The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

“Marian dead?”

“Yes – poor girl, she never lived to see that Salt Lake city – whar the cussed varmint war takin’ her. She died on the way out, an’ war berryed som’rs on the paraireys. I wish I knew whar – I’d go to see her grave.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?”

My companion looked at me in amazement. The laugh, at such a time, must have sounded strange to his ears.

“The Injun heerd it from Lil,” replied Wingrove, still puzzled at my behaviour. “Stebbins had told it to Holt, an’ to her likeways. Poor young creetur! I reck’n he’ll be a wantin’ her too – now thet he’s lost the other. Poor little Lil!”

“Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied – belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive the girl’s father – the Indian to do the same with you. The story is false, Marian Holt is not dead.”

“Marian ain’t dead?”

“No, she lives – she has been true to you. Listen.”

I could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. The reaction – consequent on the bitter pang I had just experienced, while under the momentary belief that it was Lilian who was dead – had stirred my spirit, filling it with a wild joy. I longed to impart the same emotions to my suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, I ran over the events that had occurred since our parting. To the revelations which the Mexican had made, Wingrove listened with frantic delight – only interrupting me with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. When I had finished, he cried out:

“She war forced to go! I thort so! I knew it! Whar is she, capt’n! Oh, take me to her! I’ll fall on my knees. I’ll axe her a thousand times to pardon me. ’Twar the Injun’s fault. I’ll swar it war the Chicasaw. She’s been the cuss o’ us both. Oh! whar is Marian? I love her more than iver! Whar is she?”

“Patience!” I said; “you shall see her presently. She must be down the valley, among the Indian women. Mount your horse, and follow me!”

Chapter Eighty Two

Maranee

We had ridden around the butte, and were in sight of the crowd of wailing women, when one on horseback was seen emerging from their midst, and turning head towards us. The habiliments of the rider told that she was a woman. I recognised the Navajo scarf, and plumed circlet, as those worn by the wild huntress. It was she who had separated from the crowd! Had I needed other evidence to identify her, I saw it in the wolf-like animal that was bounding after her, keeping pace with the gallop of her horse.

“Behold!” I said. “Yonder is Marian – your own Marian!”

“It air, as I’m a livin’ man! I mightn’t a know’d her in that queer dress; but yon’s her dog. It’s Wolf: I kud tell him, any whar.”

“On second thoughts,” suggested I, “perhaps, I had better see her first, and prepare her for meeting you! What say you?”

“Jest as you like, capt’n. P’raps it mout be the better way.”

“Bide behind the waggon, then! Stay there till I give you a signal to come forth.”

Obedient to the injunction, my companion trotted back, and disappeared behind the white tilt. I saw the huntress was coming towards the mound; and, instead of going forth to meet her, I remained upon the spot where we had halted. A few minutes sufficed to bring her near; and I was impressed more than ever with the grand beauty of this singular maiden. She was mounted in the Indian fashion, with a white goatskin for a saddle, and a simple thong for a stirrup; while the bold style in which she managed her horse, told that, whatever had been her early training, she of late must have had sufficient practice in equestrian manoeuvres.

The steed she bestrode was a large chestnut-coloured mustang; and as the fiery creature reared and bounded over the turf, the magnificent form of its rider was displayed to advantage. She still carried her rifle; and was equipped just as I had seen her in the morning; but now, sharing the spirit of her steed – and further animated by the exciting incidents, still in the act of occurrence – her countenance exhibited a style of beauty, not the less charming from the wildness and braverie that characterised it. Truly had she merited the praises which the young backwoodsman had oft lavished upon her. To all that he had said the most critical connoisseur would have given his accord. No wonder that Wingrove had been able to resist the fascinations of the simpering syrens of Swampville – no wonder that Su-wa-nee had solicited in vain! Truly was this wild huntress an attractive object – in charms far excelling the goddess of the Ephesians. Never was there such mate for a hunter! Well might Wingrove rejoice at the prospect before him!

“Ho, stranger!” said she, reining up by my side, “you are safe, I see! All has gone well?”

“I was in no danger: I had no opportunity of entering into the fight.”

“So much the better – there were enough of them without you. But your fellow-travellers? Do they still survive? I have come to inquire after them.”

“Thanks to you and good fortune, they are still alive – even he who was scalped, and whom we had believed to be dead.”

“Ah! is the scalped man living?”

“Yes; he has been badly wounded, and otherwise ill-used; but we have hopes of his recovery.”

“Take me to him! I have learnt a little surgery from my Indian friends. Let me see your comrade! Perhaps I may be of some service to him?”

“We have already dressed his wounds; and I believe nothing more can be done for him, except what time may accomplish. But I have another comrade who suffers from wounds of a different nature, which you alone can cure.”

“Wounds of a different nature?” repeated she, evidently puzzled by my ambiguous speech; “of what nature, may I ask?” I paused before making reply.

Whether she had any suspicion of a double meaning to my words, I could not tell. If so, it was not openly evinced, but most artfully concealed by the speech that followed. “During my stay among the Utahs,” said she, “I have had an opportunity of seeing wounds of many kinds, and have observed their mode of treating them. Perhaps I may know how to do something for those of your comrade? But you say that I alone can cure them?”

“You, and you only.”

“How is that, stranger? I do not understand you!”

“The wounds I speak of are not in the body.”

“Where, then?”

“In the heart.”

“Oh! stranger, you are speaking in riddles. If your comrade is wounded in the heart, either by a bullet or an arrow – ”

“It is an arrow.”

“Then he must die: it will be impossible for any one to save him.”

“Not impossible for you. You can extract the arrow – you can save him!”

Mystified by the metaphor, for some moments she remained gazing at me in silence – her large antelope eyes interrogating me in the midst of her astonishment. So lovely were those eyes, that had their irides been blue instead of brown, I might have fancied they were Lilian’s! In all but colour, they looked exactly like hers – as I had once seen them. Spell-bound by the resemblance, I gazed back into them without speaking – so earnestly and so long, that she might easily have mistaken my meaning. Perhaps she did so: for her glance fell; and the circle of crimson suffusion upon her cheeks seemed slightly to extend its circumference, at the same time that it turned deeper in hue.

“Pardon me!” said I, “for what may appear unmannerly. I was gazing at a resemblance.”

“A resemblance?”

“Yes! one that recalls the sweetest hour of my life.”

“I remind you of some one, then?”

“Ay – truly.”

“Some one who has been dear to you?”

“Has been, and is.”

“Ah! and who, sir, may I have the fortune to resemble?”

“One dear also to you —your sister!”