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The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Seventy One
A queer Conversation

Is other days, and under other circumstances, the touch of that round arm, softly encircling my waist, might have caused the current of my veins to flow fast and fevered. Not so then. My blood was thin and chill. My soul recoiled from amatory emotions, or indulged in them only as a remembrance. Even in that hour of trial and temptation, my heart was true to thee, Lilian! Had it been thy arm thus wound around my waist – had those eyes that glanced over my shoulder been blue, and the tresses that swept it gold – I might for the moment have forgotten the peril of my companions, and indulged only in the ecstasy of a selfish love. But not with her – that strange being with whom chance had brought me into such close companionship. For her I had no love-yearnings. Even under the entwining of that beautiful arm, my sense was as cold, as if I had been in the embrace of a statue. My thoughts were not there.

My captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. Her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. How? and by whom? Whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from which help was to come? I would have asked; but our rapid movement precluded all chance of conversation. I could only form conjectures. These pointed to white men – to some rendezvous of trappers that might be near. I knew there were such. How else in such a place could her presence be accounted for? Even that would scarce explain an apparition so peculiar as that of this huntress-maiden! Other circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. There could be no band of trappers strong enough to attack the dark host of Red-Hand – at least with the chance of destroying it? She knew the strength of the Arapahoes. I had told her their number, as I had myself estimated it – nearly two hundred warriors. It was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. Moreover, she had mentioned a name – twice mentioned it – “Wa-ka-ra.” No white was likely to bear such an appellation. The word was undoubtedly Indian – especially as the huntress had pronounced it.

I waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. It offered at length – where the path ran circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace I was about initiating a dialogue, when I was forestalled in my intention.

“You are an officer in the army!” said my companion, half interrogatively. “How should you have known that?” answered I in some surprise – perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. “Oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me.”

“My uniform?”

“Yes. Have you not still a portion of it left?” inquired she, with a striking simplicity. “I see a mark here where lace stripes have been. That denotes an officer – does it not? The Arapahoes have stripped them off, I suppose?”

“There was lace – true – you have guessed correctly. I have been in the army.”

“And what was bringing you out here? On your way to the gold countries, I dare say?”

“No, indeed, not that.”

“What, then, may I ask?”

“Only a foolish freak. It was a mere tour without much purpose. I intended soon to return to the States.”

“Ah! you intend returning? But you say you were following the caravan – you and your three fellow-travellers! Why were you not with it? Would it not have been safer?” I hesitated to make reply. My interrogator continued:

“It is not usual for so small a party to pass over the prairies alone. There is always danger from the Indians. Sometimes from whites too! Ah me! there are white savages – worse savages than red – far worse – far worse!”

These strange speeches, with the sigh that accompanied them, caused me to turn my head, and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion. It was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. She, too, suffering from the past? In this glance I again remarked what had already attracted my notice – a resemblance to Lilian Holt! It was of the slightest, and so vague, that I could not tell in what it lay. Certainly not in the features – which were signally unlike those of Lilian; and equally dissimilar was the complexion. Were I to place the resemblance, I should say that I saw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. The similitude of tone was striking. Like Lilian’s, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beautiful women are gifted – those having the full round throat so proudly possessed by the damsels of Andalusia. Of course, reflected I, the likeness must be accidental. There was no possibility of its being otherwise; and I had not a thought that it was so. I was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recall them. The souvenirs so excited hindered me from making an immediate reply.

“Your observations are somewhat singular?” I remarked at length. “Surely you have not verified them by your own experience?”

“I have. Yes – and too sadly, ever to think them otherwise than just. I have had little reason to love those of my own colour – that is, if I am to consider myself a white.”

“But you are so, are you not?”

“Not altogether. I have Indian blood in my veins.”

“Not much, I should fancy?”

“Enough to give me Indian inclinings – and, I fear, also a dislike to those of my own complexion.”

“Indeed?”

“Perhaps less from instinct than experience. Ah! stranger! I have reason. Is it not enough that all have proved false – father, lover, husband?”

“Husband! You are married, then?”

“No.”

“You have been?”

“No.”

“Why did you say husband!”

“A husband only in name. I have been married, but never a wife; wedded, but never – ”

The speaker paused. I could feel her arm quivering around my waist. She was under the influence of some terrible emotion!

“Yours must be a strange story?” I remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. “You have greatly excited my curiosity; but I know that I have no claim to your confidence.”

“You may yet win it.”

“Tell me how.”

“You say you intend returning to the States. I may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. It is not much. Only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless – her father untrue to his paternal trust – her husband a cheat, a perjured villain.”

“Your relationships have been singularly unfortunate; but your words only mystify me the more. I should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither?”

“Not now – time presses. Your comrades, if still alive, are in peril. That is your affair; but mine is that the Red-Hand may not escape. If he do, there’s one will grieve at it – one to whom I owe life and protection.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of the mortal enemy of Red-Hand and his Arapahoes – of Wa-ka-ra.”

“Wa-ka-ra?”

“Head chief of the Utahs – you shall see him presently. Put your horse to his speed! We are close to the camp. Yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! On stranger! on!”

As directed, I once more urged my Arab into a gallop. It was not for long. After the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the cañon suddenly opened into a small but beautiful vallon– treeless and turfed with grass. The white cones, appearing in serried rows near its upper end, were easily identified as an encampment of Indians. “Behold!” exclaimed my companion, “the tents of the Utahs!”

Chapter Seventy Two
Wa-Ka-Ra

The lodges were aligned in double row, with a wide avenue between them. At its head stood one of superior dimensions – the wigwam of the chief. They were all of conical shape; a circle of poles converging at their tops, and covered with skins of the buffalo, grained and bleached to the whiteness of wash-leather. A slit in the front of each tent formed the entrance, closed by a list of the hide that hung loosely over it. Near the top of each appeared a triangular piece of skin, projecting outward from the slope of the side, and braced, so as to resemble an inverted sail of the kind known as lateen. It was a wind-guard to aid the smoke in its ascent. On the outer surface of each tent was exhibited the biography of its owner – expressed in picture-writing. More especially were his deeds of prowess thus recorded – encounters with the couguar and grizzly bear – with Crows, Cheyennes, Pawnees, and Arapahoes – each under its suitable symbol. The great marquee of the chief was particularly distinguished with this kind of emblematical emblazonment – being literally covered with signs and figures, like the patterns upon a carpet. No doubt, one skilled in the interpretation of these Transatlantic hieroglyphs, might have read from that copious cipher many a tale of terrible interest. In front of the tents stood tall spears, with shields of parflèche leaning against them; also long bows of bois d’arc (Maclura aurantica), and shorter ones of horn – the horns of the mountain-ram. Skin-quivers filled with arrows, hung suspended from the shafts; and I observed that, in almost every grouping of these weapons, there was a gun – a rifle. This did not much astonish me. I knew that, to the Utah, the medicine weapon is no longer a mystery. Here and there, hides freshly flayed were pegged out upon the grass, with squaws kneeling around them, engaged in the operation of graining. Girls, with water-tight baskets, poised upon the crown of the head, were coming from or going towards the stream. Men stood in groups, idly chatting, or squatted upon the turf, playing at games of chance. Boys were busy at their bow-practice; and still younger children rolled their naked bodies over the grass, hugging half-grown puppies – the companions of their infant play. Troops of dogs trotted among the tents; while a mixed herd of horses, mules, sheep, goats, and asses browsed the plain at a little distance from the camp. Such was the coup d’oeil that presented itself to my gaze, as we rode up to the Utah encampment.

As might be expected, our arrival caused a change in the occupation of everybody. The dicers leaped to their feet – the squaws discontinued their work, and flung their scrapers upon the skins. “Ti-ya!” was the exclamation of astonishment that burst from hundreds of lips. Children screamed, and ran hiding behind their dusky mothers; dogs growled and barked; horses neighed; mules hinnied; asses brayed; while the sheep and goats joined their bleating to the universal chorus. “On to the chief’s tent!” counselled my companion, gliding to the ground, and preceding me on foot, “Yonder! the chief himself – Wa-ka-ra!”

An Indian of medium size and perfect form, habited in a tunic of embroidered buckskin, leggings of scarlet cloth, head-dress of coloured plumes, with crest that swept backward and drooped down to his heels. A gaily striped serapé, suspended scarf-like over the left shoulder, with a sash of red China crape wound loosely around the waist, completed a costume more picturesque than savage. A face of noble type, with an eye strongly glancing, like that of an eagle; an expression of features in no way fierce, but, like the dress, more gentle than savage; a countenance, in repose mild – almost to meekness. Such saw I.

Had I known the man who stood before me, I might have remarked how little this latter expression corresponded with his real character. Not that he was cruel, but only famed for warlike prowess. I was face to face with the most noted war-chief of America: whose name, though new to me, was at that moment dreaded from Oregon to Arispe, from the banks of the Rio Bravo to the sierras of Alta California. It was Walker– the war-chief of the Utahs – the friend of the celebrated trapper, whose name he had adopted; and which, by the modification of Utah orthoëpy, had become Wa-ka-ra.

An odd individual – a very odd one – was standing beside the chief as I rode up. He appeared to be a Mexican, to judge by his costume and the colour of his skin. The former consisted of jaqueta and calzoneros of dark-coloured velveteen, surmounted by a broad-brimmed sombrero of black glaze; while the complexion, although swarthy, was several shades lighter than that of the Indian. He was a man of diminutive stature, and with a countenance of a serio-comical cast. An expression of this kind pervaded his whole person – features and figure included – and was heightened by the presence of a singular accoutrement that hung suspended from his leathern waist-belt. It was a piece of timber some eighteen inches in length, and looking like the section of a boot-tree, or the half of a wooden milk-yoke. At the thick end was a concavity or socket, with straps, by which it was attached to the belt; and this singular apparatus, hanging down over his thigh, added to the grotesque appearance of its owner. The little Mexican had all the cut of a “character;” and he was one, as I afterwards ascertained. He was no other than the famous Pedro Archilete – or “Peg-leg,” as his comrades called him – a trapper of Taos, and one of the most expert and fearless of that fearless fraternity.

The odd accoutrement which had puzzled me was nothing more than an artificial leg! It was an implement, however, he only used upon occasions – whenever the natural one – the ankle of which had been damaged by some accident – gave out through the fatigue of a march. At other times he carried the wooden leg, as I first saw it, suspended from his belt!

His presence in the Indian encampment was easily accounted for. He was in alliance with their chief: for the Utahs were at that time en paz with the settlements of the Taos Valley; and the Spanish trappers and traders went freely among them. Peg-leg had been on a trapping expedition to the Parks; and having fallen in with the Utahs, had become the guest of Wa-ka-ra.

Chapter Seventy Three
Peg-Leg

“The huntress has returned soon?” said the chief, interrogatively, as the girl glided up to him. “She brings strange game!” added he, with a smile. “Who is the young warrior with the white circle upon his breast? He is a pale-face. It is not the custom of our white brothers to adorn themselves in such fashion?”

“The painting is not his,” replied the girl. “It has been done by the hands of his enemies – by red men. The white circle was designed for a mark, at which many bullets have been fired. The red streaks you see are blood, that has streamed from wounds inflicted on the stranger’s body! When Wa-ka-ra shall know who caused that blood to flow, he will hasten to avenge it.”

“If it be the wish of the white huntress, Wa-ka-ra will avenge the blood – even though his own people may have spilled it. Speak, Ma-ra-nee! You say that red men have done this – were they Utahs?”

“No; but the enemies of the Utahs.”

“The Utahs have many enemies – on the north, south, east, and west they have foes. Whence comes the stranger? and who has been spilling his blood?”

“From the east – from the Arapahoes.”

“Ugh!” exclaimed the chief, with a start, his countenance suddenly becoming clouded with an angry expression. “Arapahoes! Where has the pale-face encountered the Arapahoes?”

“On the Huerfano.”

“Good; the white huntress brings news that will gladden the hearts of the Utah warriors! Arapahoes on the Huerfano! who has seen them there?” The huntress replied by pointing to me. “He has been their captive,” she added, “and has just escaped from them. He can guide Wa-ka-ra to their camp, where the Utah chief will find his deadliest enemy – Red-Hand.”

At the mention of this name, the cloud that was gathering upon the brow of the Utah chief became darker by several shades, and the mild expression was no longer observable. In its place was a look of fierce resolve, blended with glances that spoke a savage joy. Some old and terrible resentment was rekindled by the name – with a hope, no doubt, of its being gratified?

The chief now entered upon a series of interrogatories directed to myself. He spoke English – thanks to his trapper associations: and it was in this language he had been conversing with the huntress. His inquiries were directed to such particulars as might put him in possession of the necessary knowledge for an attack upon the Arapahoes. As concisely as possible, I made known their position and numbers – with other circumstances calculated to aid in the design. The account I gave seemed to gratify him. As soon as our dialogue was ended, I had the satisfaction to hear him declare his intention of proceeding at once to the valley of the Huerfano! To me it was joyful news: my comrades might yet be rescued from the hands of the Arapahoes?

“Ma-ra-nee!” said he, again addressing himself to the huntress, “conduct the stranger to your tent! Give him food. And you, Cojo!” he continued, turning to the little Mexican, “you are skilled in medicine – look to his wounds! He can repose while we are preparing. Ho! sound the signal of assembly! Summon our braves to the war-dance!”

The last words were addressed to an Indian who was standing close behind him. Quickly succeeding the order, the notes of a bugle burst upon the air – strange sounds in an Indian camp! But the white man’s music was not the only sign of civilised life to be observed among the tents of the Utahs. The guns and pistols – the spurs, lances, and saddles – the shakos and helmets – all spoke of the spoiled presidios on the Mexican frontier; while fair-skinned doncellas of Spanish race were seen mingling with the copper-coloured squaws – aiding them in their domestic duties – captives to all appearance contented with their captivity! None of this was new to me. I had witnessed similar scenes in the land of the Comanche. They are of daily occurrence along the whole frontier of Spanish America: where the red man constantly encroaches – reclaiming the country of his ancestors, wrested from him three centuries ago by the cupidity of the Conquistadores.

Upon the side of the Indian now lies the strength – if not in numbers – at least in courage and war-prowess. The horse he once dreaded has become his dearest friend; and he can manage him with a skill scarcely equalled by his pale-faced adversary. The lance and fire-weapon are in his hands; the spirit-thunder no longer appals him: he knows its origin and nature, and uses it in the accomplishment of a terrible retaliation! On the northern continent, Utah and Yaqui, Kiowa and Comanche, Apaché and Navajo, have all proved their superiority over the degenerated descendants of Cortez: as in the south have Cuncho and Cashibo, Goajira and Auracanian, over those of the ruthless Pizarro. The red man no longer goes to war as a mere savage. He has disciplined his strength into a perfect strategy; and possesses a military system as complete as that of most civilised nations. The Comanche cavalry charges in line, and can perform evolutions to the call of the bugle! So can the Utah, as I had evidence at that moment. Before the trumpet-notes had ceased to reverberate from the rocks, five hundred warriors had secured their horses, and stood beside them armed and ready to mount. A regiment of regular dragoons could not have responded to “Boots and saddles” with greater expedition!

Peg-leg took possession of me. “Señor Pintado!” said he, speaking in Spanish, and after having examined my wounds, “the best medicine for you will be your breakfast; and while your conpaisana is preparing it, you can come with me, and have a little water thrown over you. This painting does not improve your looks; besides, if it get into your wounds, they will be all the more difficult to make a cure of. Nos vamos!”

The huntress had retired to a tent that stood near that of the chief, and a little to the rear of it. I followed the Mexican, who, in a hobbling gait, proceeded towards the stream. The cold bath, assisted by some Taos brandy from the gourd xuagé of the trapper, soon restored my strength; and the hideous pigment, lathered with the bruised roots of the palmilla– the soap-plant of the New Mexicans, soon disappeared from my skin. A few slices of the oregano cactus applied to my wounds, placed them in a condition to heal with a rapidity almost miraculous; for such is the curative power of this singular plant. My Mexican medico was yet more generous, and furnished me with a handsome Navajo blanket, which served as a complete covering for my shoulders.

“Carrambo!” exclaimed he, as he tendered the garment, “take it, Americano! You maybe able to repay me when you have recovered your possible-sack from the Arapahoes. Mira!” he added, pointing towards the tents – “your breakfast is ready: yonder the señorita is calling you. Take heed, hombre! or her eyes may cause you a more dangerous wound than any of those you have received from the bullets of the Arapahoes. Vaya!”

I resisted an inclination to make inquiries: though the hint of the Taos trapper half furnished me with an excuse. My “countrywoman,” he had called her. No doubt he knew more of her history; but I questioned him not. Remembering her promise, I had hopes that I might soon learn it from her own lips.