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The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Forty Six
A Tough Story

For some seconds the two worthies observed a mutual silence – broken only by a formidable rattle of teeth, as large “chunks” of buffalo-meat were put through their respective masticating machines. Curious to hear the promised revelation, Wingrove and I checked our impatience, and clung to our covert among the bushes. One thing – to which their speech had incidentally adverted – was not without much significance; and had produced upon me a certain impression that was unpleasant. They appeared to know, or Sure-shot did, that at least a portion of the train was en route for the Mormon city. It is true, I had had originally suspicions of this; but the letter of Lilian had led me to hope it might be otherwise. Any destination but that.

I had commenced reflecting upon this point, when I was interrupted by the voice of Sure-shot resuming the conversation. Thus did he enter on his explanation:

“Ye see, kimrade, these Mormings, es I’ve heern, air mighty taken up wi’ sogerin’, an’ thet sort o’ thing. Ye’ve heerd talk o’ theer great bettelion. They’ll be arter these eer treppings for certing, since they hain’t much chence o’ gittin’ soger fixings out theer. We-ell, what I mean to do is to put the knepsacks off on ’em for some new improvement o’ pattern. I guess it air thet – I’ve heerd say so at the Fort – then the Morming jineral, who air the prophet hisself, an’ who’s got berrls o’ dollars – he’ll buy the knepsacks at any price. Now, de ye take, Mister Tigg?”

“Troth do I. But dev ye think yez can fool thim so aizy?”

“Easy as eatin’ punkin-pie. Jehosophet! I hain’t been five year in the tradin’ line ’ithout lernin’ the bizness, I recking.”

“Be me faith! yez must have been raal cliver at it, whin ye sowld them cypress-knees for bacon-hams to the Bawltemoreans. You remimber that story yez towld us down in Mixico?”

“Yees; certingly I remember it – he, he, he! But I kim a better trick then thet on the Orleens people ’bout five yeer ago – jest ’fore I jined the Rangers.”

“Fwhat was it, shure?”

“We – ell, ye see, I wan’t allers es poor es I’m now. I hed a pertnership in a bit o’ a schooner, es used to trade ’tween Bosting an’ Orleens, an’ we used to load her wi’ all sorts o’ notions, to sell to the Orleens folk. Jehosophet an’ pork-pies! they air fools, an’ no mistake – them Creole French. We ked a sold ’em wooden nutmegs, an’ brick-dust for Cayenne pepper, an’ such like; an’ I ’bout guess es how we did spekoolate a leetle in thet line o’ bizness. Wall, there kim a time when they tuk a notion they ked make cheep brogan, as they call ’em, out o’ allygator’s leather, an’ supply the hul nigger market wi’ ’em. The neels were dear, an’ so they tuk to usin’ boot-pegs; but not hevin’ a manafactry o’ the pegs down south, they hed to git ’em from the no’th. Jest then, my pertner an’ I thought o’ makin’ a spekoolashun on the pegs; so we loaded our schooner wi’ thet eer freight, chuck right up to the hetches; an’ then sot off from Bosting for Orleens. We thort we’d make our derned fortune out thet eer trip.”

“Shure yez did, didn’t ye?”

“No-o-o; neer a bit o’ ’t. It keemd nigh breakin’ us.”

“Arrah, how?”

“We-ell! ye see, when we got roun’ to Orleens, we learnt that the boot-trade hed a’most stopped. The allygator leather didn’t turn out jest the thing for brogans; an’ besides, it got sca’ce by reezun o’ the killin’ o’ them verming. In coorse, the pegs hed fell in price; they’d kim down so low, that we ked only git twenty-five cents a bushel for ’em!”

“Mother ov Moses! only twenty-five cents a bushel!”

“Thet was all they’d fetch – offer ’em when an’ wheer we would. In coorse, we wan’t fools enough to take thet – the dernationed pegs hed cost us more in Bosting!”

“Divil a doubt ov it? But fwhat did yez do wid ’em, anyhow?”

“We-ell, Mister Tigg, we weer cleer beat at fust; an’ didn’t know what to do – neyther me’r my pertner. But arter takin’ a good think over it, I seed a way o’ gitting out o’ the scrape – leestwise ’ithout sech a loss as sellin’ the pegs at twenty-five cents the bushel. I seed a chence o’ gitting rid o’ them at fifty cents.”

“Arrah, now! in fwhat way, comrade?”

“You’ve seed boot-pegs, I recking, Mister Tigg?”

“An’ shure I hiv. Aren’t they the same that’s in these suttlers’ brogues we’ve got on – bad luck to them?”

“Jess the same – only whitier when they air new.”

“Be japers! I think I remimber seein’ a barrel full ov thim in New Yark.”

“Very certing it were them – they air usooaly packed in berr’ls. Can you think o’ anything they looked like?”

“Wil, in troth, they looked more loike oats than anything I can recollect. Shure they did look moighty like oats!”

“An’ don’t ee kalkerlate they’d a looked more like oats, ef they’d been pointed at both ends instead o’ one!”

“In troth, would they – all that same.”

“We-ell, thet’s the very idee thet kem inter my mind at the time.”

“Arrah now, is it? An’ fwhat did yez do wid the pegs then?”

“Jest sharpened the other eends o’ ’em, an’ sold ’em for oats!”

The puzzled, half-incredulous stare, on the countenance of the Hibernian, was ridiculous in the extreme. The allegation of the Yankee had deprived him of speech; and for some moments he sat gazing at the latter, evidently in doubt whether to give credence to the story, or reject it as a little bit of a “sell” upon the part of his comrade – with whose eccentricity of character he was well acquainted. Equally ludicrous was the look of gravity on the countenance of the other – which he continued to preserve under the continued gaze of his comrade, with all the solemnity of a judge upon the bench. It was as much as my companion and I could do to restrain our laughter; but we were desirous of witnessing the finale of the affair, and, by an effort, succeeded in holding in.

“Och, now, Misther Shure-shat!” gasped the Irishman at length, “an’ it’s only jokin’ ye are?”

“Truth I tell ye, Petrick – every word o’ ’t. Ye see the oats weer jest then sellin’ at fifty cents the bushel, an’ thet paid us. We made a lettle suthin’, too, by the speekolashun.”

“But how did yez get the other inds pointed at all – at all?”

“Oh! thet weer eezy enough. I invented a machine for thet, an’ run ’em through in less’n no time. When they kim out at t’other eend o’ the machine, I kednt meself a told ’em from oats!”

“Och! now I comprehend. Arrah! an’ wasn’t it a quare thrick? Be my sowl, it bates Bannagher all to paces! Ha, ha, haw!”

Wingrove and I could hold in no longer, but joining in the loud cachinnation – as if we had been its echoes – sprang forward to the front. Infantry and rifleman bounded to their feet, with a simultaneous shout of “Indians!” and dropping their spits and half-eaten appolas of meat, dashed into the bushes like a pair of frightened rabbits! In an instant, both were out of sight; and their whereabouts was alone indicated by the rattling of the branches as they passed through them. I was apprehensive of losing them altogether; and regretted not having used more caution in approaching them. At that crisis, an idea came to my aid; and giving out an old signal, well-remembered by the ci-devant rangers, I had the gratification of receiving a double response. The utterance of the signal had brought them to an instantaneous halt; and I could hear them exchanging surmises and exclamations of astonishment, as they retraced their steps towards the fire. Presently, a pair of short, snub-nosed faces were seen peering through the leaves; while from the lips of their owners burst simultaneously, “The cyaptin’!” “The capting!” with various other phrases in their respective patois, expressive of surprise and recognition.

A few words sufficed to explain all. As we had surmised, the men were deserters. Neither attempted to deny what, in time of peace, is not considered a very heinous crime; and for which, just then, the “Californian fever” was considered an ample justification. It was no affair of ours. I was only too rejoiced to join company with the runaways, of whose loyalty to myself I had proofs of old. Their guns – more especially the rifle of Sure-shot – would be a valuable addition to our strength; and, instead of crawling along under the cover of night, we might now advance with more freedom and rapidity. It was determined, therefore, to share our means of transport with our new comrades – an offer by them eagerly and readily accepted. The partial consumption of our stores had lightened the packs upon our mules; and the contents of the wheelbarrow, equally divided between them, would give to each only its ordinary load. The barrow itself was abandoned – left among the Big Timbers – to puzzle at a future period some red-skinned archaeologist – Cheyenne or Arapaho!

Chapter Forty Seven
The Mountain Parks

We now proceeded along the route with more confidence; though still acknowledging the necessity of caution, and always reconnoitring the ground in advance. Although the four of us might have defended ourselves against four times our number of Indian enemies, we were passing through apart of the country, where, if Indians were to be met at all, it would be in large bands or “war-parties.” The Arkansas heads in that peculiar section of the Rocky Mountain chain known as the “Parks” – a region of country celebrated from the earliest times of fur-trading and trapping – the arena of a greater number of adventures – of personal encounters and hair-breadth escapes – than perhaps any other spot of equal extent upon the surface of the globe. Here the great Cordillera spread out into numerous distinct branches or “Sierras,” over which tower those noted landmarks of the prairie traveller, “Pike’s” and “Long’s” Peaks, and the “Wa-to-ya” or “Cumbres Españolas”; – projected far above their fellows, and rising thousands of feet into the region of eternal snow. Between their bases – embosomed amid the most rugged surrounding of bare rocky cliffs, or dark forest-clad declivities – lie vallées, smiling in the soft verdure of perpetual spring – watered by crystal streams – sheltered from storms, and sequestered from all the world. The most noted of these are the Old and New “Parks,” and the “Bayou Salade” – because these are the largest; but there are hundreds of smaller ones, not nameless, but known only to those adventurous men – the trappers – who for half a century have dwelt in this paradise of their perilous profession: since here is the habitat of the masonic beaver – its favourite building ground.

Over these valley-plains roam “gangs” of the gigantic buffalo; while in the openings between their copses may be descried the elk, antelope, and black-tailed deer, browsing in countless herds. On the cliffs that overhang them, the noble form of the carnero cimmaron (ovis montana) – or, “Bighorn” of the hunters – maybe seen, in bold outline against the sky; and crawling through the rocky ravines is encountered the grizzly bear – the most fierce and formidable of American carnivora. The red couguar and brown wolverene crouch along the edges of the thicket, to contest with jackal and wolf the possession of the carcass, where some stray quadruped has fallen a victim to the hungry troop; while black vultures wheeling aloft, await the issue of the conflict. Birds of fairer fame add animation to the scene. The magnificent meleagris, shining in metallic lustre, with spread wings and tail, offers a tempting aim to the hunter’s rifle – as it promises to afford him a rich repast; and the coq de prairie, and its gigantic congener the “sage grouse,” whirr up at intervals along the path. The waters have their denizens, in the grey Canada and white-fronted geese – ducks of numerous species – the stupid pelican and shy loon – gulls, cormorants, and the noble swan; while the groves of alamo ring with the music of numerous bright-winged songsters, scarcely known to the ornithologist.

But no land of peace is this fair region of the Rocky Mountains. There are parks, but no palaces – there are fertile fields, but none to till them – for it is even dangerous to traverse them in the open light of day. The trapper skulks silently along the creek – scarcely trusting himself to whisper to his companion – and watching warily as he renews the bait of castoreum. The hunter glides with stealthy tread from copse to copse – dreading the echo of his own rifle. Even the red-skinned rover goes not here alone, but only with a large band of his kindred – a “hunting” or “war-party.” The ground is neutral, as it is hostile – claimed by many tribes and owned by none. All enter it to hunt or make war, but none to settle or colonise. From every quarter of the compass come the warrior and hunter; and of almost as many tribes as there are points upon the card. From the north, the Crow and Sioux; from the south, the Kiowa, the Comanche, the Jicarilla-Apache – and even at times the tame Taosa. From the east penetrate, the Cheyenne, the Pawnee, and Arapaho; while through the western gates of this hunters’ paradise, pour the warlike bands of the Utah and Shoshonee. All these tribes are in mutual enmity or amity amongst themselves, of greater or less strength; but between some of them exists a hostility of the deadliest character. Such are the vendettas between Crow and Shoshonee, Pawnee and Comanche, Utah and Arapaho. Some of the tribe have the repute of being friendly to the whites. Among these may be mentioned the Utahs and Crows; while the more dreaded names are Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Arapaho; the last in hostility to the whites equalling the noted Blackfeet farther north. In all cases, however, the amity of the prairie Indian is a friendship upon which slight faith can be placed; and the trapper – even in Crow or Utah land – is accustomed “to sleep with one eye open.” In past times, Utahs have been more partial to the pale-faces than most other tribes of North Americans; and in their territory many of the celebrated trapper-stations, or “rendezvous,” are situated. At times, mutual provocations have led to dire encounters; and then are the Utahs to be dreaded – more, perhaps, than any other Indians. In their association with their trapper allies, they have learnt how to handle – and with skill – that most formidable of weapons, for partisan warfare – the hunter’s rifle.

At the time of which I write, the Utahs were reported to be on good terms with the whites. The Mormons had done everything to conciliate them; and it was said that a single white man might traverse their territory with perfect safety. It was chiefly in the passes that led to the Utahs’ country, that danger from Indians was to be apprehended – in the valleys and ravines above mentioned – where Cheyennes, Comanches, Pawnees, and Arapahoes were more likely to be met with than the Utahs themselves.

We were not yet certain by which pass the caravan might cross the great Cordillera. From beyond the Big Timbers, three routes were open to it. First was the southern route through the Eaton mountains, which leads to Santa Fé, in New Mexico, and is known as the “Santa Fé trail.” I did not anticipate their taking this one. It was not their design, on leaving Fort Smith, to pass by Santa Fé – else would they have kept up the Canadian, by the head of the Llano Estacado; and thence to California by the Gila. Another route parts from the Arkansas still higher up – by one of its affluents, the Fontaine que bouit. This is the “Cherokee trail,” which, after running north along the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, crosses them by the Cheyenne Pass, and on through Bridger’s Pass into the central valley of the Great Basin. Neither did I believe that the train would travel by this trail. The season of the year was against the supposition. In all probability, the central route of the three would be the one followed – leading from the Arkansas up the Huerfano river, and through “Robideau’s Pass,” or that of the “Sangre de Cristo.” Either of these conducts into the valley of the Rio del Norte; thence by the famed “Coochetopa,” or “gate of the buffaloes,” on the head waters of the Western Colorado.

This pass, though long known to the trappers and ciboleros of New Mexico, had only just come into notice as a road to the Pacific; but, being one of the most central and direct, it had already been tried both by Californian and Mormon emigrants, and found practicable for waggons. The caravan had left Van Buren with the design of taking this road; but I knew that the design might be altered by contingencies – hence our uncertainty.

The Rocky Mountains could be crossed, by following up the Arkansas to its remotest sources on the southern side of the Bayou Salade; but the stupendous gorges through which that river runs leave no pass practicable for wheeled vehicles. Only by mounted men, or pack-mules, can the Cordillera be crossed at that point; and of course it did not occur to us that the caravan we were following would attempt it. At three points, then, might we expect to find its trace parting from the Arkansas – near Bent’s Old Fort, for the southern route: at the Fontaine que bouit river, for the northern; and for the central, it should diverge up the valley of the Huerfano. In any case, our risk would be unquestionably great. We should have to travel through districts of country, where white man and red man meet only as foes; where to kill each other at sight is the instinct and practice of both; and where, though it may sound strange to civilised ears, to scalp, after killing each other, is equally a mutual custom!

Such was the character of the region through which we should have to travel. No wonder we were anxious to come up with the caravan, before it should have passed through the dangerous gorges of the mountains. Independent of other motives, our personal safety prompted us to hasten on. At first, our new comrades were not exactly agreeable to the design of overtaking the train. They had the escort in their thoughts, and along with it, the dread of the nine-tailed cat. But a little instruction as to the far greater danger they were in from Indians – of which up to that hour they had been in happy ignorance – reconciled them to our purpose; and thenceforward they picked up their feet with a pleasing rapidity. Both preferred risking the skin of their backs to losing that of their heads; but of the former they had now less fear: since I had promised to disguise them, before bringing them face to face with the troopers of the escort.

Notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion. We made most way under the friendly shadow of night – sometimes by the light of the moon – and only by day, when we could discover no Indian sign in our neighbourhood. Only two of us could ride at a time – the other two taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well, as when each has a horse to himself. Our pack-animals gave us little trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow in file, and without requiring to be led. We refrained from making fires, where the ground was unfavourable. Only when we could choose our camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple cuisine. These precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely necessary in a passage across the prairies – at least by a party so small as ours. Perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be told.

Chapter Forty Eight
The abandoned Bouquet

Having passed Bent’s Fort – of wide celebrity in trapper lore – whilom the scene of many a wild revel of the “mountain-men,” but now abandoned and in ruins – we arrived at the confluence of the Huerfano. As we expected, the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream – thus deciding the route taken by the caravan.

We rode on through a forest of grand cotton-woods and willows; and at about seven miles distant from the mouth of the Huerfano river, reached a point, where the caravan had crossed over to its left bank. On the other side, we could see the ground of their encampment of the night before. We could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and waggons – débris of the morning’s repast – and half-burnt faggots of the tires that had cooked it, still sending up their clouds of oozing smoke.

The stream at this point was fordable; and crossing over, we stood upon the deserted camp-ground. With singular emotions, I walked amid the smouldering fires – forming conjectures as to which of them might have been graced by that fair presence. Where had she passed the night, and what had occupied her thoughts? Were those gentle words still lingering in her memory? Were they upon her lips? It was pleasant for me to repeat them. I did not need to draw the writing forth. Long since were the lines fixed in my remembrance – oft through my heart had vibrated the burden of that sweet song:

“I think of thee – I think of thee!”

My reflections were not altogether unmingled with pain. Love cannot live without doubts and fears. Jealousy is its infallible concomitant – ever present as the thorn with the rose. How could I hope that one hour of my presence had been sufficient to inspire in that young bosom the passion of a life? It could scarcely be other than a slight impression – a passing admiration of some speech, word, or gesture – too transient to be true? Perhaps I was already forgotten? Perhaps only remembered with a smile, instead of a sigh? Though still but a short time since our parting, many scenes had since transpired – many events had occurred in the life of that young creature to give it experience. Forms of equal – perhaps superior elegance – had come before her eye. Might not one of these have made its image upon her heart?

The caravan was not a mere conglomeration of coarse rude adventurers. There were men of all classes composing it – not a few of accomplished education – not a few who, using a hackneyed phrase, were “men of the world,” – familiar with its ways and its wiles – and who perfectly understood all those intricate attentions and delicate lures, by which the virgin heart is approached and captured. There were military men too – those ever to be dreaded rivals in love – young officers of the escort, laced, booted, and spurred – bedecked, moreover, with that mysterious influence which authority ever imparts to its possessor. Could these be blind to the charms of such a travelling companion? Impossible. Or could she – her young bosom just expanding to receive the god of love – fail to acknowledge the nearest form as his image? Painfully improbable!

It was therefore with feelings of no very pleasant kind that I sought around for some souvenir. The remains of a fire, a little apart from the rest, near the edge of a piece of copsewood, drew my attention. It looked as if it had been a spot on which some family group had encamped. I was led to this conjecture, by observing some flowers scattered near – for the grassy sward showed no other sign. The flowers betokened the presence of womankind. Fair faces – or one at least – had beamed in the light of that fire. I felt morally certain of it. I approached the spot. The shrubbery around was interlaced with wild roses; while blue lupins and scarlet pelargoniums sparkled over the glade, under the sheltering protection of the trees. By the edge of the shrubbery lay a bouquet, that had evidently been put together with some care! Dismounting, I took it up. My fingers trembled as I examined it: for even in this slight object I read indications of design. The flowers were of the rarest and prettiest – of many kinds that grew not near. They had been plucked elsewhere. Some one had given both time and attention to their collection and arrangement. Who? It would have been idle to shape even a conjecture, but for a circumstance, that appeared to offer a certain clue; and, not without bitter thoughts, did I try to unwind it. The thread which was warped around the flower-stalks was of yellow silk. The strands were finely twisted; and I easily recognised the bullion from the tassel of a sash. That thread must have been taken from the sash of a dragoon officer!

Had the bouquet been a gift? To whom? and by whom? Here all conjecture should have ended; but not without a feeling of painful suspicion did I examine those trivial signs; and the feeling continued to annoy me, long after I had flung the flowers at my feet.

A reflection came to my relief, which went far towards restoring my spirits’ equanimity. If a gift, and to Lilian Holt, she had scarcely honoured it – else how could the flowers have been there? Had they been forgotten, or left unregarded? There was consolation in either hypothesis; and, in the trust that one or the other was true, I sprang back into my saddle, and with a more cheerful heart, rode away from the spot.