the base proposal is regarded in the light of an honour! So esteemed it the women from whom Marian Holt had run away – the brave girl preferring the perils of starvation and savage life to such gentle companionship! Thus contemplating the character of the vulgar Alcibiades, for whose harem she had been designed – in full knowledge of the circumstances which now surrounded her sister – how could I deem the situation of Lilian otherwise than similar – her destiny the same? With such a tyrant to betray, such a father to protect, no wonder that I trembled for her fate! No wonder that the sweat – forced from me my by soul’s agony – broke out in bead-drops upon my brow!

Chapter Eighty One

The Death-Song

Prostrated in spirit, I sunk down among the rocks, covering my face with my hands. So occupied was I with wild imaginings, that I saw not the Utah women as they passed down the valley. They did not approach the butte, nor make halt near, but hastened directly onward to the scene of conflict. I had for the moment forgotten them; and was only reminded of their proximity on hearing the death-wail, as it came pealing up the valley. It soon swelled into a prolonged and plaintive chorus – interrupted only by an occasional shriek – that denoted the discovery of some relative among the slain – father, brother, husband – or perhaps still nearer and dearer, some worshipped lover – who had fallen under the spears of the Arapahoes.

Was Maranee among them? – the wailing women? The thought roused me from my reverie of wretchedness. A gleam of joy shot suddenly across my mind. It was the wild huntress that had given origin to the thought. On her I had founded a new hope. She must be seen! No time should be lost in communicating with her? Had she accompanied the women of the tribe? Was she upon the ground?

I rose to my feet, and was going for my horse. I saw Wingrove advancing towards me. The old shadow had returned to his brow. I might exult in the knowledge of being able to dispel it – once and for ever? Fortunate fellow! little suspected he at that moment how I held his happiness in my hand – how, with one word, I could raise from off his heart the load, that for six long months had weighed heavily upon it! Yes – a pleasant task was before me. Though my own heart bled, I could stop the bleeding of his – of hers, both in a breath. Now, or not yet? I hesitated. I can scarcely tell why. Perhaps it was that I might enjoy a double delight – by making the disclosure to both of them at once? I had a sweet surprise for them. To both, no doubt, it would be a revelation that would yield the most rapturous joy. Should I bring them face to face, and leave them to mutual explanations? This was the question that had offered itself, and caused me to hesitate and reflect. No. I could not thus sport with hearts that loved. I could not procrastinate that exquisite happiness, now so near. At once let them enter upon its enjoyment! But both could not be made happy exactly at the same instant? One or other must be first told the glad truth that was in store for them? Apart they must be told it; and to which was I to give the preference? I resolved to follow that rule of polite society, which extends priority to the softer sex. Wingrove must wait!

It was only with an effort, I could restrain myself from giving him a hint of his proximate bliss. I was sustained in the effort, however, by observing the manner in which he approached me. Evidently he had some communication to make that concerned our future movements? Up to that moment, there had been no time to talk – even to think of the future.

“I’ve got somethin’ to say to you, capt’n,” said he, drawing near, and speaking in a serious tone; “it’s better, may be, ye shed know it afore we go furrer. The girl’s been givin’ me some partickalers o’ the caravan that I hain’t told you.”

“What girl?”

“The Chicasaw – Su-wa-nee.”

“Oh – true. What says she? Some pleasant news I may anticipate, since she has been the bearer of them?” It was not any lightness of heart that caused me to give an ironical form to the interrogative. Far from that.

“Well, capt’n,” replied my comrade, “it is rayther ugly news the red-skinned devil’s told me; but I don’ know how much truth thar’s in it; for I’ve foun’ her out in more ’n one lie about this bizness. She’s been wi’ the carryvan, however, an’ shed know all about it.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Well – Su-wa-nee says that the carryvan’s broke up into two.”

“Ha!”

“One helf o’ it, wi’ the dragoons, hes turned south, torst Santa Fé; the other, which air all Mormons, hev struck off northardly, by a different pass, an’ on a trail thet makes for thar new settlements on Salt Lake.”

“There’s not much news in that. We had anticipated something of the kind?”

“But thar’s worse, capt’n.”

“Worse! – what is it, Wingrove?” I put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety.

“Holt’s gone wi’ the Mormons.”

“That too I had expected. It does not surprise me in the least.”

“Ah! capt’n,” continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, “thar’s uglier news still.”

“Ha!” I involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind. “News of her? Quick! tell me! has aught happened to her?”

“The worst that kud happen, I reck’n —she’s dead.”

I started as if a shot had passed through my heart. Its convulsive throbbing stifled my speech. I could not get breath to utter a word; but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony.

“Arter all,” continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, “I don’t know if it air the worst. I sayed afore, an’ I say so still, thet I’d ruther she war dead that in the arms o’ thet ere stinkin’ Mormon. Poor Marian! she’s hed but a short life, o’ ’t, an’ not a very merry one eyether.”

“What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?”

“Why, sartin, capt’n. Who else shed it be?”