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The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Ninety
Protector and Protégée

The incident referred to was the arrival of a scout, who, after the conflict, had followed upon the trail of the Arapahoes. This man brought the intelligence that the scattered enemy had again collected – that, while fleeing from the rout, they had met with a large war-party of their own tribe – accompanied by another of their allies, the Cheyennes; that both together formed a band of several hundred warriors; and that they were now marching back towards the valley of the Huerfano – to take revenge for the death of Red-Hand, and the defeat which his party had sustained! This unexpected news brought the scalp-dance to an abrupt termination; and changed the whole aspect of the scene. The women, with loud cries, rushed towards their horses – with the intention of betaking themselves to a place of security; while the warriors looked to their arms – determined to make stand against the approaching foe. It was not expected that the enemy would make their attack at once. Certainly not before night, and perhaps not for days. The preparations to receive them were therefore entered upon with all the coolness and deliberation that attack or defence might require.

The encounter eventually came off; but it was only afterwards that I learnt the result. The Utahs were again victorious. Wa-ka-ra in this affair had given another proof of his strategic talent. He had made stand by the butte, but with only half of his warriors – distributed in such a manner as to appear like the whole band. These, with their rifles, could easily defend the mound against the arrows of the enemy; and did so during an assault that lasted for several hours. Meanwhile the other half of his band had been posted upon the bluffs, hidden among the cedars; and, descending in the night, they had stolen unexpectedly upon the allied forces, and attacked them in the rear. A concerted sortie from the mound had produced complete confusion in the ranks of their enemies; and the Utahs not only obtained a victory, but “hair” sufficient to keep them scalp-dancing for a month. As I have said, it was afterwards that these facts came to my knowledge. I have here introduced them to show that we could no longer depend on any contingent intervention on the part of the Utah chief; and we were therefore the more keenly conscious that we should have to rely upon our own resources.

The Utahs showed no wish to detain us. They felt confident in their own strength, and in the fire-weapons – which they well knew how to use – and, after thanking their friendly chief for the great service he had rendered us, and confiding our wounded comrade to his care, we parted from him without further ceremony. I witnessed not his parting with Marian. Between them there was an interview, but of what nature I could not tell. The huntress had stayed behind; and the rest having ridden forward, no one of us was present at that parting scene. There may have been a promise that they should meet again: for that was expected by all of us; but whether there was, or what may have been the feelings of the Indian at parting with his pale-faced protégée, I was not to know. It was difficult to believe that the young chief could have looked so long on that face, so beautifully fair, without conceiving a passion for its possessor. It was equally difficult to believe, that if this passion existed, he would have thus surrendered her to the arms of another. An act so disinterested would have proved him noble indeed – the Rolla of the North! If the passion really did exist, I knew there could be no reciprocity. As Marian galloped up, and gazed in the eyes of the handsome hunter – now entirely her own – her ardent glance told that Wingrove was the proud possessor of that magnificent maiden.

In volunteering to be one of our party Marian was submitting herself to a fearful risk. That of the rest of us was trifling in comparison. In reality we risked nothing, further than the failure of our plans; and a certain punishment if taken in the act of abduction. But even for this the Saints would scarcely demand our lives – unless in hot blood we should be slain upon the instant. Her position was entirely different. The Mormon apostle, whether false husband or real, could and would claim her. There was no law in that land – at all events, no power – to hinder him from acting as he should please; and it was easy to foresee what would be his apostolic pleasure. The very presence of Wingrove would stimulate him to a revengeful course; and should her Indian disguise be detected, Marian might look forward to a fate already deemed by her worse than death. She was sensible of all this; but it did not turn her from her determination. Her tender affection for Lilian – her earnest desire to save her sister from the peril too plainly impending, rendered her reckless about her own; and the bold girl had formed the resolution to dare everything – trusting to chance and her own strong will for the successful accomplishment of our purpose. I no longer attempted to dissuade her against going with us. How could I? Without her aid my own efforts might prove idle and fruitless. Lilian might not listen to me? Perhaps that secret influence, on which I had so confidently calculated, might exist only in a diminished degree? Perhaps it might be gone for ever? Strange to say, though I had drawn some sweet inferences from those neglected flowers, every time the bouquet came back to my memory, it produced a palpable feeling of pain! He who so cunningly sued, might hope for some measure of success? And she, so sweetly solicited – more dangerous than if boldly beset – had her heart withstood the sapping of such a crafty besieger! My influence might indeed be gone; or, if a remnant of it still existed, it might not turn the scale against that of her father – that fearful father! What should he care for one child, who had already abetted another to her shame?

Possessed by these thoughts, then, I tried not to turn Marian from her purpose. On the contrary, I rather encouraged it. On her influence with Lilian I had now placed my chief reliance. Without that, I should have been almost deprived of hope. It might turn out that Lilian no longer loved me. Time, or absence, might have inverted the stylus upon the tender page of her young heart; and some other image may have become impressed upon its yielding tablet? If so, my own would sorely grieve; but, even if so, I would not that hers should be corrupted. She must not be the victim of a villain, if my hand could hinder it! “No, Lilian! though loved and lost, I shall not add to the bitterness of your betrayal. My cup of grief will possess sufficient acerbity without mingling with it the gall of revenge.”

Chapter Ninety One
The Night-Camp

We again rode through the upper cañon of the Huerfano, keeping along the bank of the stream. Farther on we came to the forking of two trails – the more southern one leading up to the Cuchada, to the pass of Sangre de Cristo. By it had the gold-seekers gone in company with the dragoons – the latter en route for the new military post of Port Massachusetts – the former, no doubt, intending to take the line of the Gila or Mohave to their still distant destination – the gold-bearing placers of California?

Above its upper cañon the Huerfano bends suddenly to the north; and up its bank lies the route to Robideau’s Pass – the same taken by the Mormon train. We had no difficulty in following their trail. The wheel and hoof-tracks had cut out a conspicuous road; and the numbers of both showed that the party was a large one – much larger than our previous information had led us to anticipate. This was of little consequence – since in any case, we could not have used force in the accomplishment of our design. I regarded it rather as a favourable circumstance. The greater the multitude, the less likelihood of an individual being closely observed, or speedily missed. We reached Robideau’s Pass as the sun was sinking over the great plain of San Luis. Within the pass we lighted upon the ground of the Mormon encampment. It had been their halting-place of the night before. The wolves were prowling among the smouldering fires – whose half-burnt faggots still sent up their wreaths of filmy smoke.

We now knew the history of the captured waggon and slain teamsters. Our guide had learnt it from the Utah messenger. The vehicle had belonged to the Mormons; who, at the time the Arapahoes made their attack, were only a short distance in the advance. Instead of returning to the rescue of their unfortunate comrades, their dread of the Indians had caused them to yield ready obedience to the Napoleonic motto, sauve qui peut: and they had hurried onward without making stop, till night overtook them in the Robideau Pass. This version enabled me to explain what had appeared very strange conduct on the part of the escort. The character of the victims to the Arapaho attack would in some measure have accounted for the indifference of the dragoons. With the safety of the Mormons they had no concern; and would be likely enough to leave them to their fate. But the guide had ascertained that both gold-diggers and dragoons – disgusted with their saintly compagnons du voyage– had separated from them; and, having gone far ahead, in all probability knew nothing of the sanguinary scene that had been enacted in the valley of the Huerfano!

We resolved to pass the night on the ground of the deserted encampment. By our guide’s information – received from the runner – the Mormons were about thirty miles in advance of us. They were encamped on the banks of the Rio del Norte, there awaiting the answer of the Utah chief. That answer we should ourselves deliver on the following day. Having given the coyotes their congé, we proceeded to pitch our buffalo-tents. A brace of these, borrowed from the friendly Utahs, formed part of the packing of our mules. One was intended for the use of the huntress-maiden – the other to give lodgment to the rest of our party. Not but that all of us – even Marian herself – could have dispensed with such a shelter. We had another object in thus providing ourselves. It might be necessary to travel some days in the company of the Saints. In that case, the tents would serve not only for shelter, but as a place of concealment. The opaque covering of skins would protect us from the too scrutinising gaze of our fellow-travellers; and in all likelihood we – the hunters of the party – should stand in need of such privacy to readjust our disguises – disarranged in the chase. Under cover of the tents, we could renew our toilet without the danger of being intruded upon. Chiefly for this reason, then, had we encumbered ourselves with the skin lodges.

Thus far had we come without interruption. Though the trail was a route frequently travelled, both by Indians and whites, no one of either race had been encountered upon the way. We had seen neither man nor horse, excepting our own. For all that, we had not advanced without a certain circumspection. There was still a possibility of peril, of which we were aware; and we omitted no precautions that might enable us to avoid it. The danger I allude to was a probable encounter with some of our late enemies – the Arapahoes. Not those who had just been discomfited; but a party of my own pursuers of the preceding night. Some of these had returned to the butte as already stated, but had all gone back? Might not others – stimulated by a more eager spirit of vengeance, or the ambition of striking a glorious coup by my capture – have continued the pursuit? If so we might expect to encounter them on their return; or, if first perceived, we might fall into an ambuscade. In either case should they chance to outnumber us – to any great extent – a collision would be inevitable and dangerous.

If such a party was ahead of us – and it was still a question – we knew that they could not possibly be aware of the defeat sustained by their comrades under Red-Hand; and, having no knowledge of their own predicament, would fight without that dread, which such a circumstance might otherwise have inspired. It was scarcely probable either, that their party would be a very small one – by no means as small as our own. It was not likely that less than a dozen of their warriors would venture over ground, where, at every moment, they would risk meeting with a more powerful band of their Utah enemies – to say nothing of an encounter with a retaliating party from the Mormon train? Weighing the probabilities that Arapahoes were ahead of us, we had taken due precaution to avoid the contingency of meeting them. We had looked for “sign” to contradict our suspicions, or confirm them. We had not found any – either tracks of their horses, or any other trace of their passage along the trail. In the cañon, yes. There we had seen the hoof-prints of their horses: but not beyond it, nor at the entrance of Robideau’s Pass. If they had gone forward, it must have been by some parallel route, and not upon the trail of the emigrant waggons? Nor yet upon the area of the encampment had we been able to meet with any indications of their presence: though we had spent the last minutes of daylight in a careful scrutiny of the ground.

As for myself I looked for indications of a very different kind; but equally without success. The absence of all Lilian sign satisfied us that we had no enemy to fear. Even the wary trapper saw no imprudence in our making a fire, and one was made – a large pile, for which the half-burnt faggots scattered over the camp afforded the ready material. The fire was not called for by the cold – for the night was a mild one – but simply to serve the purposes of our cuisine; and, hungered by the long ride, we all did full justice to our supper of dried deer-meat, eaten alfresco.

After the meal the men of us sat around the fire, indulging in that luxury – esteemed sweet by the prairie traveller – the fumes of the Nicotian weed. Marian had retired to her tent; and, for a few minutes, was lost to our sight. After a short time she came forth again; but, instead of joining us by the cheerful hearth, she was seen sauntering down in the direction of the stream. This caused a defection in our party. The young backwoodsman rose to his feet; and silently, but with rather an awkward grace, walked towards the tent – not Marian’s. He might as well have spared himself the trouble of taking up some of his accoutrements, and pretending to examine them. The feint was perfectly transparent to the rest of us – especially when the action ended, by his strolling off almost on the identical track taken by the huntress-maiden!

“Amantes?” (lovers), whispered Archilete, half-interrogatively, as with a smile of quiet significance he followed the receding form of the hunter. “Yes; lovers who have been long separated.”

“Carrambo! Do you say so? This then should be the rival of the false husband?” I nodded assent. “Por Dios, Señor; it is not to be wondered at that the canting heretico stood no chance in that game – had it been played fairly. Your camarado is a magnificent fellow. I can understand now why the wild huntress had no eyes for our mountain-men here. No wonder she sighed for her far forest-home. Ay de mi, cavallero! Love is a powerful thought, even the desert will not drive it out of one’s heart. No, no; valga me dios! no!”

The tone in which the Mexican repeated the last words had a tinge of sadness in it – while his eyes turned upon the fire with an expression that betrayed melancholy. It was easy to tell that he too – odd, and even ludicrous as was his personal appearance – either was, or had been, one of love’s victims. I fancied he might have a story to tell – a love story? and at that moment my mind was attuned to listen to such a tale. Sure-shot had also left us – our animals picketed a few paces off requiring his attention – and the two of us were left alone by the fire. If the trapper’s tale should prove a sentimental romance – and such are not uncommon in the Mexican border land – the moment was opportune. Seeing that my new acquaintance was in the communicative mood, I essayed to draw him forth.

“You speak truly,” I said. “Love is a powerful passion, and defies even the desert to destroy it. You yourself have proved it so, I presume? You have souvenirs?”

“Ay, señor, that have I; and painful ones.”

“Painful?”

“As poison —Carrai-i-i!”

“Your sweetheart has been unfaithful?”

“No.”

“Her parents have interfered, I suppose, as is often the case? She has been forced against her will to marry another?”

“Ah! señor, no. She was never married.”

“Not married? what then?”

“She was murdered!”

Regret at having initiated a conversation – that had stirred up such a melancholy memory – hindered me from making rejoinder; and I remained silent. My silence, however, did not stay the tale. Perhaps my companion longed to unburden himself; or, with some vague hope of sympathy, felt relief in having a listener. After a pause he proceeded to narrate the story of his love, and the sad incidents that led to its fatal termination.

Chapter Ninety Two
Gabriella Gonzales

“Puez, Señor!” commenced the Mexican, “your comrades tell me, you have been campaigning down below on the Rio Grande.”

“Quite true – I have.”

“Then you know something of our Mexican frontier life – how for the last half century we have been harassed by the Indios bravos– our ranchos given to the flames – our grand haciendas plundered and laid waste – our very towns attacked – many of them pillaged, destroyed, and now lying in ruins.”

“I have heard of these devastations. Down in Texas, I have myself been an eye-witness to a similar condition of things.”

“Ah! true, señor. Down there – in Tejas and Tamaulipas – things, I have heard, are bad enough. Carrai! here in New Mexico they are ten times worse. There they have the Comanches and Lipanos. Here we have an enemy on every side. On the east Caygüa and Comanche, on the west the Apache and Navajo. On the south our country is harassed by the Wolf and Mezcalero Apachés, on the north by their kindred, the Jicarillas; while, now and then, it pleases our present allies the Utahs, to ornament their shields with the scalps of our people, and their wigwams with the fairest of our women. Carrambo! señor! a happy country ours, is it not?”

The ironically bitter speech was intended for a reflection, rather than an interrogation, and therefore needed no reply. I made none. “Puez, amigo!” continued the Mexican, “I need hardly tell you that there is scarce a family on the Rio del Norte – from Taos to El Paso – that has not good cause to lament this unhappy condition of things; scarce one that has not personally suffered, from the inroads of the savages. I might speak of houses pillaged and burnt; of maize-fields laid waste to feed the horses of the roving marauder; of sheep and cattle driven off to desert fastnesses; bah! what are all these? What signify such trifling misfortunes, compared with that other calamity, which almost every family in the land may lament – the loss of one or more of its members – wife, daughter, sister, child – borne off into hopeless bandage, to satisfy the will, or gratify the lust, of a merciless barbarian?”

“A fearful state of affairs!”

“Ay señor! Even the bride has been snatched off, from before the altar – from the arms of the bridegroom fondly clasping, and before he has had time to caress her! Ay de mi, cavallero! Truly can I say that: it has been my own story.”

“Yours?”

“Yes – mine. You ask me for souvenirs. There is one that will cling to me for life!” The Mexican pointed to his mutilated limb. “Carrambo!” continued he, “that is nothing. There is another wound here – here in my heart. It was received at the same time; and will last equally as long – only a thousand times more painful.”

These words were accompanied by a gesture. The speaker placed his hand over his heart, and held it there to the end of his speech – as if to still the sad sigh, that I could see swelling within his bosom. His countenance, habitually cheerful – almost comic in its expression – had assumed an air of concentrated anguish. It was easy to divine that he had been the victim of some cruel outrage. My curiosity had become fully aroused; and I felt an eager desire to hear a tale, which, though beyond doubt painful, could not be otherwise than one of romantic interest.

“Your lameness, then, had something to do with the story of your blighted love? You say that both misfortunes happened to you at the same time!” My interrogatives were intended to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen. I was successful; and the recital was continued.

“True, señor– both came together; but you shall hear all. It is not often I speak of the affair, though it is seldom out of my thoughts, I have tried to forget it. Carrambo! how could I, with a thing like that constantly recalling it to my memory?” The speaker again pointed to his deformed foot with a smile of bitter significance. “Por Dios, cavallero! I think of it often enough; but just now more than common. Their presence – ” he nodded towards the lovers, whose forms were just visible in the grey twilight, “the happiness I see reminds me of my own misery. More especially does she recall the misfortune to my memory – this wild huntress who has had misfortunes of her own. But beyond that, señor, though you may think it strange, your conpaisana is wonderfully like what she was.”

“Like whom?”

“Ah! señor, I have not told you? She that I loved with all the love in my heart – the beautiful Gabriella Gonzales.”

Men of the Spanish race – however humble their social rank – are gifted with a certain eloquence; and in this case passion was lending poetry to the speech. No wonder I became deeply interested in the tale, and longed to hear more of Gabriella Gonzales.

“En verdad,” continued the Mexican, after a pause, “there are many things in the character of your countrywoman to remind me of my lost love – even in her looks. Gabriella, like her, was beautiful. Perhaps your comrade yonder might not think her so beautiful as the huntress; but that is natural. In my mind Gabriella was everything. She had Indian blood in her veins: we all have in these parts, though we boast of our pure Spanish descent. No matter; Gabriella was white enough – to my eyes white as the lily that sparkles upon the surface of the lagoon. Like yonder maiden, she inherited from her ancestors a free daring spirit. She feared neither our Indian enemies, nor danger of any kind —Por Dios! Not she.”

“Of course she loved you?”

“Ah! that truly did she – else why should she have consented to marry me? What was I? A poor cibolero– at times a hunter and trapper of beavers, just as I am now? I was possessed of nothing but my horse and traps; whiles he —Carrambo! señor, proud ricos pretended to her hand!”

It is possible that my countenance may have expressed incredulity. It was difficult to conceive how the diminutive Mexican – as he appeared just then in my eyes – could have won the love of such a grand belle as he was describing Gabriella to be. Still was he not altogether unhandsome; and in earlier life – before his great misfortune had befallen him – he might have been gifted with some personal graces. High qualities, I had heard of his possessing – among others courage beyond question or suspicion; and in those frontier regions – accursed by the continual encroachment of Indian warfare, and where human life is every day in danger – that is a quality of the first class – esteemed by all, but by none more than those who stand most in need of protection – the women. Often there as elsewhere – more often than elsewhere – does courage take precedence of mere personal appearance, and boldness wins the smile of beauty. It was possible that the possession of this quality on the part of Pedro Archilete had influenced the heart of the fair Gabriella. This might explain her preference.

The Mexican must have partially divined my thoughts, as was proved by the speech that followed. “Yes, amigo! more than one rich haciendado would have been only too happy to have married Gabriella; and yet she consented to become my wife, though I was just as I am now. May be a little better looking than at this time; though I can’t say that I ever passed for an Apollo. No – no —señor. It was not my good looks that won the heart of the girl.”

“Your good qualities?”

“Not much to boast of, cavallero. True, in my youth, I had the name of being the best horseman in our village – the best rastreador– the most skilful trapper. I could ‘tail the bull,’ ‘run the cock,’ and pick up a girl’s ribbon at full gallop – perhaps a little more adroitly than my competitors; but I think it was something else that first gained me the young girl’s esteem. I had the good fortune once to save her life – when, by her own imprudence, she had gone out too far from the village, and was attacked by a grizzly bear. Ay de mi! It mattered not. Poor niña! She might as well have perished then, by the monster’s claws. She met her death from worse monsters – a death far more horrible; but you shall hear.”

“Go on! From what you have disclosed, I am painfully interested in your tale.”