The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

As soon as our quality was known, the Saints came crowding around us. The corral poured forth its contents – until nine-tenths of the whole caravan, men, women and children, stood gazing upon us, with that stare of idiotic wonder peculiar to the humbler classes of countries called civilised. We managed to withstand the ordeal of their scrutiny with an assumed air of true savage indifference. Not without an effort, however: since it was difficult to resist laughing at the grotesque exclamations and speeches, which our appearance and movements elicited from these wondering yokels. We were cautious not to notice their remarks – appearing as if we understood them not. Peg-leg, by the aid of his Anglo-American jargon – picked up among the mountain-men – was able to satisfy them with an occasional reply. The rest of us said nothing; but, to all appearance earnestly occupied with our own affairs, only by stealth turned our eyes on the spectators. I could perceive that the huntress was the chief attraction; and for a moment my apprehensions were sufficiently keen. The girl had done nothing to disguise her sex – the mask extending no farther than to her face and features. Her neck, hands, and wrists – all of her skin that might be exposed – were stained Indian of course; and there would have been little likelihood of their detecting the false epidermis under a casual observation. Had it been a mere ordinary person – painted as she was – she might have passed for an Indian without difficulty. As it was, however, her voluptuous beauty had tempted a closer scrutiny; and, spite of her disfigured features, I saw glances directed upon her expressive of secret but passionate observation. Some of the bystanders took no pains to conceal their predilection.

“Darnationed likely squaw!” remarked one. “Who air she, old timber-toes?” inquired he, addressing himself to the guide. “Squaw – Utah gal,” replied the Mexican in his trapper patois. Pointing to me, he continued: “She sister to hunter-chief – she hunter too – kill bighorn, buffalo, deer. Carrambo! si! She grand cazadora!”

“Oh! durn yer kezedora. I don’ know, what that ere means; but I do know, an’ rayther calculate, if that ere squaw had the scrubbin’-brush an’ a leetle soft soap over that face o’ hern, she’d look some punkins, I guess.”

The fellow who had thus eloquently delivered himself was one of the six who had saluted us on our arrival. Two or three of his confrères were standing beside him – gazing with lynx, or rather wolf-like glances upon the girl. Stebbins himself, before parting, had cast upon her a look of singular expression. It was not significant of recognition; but rather of some thought of viler origin. The others continued to give utterance to their mock admiration; and I was glad – as the girl herself appeared to be – when the tent was pitched, and she was able to retire out of reach of their rude ribaldry.

We had now an opportunity of studying the Mormons chez eux mêmes: for not one of them had the slightest idea that their talk was understood by us. Most of them appeared to be of the humbler class of emigrants – farm-people or those of mechanical calling – artisans of the common trades – shoemakers, blacksmiths, joiners, and the like. In the countenances of these there was no cast that betrayed a character, either of particular saintliness or sin. In most of them, the expression was simply stolid and bovine; and it was evident that these were the mere cattle of the herd. Among them could be observed a sprinkling of a different sort of Saints – men of more seeming intelligence, but with less moral inclinings – men of corrupt thoughts and corrupt lives – perhaps once gentle, but now fallen – who had, no doubt, adopted this pseudo-religion in the expectation of bettering their temporal rather than spiritual condition. The influence of these last over the others was quite apparent. They were evidently chiefs – bishops or deacons – “tenths” or “seventies.” It was singular enough to see dandies among them; and yet, however ludicrous the exhibition, dandyism was there displayed! More than one “swell” strutted through the crowd in patent-leather boots, Parisian silk hat, and coat of shining broad-cloth! The temporary halt had offered an opportunity for this display of personal adornment; and these butterflies had availed themselves of the advantage, to cast for a few hours the chrysalis of their travelling gear.

The women were of all ages; and, it might be added, of all nations. Several European tongues mingled in the mêlée of sounds; but the one which predominated was that language without vowels – the jargon of the Welsh Principality. The continual clacking of this unspeakable tongue told that the sons and daughters of the Cymri mustered strongest in the migration. Many of the latter wore their picturesque native costume – the red-hooded cloak and kirtle; and some were unspeakably fair, with the fine white teeth, fair complexion, and ruddy cheeks, common to other branches of the Celtic race, but nowhere so characteristic as among the fair maidens of Cambria. It was, no doubt, those sweet shining faces, wreathed with free artless smiles, that had caused the lady-killers to unpack their portmanteaus.

My own eyes dwelt not upon these. Ever since our arrival upon the ground, I had been watching with keen glances the opening that led into the corral. Every one who came forth – man or woman – had been the object of my scrutiny. But my glances had been given in vain; and were not rewarded by the recognition of a single individual. The entrance was about two hundred yards from the place where our tents were being pitched; but even at that distance I should have recognised the colossal squatter. As for Lilian, my heart’s instinct would have declared her identity at the most casual glance. Neither father nor daughter had yet made their appearance outside the enclosure: though all the world beside had come freely forth, and many were going back again. It was odd, to say the least, they should act so differently from the others. She, I knew, was very different from the “ruck” that surrounded her; and yet one would have thought that curiosity would have tempted her forth – that simple childlike inclination, natural in one so young, to witness our wild attire – to gaze on our plumes and our paint? I could less wonder at Holt himself being insensible to such attraction; but in her it seemed strange. My astonishment increased, as form after form passed out from the opening, but not that for which my eyes were searching. It ceased to be astonishment: it grew into chagrin; and after that assumed the character of an apprehension. This apprehension I had already entertained, but in a less definite form. It now shaped itself into a cruel doubt – the doubt of her being there– either inside the corral, or anywhere in the Mormon camp!

After all, had we taken the wrong track? Might not Holt have kept on with the gold-diggers? The story of the Chicasa signified nothing. Might not Lilian, under the protection of that gallant dragoon, with the torn tassel – might not she? “It is quite probable,” I muttered to myself, “highly probable that they are not here! The squatter may have resisted the will of his Apostolic companion; and, separating himself from the Mormon party, have gone on with the diggers? No! yonder! Holt himself, as I live!”

The exclamatory phrases were called forth by the appearance of a tall man in the opening between the waggons. It was Holt. He was standing still; and must have reached the spot he occupied but the moment before – when my eyes for an instant had been turned away. The Herculean frame, and great rufous beard hanging over his breast, proclaimed to my eyes the identity of the Tennessean squatter; and the costume confirmed it. It was precisely the same worn by him on that eventful morning – when standing before me with his long rifle raised against my life. The ample surtout of greenish blanket-cloth, a little further faded – the red skirt underneath – the coarse horse-skin boots rising to his thighs – the crimson kerchief turbaned around his head, its loose flap falling down over his shaggy eyebrows – were all identical with the portrait remaining in my memory. I watched him with eager eye. Was it his intention to step nearer and examine us? Or had he come forth upon some other business? He was looking grave, and sad, I thought; but in the distance I could scarce note the expression upon his countenance. It did not appear to betoken curiosity. Once only he glanced towards us, and then turned his eyes in an opposite direction. This did not shew that he cared much for our presence, or was in anywise interested in it. In all likelihood, he shared not the childish curiosity of his travelling companions – to whom he in other respects bore but little resemblance. As he stood in their midst, he looked like some grim but majestic lion, surrounded by jackals. His behaviour suggested a further similitude to the great forest monarch. He seemed to hold no converse with those around him; but stood apart and for the moment motionless as a statue. Once only I noticed that he yawned – stretching out his colossal arms, as if to aid in the involuntary action. For this purpose, and this alone, did he appear to have come forth: since, shortly after its accomplishment, he turned back into the avenue, and disappeared behind the barricade of the waggons!

Chapter Ninety Eight

Beauty Embrowned

The apparition – for it had something of the character of one – restored my equanimity. Holt was with the Mormon train; and of course Lilian also. It may seem strange that this knowledge should have given me satisfaction – that a belief, but yesterday grieving me, should to-day bring gladness!

The apparent anomaly is easily explained. It was the consequence of a change in the situation. My confidence in the success of our scheme had now become strengthened – almost to a certainty. So deftly had we taken our measures, that we need apprehend no great difficulty in attaining the end aimed at. Among the Saints, there was not the slightest suspicion of our character – at least none had yet shown itself. We should be free to come and go, as we pleased: since the very nature of our contract required it. Camp and caravan would be alike accessible to us – at all hours, I might say – and surely opportunities would not be lacking for the accomplishment of our purpose?

Only one object was worth regarding: the will of Lilian herself. She might still refuse to become a runaway? She might not consent to forsake her father? In that case, our efforts would be idle indeed! Had I reason to expect such a perverse contingency? Surely not? Though my own influence might be gone, her sister would still have the power to persuade her? Her eyes once opened to the conspiracy that threatened her, surely but one thought could arise in that virtuous bosom – how to escape from it? “No – no,” was my concluding reflection, spoken in soliloquy, “there need be no fear of opposition in that quarter. True, Lilian is still a child; but her virtue is that of a virgin heart. Her sister’s story, when told to her, will arouse her to a sense of her own danger. She will be ready, as we, to adopt measures for averting it.”

Drawing comfort from this reflection, I was turning to attend to my horse. The gallant creature had been sadly neglected of late, and needed my care. A huge Mexican silla, that with its trappings half-covered its body, would have sufficiently disguised him; but I had not much fear of his being recognised. Stebbins and Holt had both seen him – once only, and then under such circumstances that it was scarcely possible they could have noticed him. Otherwise, they might have remembered him readily enough. Such a noble steed, once seen, would not easily be forgotten. I had no fear, however; and was about to remove the saddle, when an object presented itself to my eyes that interrupted my intention – causing me to remain fixed and immobile. In the open ground, scarcely twenty paces from where I stood, was a form that fell upon the eye like a beam of empyrean light in the midst of deepest darkness – a girl of golden roseate hue, with a chevelure of yellow hair hanging to her haunches in all its lustrous luxuriance! Scarcely twenty paces separated me from Lilian Holt: for need I say that it was Lilian herself who was standing before me?

Instinctively, I noted changes. The wax-like smoothness, and, to a certain extent, the whiteness of her complexion, had yielded to the fervid rays of the prairie sun; but the slight embrowning appeared rather an improvement: as the bloom upon the peach, or the russet on the nectarine, proves the superior richness of the fruit. It had toned down the red upon her cheeks, but the glow was still sufficiently vivid. I observed or fancied another change – in her stature. She appeared to have grown larger and taller – in both respects, almost equalling her sister – and resembling the latter in that full development of form, which was one of the characteristic features of her queen-like beauty. These were the only changes external. Even the simple costume – the old homespun frock of yellowish stripe – still enveloped her form; no longer hanging loosely as of yore, but presenting a more sparing fit on account of the increased dimensions of the wearer. The string of pearls, too – false pearls, poor thing! – yet encircled her throat, whose now fuller outline was more capable of displaying them. A pleasing reflection crossed my mind at the moment, that shaped itself into an interrogatory: might there have been no motive for further adornment?

As erst, her little feet were naked – gleaming with roseate translucence against the green background of the herbage. She was standing when I first saw her: not in a position of rest, but with one foot pressing the turf, the other slightly retired, as if she had just paused in her steps. She was not fronting me, but half-turned. She appeared to have come as near as she intended, and was about going off again in an oblique direction: like the startled antelope, that, despite its timidity, stops to gaze upon the “object that has alarmed it.” So short a time had my eyes been averted from the path by which she must have approached, I might well have fancied that she had suddenly sprung out of the earth – as Cytherea from the sea! Equally brilliant was the apparition – to me, of far more absorbing interest. Her large eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wondering curiosity – a curiosity which the picturesque habiliments and savage character of my toilet were well calculated to provoke. Her examination of me was soon ended; and she walked off in the direction towards which she had already turned her steps. She seemed scarcely satisfied, however: as I observed that she looked repeatedly back. What thought was prompting her to this? Women have keen perceptions – in intuition almost equalling instinct in its perceptive power. Could she have a suspicion? No, no: the thing was improbable – impossible!

The path she was following would conduct her to the bank of the river – about a hundred yards above where our tents had been pitched, and a like distance from the nearest of the waggons. Her object in going thither was evident. A tin water-can, hanging by its iron handle over her wrist, proclaimed her errand. On reaching the river, she did not proceed to fill the vessel; but, placing it near the water’s edge, sat down beside it. The bank, slightly elevated above the stream, offered a sort of projecting bench. Upon this she had seated herself – in such an attitude that her limbs hung over, until one foot was immersed in the water. Her long hair lay spread upon the grass behind her; and with her head drooping forward, she appeared to gaze into the crystal depths of the stream – as intently, as if mirrored there she saw the form upon which the thoughts most delighted to dwell. Up to this point, I had watched her every movement. But only by stealth and in silence: since I knew that eyes were upon me. Just then, however, most of the gazers retired from our tents – a call to supper within the corral having summoned them away. For all that, I dared not approach the girl. The act would have appeared strange; and even she might desire to shun the too free intrusion of my savage presence – perhaps flee from it altogether? The opportunity of speaking with her was sufficiently tempting. Such another might not soon recur? I trembled at the thought of losing it. What was to be done? I might have sent Marian. She was still inside her tent, where she had taken shelter from the bold glances of her vulgar admirers. She did not yet know that Lilian was outside. I might have given her notice of the circumstance, and deputed her to speak with her sister; but I had certain reasons for not following this course.

At this crisis an idea occurred to me, that promised to aid me in obtaining the interview I longed for. My Arab had not yet been given to the grass! Near where Lilian was seated, the herbage was luxuriant – more so than anywhere around. Upon it I could picket my steed, or hold him in hand, while he should browse? I lost not a minute in removing the saddle, and adjusting the halter; and scarcely another in approaching the spot where the young girl was seated. I drew near, however, with due circumspection – fearful that by a too brusque approach I might hasten her departure. I gave my horse to the grass – now and then guiding him with a pull upon the halter, which I still held in my hand. The young girl saw that I was gradually nearing her, and looked twice or three times towards me – not with any air of alarm. Rather of interest, I thought; but this may have been only a fancy. My horse appeared to share her attention – indeed, more than share it: since she fixed her eyes upon him frequently, and looked longer at him each time! Was it the noble form that was attracting her admiration? Or was there something that called up a recollection! She might remember the horse?

“Oh, Lilian! would that I could speak to you as myself! How my heart yearns to give and receive some token of recognition? But no – not yet. I would not declare myself, till assured that that recognition might be welcome. Not till I could learn, whether the tender tie that bound our hearts was still unloosed – whether its too slender thread was yet unbroken!”

I had resolved to explore the secret chambers of her heart; and this it was that rendered me desirous of anticipating any interview that might occur with her sister. Perhaps too easily might I obtain the knowledge of which I was in search? I might reach, only to rue it? As I drew near, my hopes of being permitted to address myself to her increased. She still kept her seat, and made no attempt to shun me. I had approached within speaking distance. Words were upon my tongue; when a harsh voice, coming from behind, interrupted, at the same instant, both my speech and my intention.

Chapter Ninety Nine

The Yellow Duenna

“Good lor, gal! wha you doin’ down da? You know Mass’ Holt an’ Mass’ Stebbins want dar coffee? Why ain’t you done fotch de water?”

I faced round on hearing the voice. The tone and patois had already admonished me that the speaker was neither white nor Indian, but of that third typical race that mingles in the social life of the transatlantic world – an African. The harsh accentuation had prepared me for the appearance of a man and a negro; but, on turning, I perceived that I was mistaken – both as to the sex and colour. In the speaker I beheld a mulatto– a yellow woman of large size – gross, corpulent, and greasy. Her dress was a light-coloured muslin print – negligently open at the breast, and garnished with gaudy ribbons, from which freely protruded the mountainous masses of her bosom. On her head was a toque of checked “bandana,” folded over the black corkscrew ringlets, that scarce reached so low as her ears; while ungartered stockings upon her ankles, and slipshod shoes upon her feet, completed the tout ensemble of her costume. Notwithstanding the negligé visible in her apparel, there were signs of conceit as to personal appearance. The fashion and trimmings were not in keeping with that of her tabooed race; and in the set of the toque there was a certain air of coquetry. The features, small and regular, might have once passed for handsome; but they were now nearly eliminated by her obese condition, which produced a disproportionate rotundity of face. The eyes, moreover, had lost all loveliness, if ever they had been endowed with such an expression. Their glance, in its brightest day, could have been only animal. It was still sufficiently sensual; but sensuality of a sullen and leering character. The voice of this woman had already produced an unpleasant effect upon me; so, too, the words spoken. The sight of her, as she stood “akimbo,” her hands resting upon her enormous haunches, only strengthened the sinister impression, which was still further confirmed by my observing that it had caused a similar effect elsewhere – upon Lilian! Even over that radiant countenance I could see that a cloud had stolen, and continued to shadow it!

“Say, gal! wha you doin’ dar, anyhow? You fill dat pail double-quick, or, golly, you catch it!” A threat! Lilian listens to it, and obeys!

“I am coming, Aunt Lucy!” replied the girl, in a trembling voice, at the same time hastening to fill the water-can.

I was in hopes that this conciliatory answer would send the mulatta back into the corral. To my chagrin, it produced a result directly the reverse; for, on hearing it, the woman came waddling down in rapid strides towards the river. She made direct for the spot where Lilian was filling the can; and by her quick, nervous gestures, and the lurid light flashing in her half-buried eyes, I could perceive that some hideous passion was stirring within her. Lilian had already perceived that she was approaching, and stood waiting for her – evidently in awe! When within a few paces of the girl, the fat fury opened speech upon her – and in a tone as vindictive as the sound of her voice was harsh and grating.

“Wha for, gal, you call me Aunt Lucy? Wha for you say dat? Dam! you call me so ’gain, I jab you eyes out. Sure I live, I gouge you!”

The monster, as she spoke, stretched out her hand, bending the thumb with a significant gesture.

She continued in the same spiteful tone: – “I tear you’ har you so conceit’ ’bout – you’ golding har, folks call. Piff! you’ har da colour ob yella squash. I pull um out o’ you’ head in fistful, you call me Aunt Lucy ’gain.”

“I did not know it would offend you,” replied the young girl, in a meek voice. “Do not the others call you by that name?” she inquired hesitatingly. “Mr Stebbins does so?”

“Nebba you mind what Mass’ Stabbins he do; da’s my affair. You hab a care you no call me so. Da’s my affair, too. Jes you say Aunt Lucy ’gain, I soon spoil you’ beauty, buckra gal.”

“I shall not do so again, Lucy,” timidly rejoined the young girl.

“Miss Lucy, you please. Don’t you tink you still in Tennessee! You’ know better bye ’n bye. Yella woman out heer good as white – marry white man all same – all same ’mong da Mormons – yah, yah, yah!”

A leer towards Lilian accompanied this laughter, rendering its hideous significance more palpably expressive. So provoked was I by the brutal behaviour of the yellow wench, I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing up, and kicking her over the bank upon which she was standing. Nothing but the stern necessity of preserving my incognito hindered me from treating her as she deserved; and, even then, it cost me an effort to keep my place. As I continued to watch them. I could see that the young girl cowered beneath the threats of this bold bawdril, who had in some way gained an ascendancy over her – perhaps appointed by Stebbins to act in the double capacity of spy and guardian? Notwithstanding the horrid imaginings to which the woman’s presence had given rise, I succeeded in smothering my wrath, and remaining silent. My good star was guiding me; and soon after I was rewarded for the act of prudence.

“Say, gal!” continued the mulatta, still addressing herself to Lilian, “wha for you sittin’ down dar, gazin’ into da water? S’pose you tink you see him shadda dar? Yah, yah, yah!”

“Whose shadow?” innocently inquired the girl. I trembled while listening for the reply. “O Lordy! you berry innocent gal, make ’pear! S’pose I no see you write him name in dat ere book you got? S’pose I no see you make him letter in de sand, wha we camp on Akansaw? You scratch am name ebberywha; you got um on de big box inside Mass’ Stebbins’s waggon. Ha! you better no let Mass’ Stebbins see him name dar!”

I would at that instant have given my horse for a glance at either box or book. But in another moment the necessity was gone; and the revelation, though made by polluted lips, was not the less welcome to my ears. What cared I whether the oracle was profane, so long as its response echoed my most earnest desires?

“S’pose nobody read but youseff?” continued the mulatta, in the same jeering tone. “S’pose nobody know what E.W. stand for? yah, yah! S’pose dat ere don’t mean Edwa’d Wa’ffeld? eh missy yella bar – dat him name?” The young girl made no reply; but the crimson disc became widely suffused over her cheek. With a secret joy I beheld its blushing extension. “Yah, yah, yah!” continued her tormentor, “you may see um shadda in da water – dat all you ebba see ob Edwa’d Wa’ffeld. Whoebbar dat ere coon may be, you nebbar set you’ eyes on him ’gain – nebba!” A dark shade quickly overcast the crimson, betokening that the words gave pain. My pleasure was in like proportion, but inversely. “You fool, missy’ golding har? you’ better gone ’long wi’ de young dragoon offica who want take you – dat am, if you must had man all to youseff. Yah, yah, yah! Nebba mind, gal! you get husban’ yet. Mass’ Stebbins he find you husban’ – he got one for you a’ready – waitin’ dar in de Mormon city; you soon see! Husban’ got fifty odder wife! Yah, yah, yah!”

Words appeared upon the lips of Lilian – low murmured and but half uttered. I could not make out what they were; but they appeared not to be a reply to the speeches that had been addressed to her. Rather were they the involuntary accompaniment to an expression of peculiar anguish, that at that moment revealed itself on her features. The mulatta did not seem either to expect, or care for an answer: for on giving utterance to the fiendish insinuation, she turned upon her slippered heels, and hobbled back towards the camp. I held my face averted as she was passing near where I stood. I feared that she might be attracted to stop and examine me; and I had a motive for wishing her to keep on. Her curiosity, however, did not appear to be very excitable. Such as it was, it evolved itself in a comic fashion – as I could tell by the coarse “Yah, yah, yah!” that broke from her as she passed me. I could perceive by the receding of the sound, that she had gone on without stopping. Lilian followed at a distance of about ten paces. Her body was bent to one side by the weight of the water-can; while her long golden-hair, falling in confusion over the straining arm, almost swept the sward at her feet. The toilsome attitude only displayed in greater perfection the splendid development of that feminine form – which death alone could now hinder me from calling my own.

I had already planned my course of action. I only waited for an opportunity to carry it out. No longer desired I to remain unrecognised by her. The barrier that had hitherto restrained me from giving sign or word – and that would still have continued to do so – had now been removed, happily as unexpectedly. In my heart, now filled and thrilling with joy, there was no motive for further concealment; and I resolved at once to declare myself. Not openly, however; not by speech, nor yet by gesture. Either might provoke an exclamation; and draw upon us prying eyes that were observing at no great distance. As stated, I had already shaped out my course; and, for a minute or more, had been waiting for the very opportunity that now offered.

During the conversation above detailed, I had not been an inactive listener. I had taken from my pocket a scrap of paper, and pencilled upon it three simple words. I knew the paper on which I was writing: it was the half-leaf of a letter well-remembered. The letter itself was not there: it was within the folds of my pocket-book; but there was writing on the fly-leaf, and on both faces of it. On one side were those cherished verses, whose sweet simple strain, still vibrating upon the chords of my heart, I cannot help repeating:

“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.