The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

“Enuf!” cried Holt, drawing down his gun. “Enuf for me. An’ now, ye cowardly snake, ye may go wi’ yur beauties yander. They’ll not like ye a bit the wuss for all this. Ye may go – an’ carry yur conscience along wi’ ye – ef that ’ll be any comfort to ye. Away wi’ ye!”

“No!” exclaimed a voice from behind, and at the same time Wingrove was seen stepping out from the rock. “Not yet adzactly. I’ve got a score to settle wi’ the skunk. The man who’d plot that way agin another, hain’t ought to live. You may let him off, Hick Holt, but I won’t; nor wud you eyther, I reck’n, if you knew – ”

“Knew what!” interrupted the squatter. “What he intended for your daughter.”

“He air my daughter’s husband,” rejoined Holt, in a tone that betokened a mixture of bitterness and shame. “That was my fault, God forgi’ me!”

“He ain’t her husband – nothin’ o’ the kind. The marriage war a sham. He war takin’ poor Marian out thar for a diffrent purpose – an’ Lilian too.”

“For what purpose?” cried Holt, a new light seeming suddenly to break upon his mind.

“To make – ” answered Wingrove hesitatingly. “I can’t say the word, Hick Holt, in presence o’ the girls – to make wives to the Mormon Prophet – that’s what he intended wi’ both o’ ’em.”

The scream that, like the neigh of an angry horse, burst from the lips of the squatter, drowned the last words of Wingrove’s speech; and simultaneously the report of a rifle pealed upon the air. A cloud of smoke for a moment enveloped Holt and his horse, from the midst of which came a repetition of that wild vengeful cry. At the same instant the steed of Stebbins was seen running riderless down the valley, while the Saint himself lay stretched, face upward, upon the sward! His body remained motionless. He was dead – a purple spot on his forehead showing where the fatal bullet had entered his brain!

The sisters had just time to shelter themselves behind the rocks when a volley from the Danites was poured upon us. Their shots fell harmlessly around; while ours, fired in return, had been better aimed; and another of these fearful men, dropping out of his saddle, yielded up his life upon the spot. The remaining five, seeing that the day had gone against them, wheeled suddenly about; and galloped back down the gorge – ten times faster than they had ridden up it. It was the last we saw of the Destroying Angels!

“O my children!” cried Holt, in a supplicating tone, as he staggered forward, and received both within his outstretched embrace, “will ye – can ye forgi’ me? O God! I’ve been a bad father to ye; but I knew not the wickedness o’ these Mormon people. No – nor half o’ his, till it war too late; an’ now – ”

“And now, father!” said Marian, interrupting his contrite speech with a consoling smile, “speak not of forgiveness! There is nothing to forgive; and perhaps not much to regret: since the perils we have gone through, have proved our fidelity to one another. We shall return home all the happier, having escaped from so many dangers, dear father!”

“Ah, Marian, gurl, you don’t know all – we hev now no home to go to!”

“The same you ever had,” interposed I, “if you will consent to accept it. The old cabin on Mud Creek will hold us all till we can build a larger one. But no,” – I added, correcting myself – “I see two here who will scarcely feel inclined to share its hospitality. Another cabin, higher up the creek, will be likely to claim them for its tenants?” Marian blushed; while the young backwoodsman, although turning equally red at the allusion, had the courage to stammer out, that he always “thort his cabin war big enough for two.”

“Stranger!” said Holt, turning to me, and frankly extending his hand, “I’ve much to be ashamed o’, an’ much to thank ye for; but I accept yur kind offer. You bought the land, an’ I’d return ye the money, ef ’t hedn’t been all spent. I thort I kud a made up for it, by gieing ye somethin’ ye mout a liked better. Now I see I can’t even gi’ ye that somethin’ since it appears to be yourn a’ready. Ye’ve won her, stranger! an’ ye’ve got her. All I kin now do is to say, that, from the bottom o’ my heart I consent to yur keepin’ her.”

“Thanks – thanks!” Lilian was mine for ever.

The curtain falls upon our drama; and brief must be the epilogue. To scenes warlike and savage succeeded those of a pacific and civilised character – as the turbulent torrent, debouching from its mountain channel, flows in tranquil current through the alluvion of the level plain. By our Utah allies, whom we encountered on the following day, we were “outfitted” for recrossing the prairies – the abandoned waggon, with a team of Indian mules, affording a proper means of transport. Not without regret did we part with the friendly Mexican trapper, and our brave associates, the ex-rifleman and ex-infantry. We had afterwards the gratification to learn that the scalpless man survived his terrible mutilation; that under the protection of Peg-leg, he and Sure-shot were taken to the valley of Taos – whence, along with the next migration of “diggers,” they proceeded, by the Colorado, to the golden placers of California.

To detail the incidents of our homeward journey, were a pleasant task for the pen; but the record would scarcely interest the reader. The colossal squatter, silent but cheerful, drove the waggon, and busied himself about the management of his mules. The young backwoodsman and I were thus left free to interchange with our respective “sweethearts” those phrases of delirious endearment – those glances of exquisite sweetness, that only pass between eyes illumined by the light of a mutual love. Proverbially sweet is the month after marriage; but the honeymoon, with all its joys, could not have exceeded in bliss those ante-nuptial hours spent by us in recrossing the prairies. Clear as the sky over our heads was the horoscope of our hearts; all doubt and suspicion had passed away; not a shadow lingered upon the horizon of our future, to dim the perfect happiness we enjoyed. In our case, the delight of anticipation could not be enhanced by actual possession: since we had possession already.

We arrived safely in Swampville. In the post-office of that interesting village a letter awaited me, of which “jet black was de seal.” Under ordinary circumstances, this should have cast a gloom upon my joy; but candour forces me to confess that a perusal of the contents of that epistle produced upon me an effect altogether the reverse. The letter announced the demise of an octogenarian female relative – whom I had never seen – but who, for a full decade of years, beyond the period allotted to the life of man – or women either – had obstinately persisted in standing betwixt me and a small reversion – so long, indeed, that I had ceased to regard it as an “expectation.” It was of no great amount; but, arriving just then in the very “nick o’ time,” was doubly welcome; and under its magical influence, a large quantity of superfluous timber soon disappeared from the banks of Mud Creek.

Ah! the squatter’s clearing, with its zigzag fence, its girdled trees, and white dead-woods! It is no longer recognisable. The log-hut is replaced by a pretentious frame-dwelling with portico and verandahs – almost a mansion. The little maize patch, scarcely an acre in extent, is now a splendid plantation, of many fields – in which wave the golden tassels of the Indian corn, the broad leaves of another indigenous vegetable – the aromatic “Indian weed,” and the gossamer-like florets of the precious cotton-plant. Even the squatter himself you would scarcely recognise, in the respectable old gentleman, who, mounted upon his cob, with a long rifle over his shoulder, rides around, looking after the affairs of the plantation, and picking off the squirrels, who threaten the young corn with their destructive depredations. It is not the only plantation upon Mud Creek. A little further up the stream, another is met with – almost equally extended, and cultivated in like manner. Need I say who is the owner of this last? Who should it be, but the young backwoodsman – now transformed into a prosperous planter? The two estates are contiguous, and no jealous fence separates the one from the other. Both extend to that flowery glade, of somewhat sad notoriety whose bordering woods are still undefiled by the axe.

Not there, but in another spot, alike flowery and pleasant, the eye of the soaring eagle, looking from aloft, may see united together a joyous group – the owners of the two plantations – with their young wives, Marian and Lilian. The sisters are still in the fall bloom of their incomparable beauty. In neither is the maiden yet subdued into the matron – though each beholds her own type reflected in more than one bright face smiling by her side; while more than one little voice lisps sweetly in her ear that word of fond endearment – the first that falls from human lips. Ah! beloved Lilian! thine is not a beauty born to blush but for an hour. In my eyes, it can never fade; but, like the blossom of the citron, seems only the fairer, by the side of its own fruit! I leave it to other lips to symbol the praises of thy sister —

The Wild Huntress.

The End