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Title: Esther
        A story of the Oregon trail

Author: Ann S. Stephens

Release date: November 16, 2024 [eBook #74746]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: George Routledge and Sons

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESTHER ***





                                ESTHER:
                      A STORY OF THE OREGON TRAIL.


[Illustration: [Logo]]

                                LONDON:
                       GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
                         THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.




                                CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I.     WESTWARD.
  CHAPTER II.    NATURE’S NOBLEMAN—WALTERMYER.
  CHAPTER III.   THE APOSTLE.
  CHAPTER IV.    CLAUDE AND ELLEN.
  CHAPTER V.     THE PRISONER OF THE DACOTAHS.
  CHAPTER VI.    WATER!
  CHAPTER VII.   THE MORMON’S RIDE.
  CHAPTER VIII.  PRAIRIE FIRE.
  CHAPTER IX.    TRUE HEART.
  CHAPTER X.     CANT—A STRUGGLE—A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE.
  CHAPTER XI.    PARTING—A LONELY RIDE—A NIGHT STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS.
  CHAPTER XII.   LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS—AN UNEXPECTED GUIDE—REST.
  CHAPTER XIII.  THE DACOTAH’S CAMP—LOVE’S TRIUMPH.
  CHAPTER XIV.   WALTERMYER—A CHAMPION.
  CHAPTER XV.    REVOLT—ALONE ON THE HEIGHTS—TRIAL.
  CHAPTER XVI.   THE HOMEWARD TRAIL—THE STRANGE MEETING—FOEMEN.
  CHAPTER XVII.  A DUEL IN THE WILDERNESS—A STARTLING REVELATION.
  CHAPTER XVIII. HOME.




                                ESTHER:

                                   A

                       STORY OF THE OREGON TRAIL.




                               CHAPTER I.
                               WESTWARD.


Our every footstep treads upon a grave! The keel of the snowy-pinioned
vessel but turns a fleecy furrow while plowing its way over the abodes
of death. Earth is but one vast tomb, where sleep, side by side,
commingling their dust, the king and peasant, the master and slave, the
beautiful and the repulsive. Beneath the iron-clad feet of our swift
steeds—beneath the thunder-rush and lightning speed of engines—beneath
the quick, firm tread of business men, and beneath the gentle pressure
of the daintily-slippered feet of lovely women, lie the mouldering
form—the dust of stalwart men and the more delicate clay that was
fashioned by the Master hand into childhood, girlhood, womanhood—beauty.
We turn from scenes of busy life, and enter the deep forest, unthinking
and careless that beneath our footsteps lie the mouldering bones of the
war-painted warrior, beside his broken spear and stringless bow; and, in
another place, the dusky forest-maiden, who once wreathed amid the dull
blackness of her hair the gorgeously-tinted buds and blossoms of the
God-cultured prairie. But so it is. The star that leads civilization
westward shines sadly upon the graves of a people almost extinct—a
people that have been hunted ruthlessly from their greenwood haunts till
every year has seen their graves multiplying thicker and thicker in the
wilderness. Then the Anglo-Saxon comes to plow it up and plant corn
above the dead warriors, stooping now and then to pick up a stone
arrow-head from his furrow, and examine it curiously, as if he did not
know what soil his sacrilegious plow was upturning.

The Indian sees his council fires flicker out one by one, scarcely
rising skyward long enough to gild the ruins of his bark and
skin-covered wigwam, or light up the ashes over his deserted altars.

Yon star that leads westward has no halting-place for him till it sets
on the calm Pacific, writing on its blue waters the history of a people
that have perished.

It was a lovely morning. The sun rose from its nightly course, radiant
with beauty, kissing the dew from the tiny cups of the myriad flowers,
tinging with gold the emerald leaves of the forest, and gilding the
crests of a thousand little billows that were just waking to life in the
shaded pools of the mountain streams. It was a scene of wondrous
loveliness—a scene that the eye might willingly rest upon forever, while
the soul drank in its freshness till satiated with the very excess of
beauty. A scene like that the pen or pencil of man are impatient to
portray. The Master Artist—God! upon the canvass of his own created
world, has alone written it out.

Under one of those picturesque clumps of trees that broke the luxuriant
monotony of the rolling grass-land, a corral of covered wagons had been
drawn up for the night, and now stood with the canvass swaying in the
breeze, circling a snowy little tent which had been pitched against the
trunk of a noble tulip-tree, and stood beneath its deep-green branches
like a great white bird rested on the grass.

The little camp had formed itself late the night before, and the deep
breathing of many a stalwart sleeper came from the covered wagons, while
the guard kept his post yet, but with a weary fall of the body and a
wistful look at the wagons; for he envied the sleepers there with all
the earnestness of a tired man.

In the midst of the stillness, the covering of the pretty white tent
began to flutter, as if the great bird it represented so much were
stirring its plumage; first one curtain was lifted, then another, and
after a little peeped forth one of the most beautiful faces you ever set
eyes on—only the more beautiful because her hair, black as a crow’s
plumage, hung in great undulating waves down her shoulders, just as she
had dropped it, half-braided, when tired of holding its weight in her
small hands. It was a radiant face, rich with health and fine coloring.
Her brown eyes—sometimes black when she was excited, but of a warm,
loving brown now—cast a bright glance out upon the morning, the curtain
fell again, there was a fluttering motion of life within the tent, then
all the canvass was flung back from the front, and as queenly a young
creature as you ever saw stepped out upon the trampled sward. In form
and face the girl was something wonderful to look upon; and now that her
hair was coiled in a raven braid around her head, and her figure was
clearly defined by a close-fitting dress of richly-toned calico, there
was an air of high breeding in her carriage singularly at variance with
the scene around her.

Some clusters of wild blossoms grew within the circle of the wagons
still untrampled and pure. She saw them drooping heavily beneath a rain
of dew, and going up to them, swept the drops off with her hands, thus
taking a morning bath which was half moisture, half perfume.

“Now,” she said, looking around upon the green undulations of the
prairie, “now for a straggle among the flowers. One never gets a lonely
walk when we are on the move. I am tired of being forever cautioned to
keep close to the wagons. Now for the prairie. How the green waves rise
and swell to the morning wind. It is like launching forth on an ocean.
It seems as if one could swim through the grass.”

Esther Morse—this was her name—ran back to the tent and brought forth a
pretty straw hat, very coarse, but so garnished with crimson ribbons
that it had a look of dainty sumptuousness, which she carried away by
the strings. Thus she left the camp, singing as she went, but in a low
voice that harmonized with the gush of bird-songs that swelled through
the morning.

Esther passed the almost sleeping guard, who, tired with his night of
watchfulness against the prowling Utes, was leaning noddingly upon his
rifle. She flashed upon his sight rather as some visitor from starry
climes than that compound of earth we call woman.

“’Tain’t my business, Miss Esther,” he muttered, more to himself than
her, “but who knows what red-skins may be a-watchin over behind them
rocks yender.”

“Never fear for me, Abel Cummings,” replied the girl cheerfully and with
a sweet smile upon her face; “I only want to take a short walk in the
grass. Never fear for me, I will be back long before breakfast is
ready.”

“If ever thar was an angel thar goes one,” soliloquized the man as she
passed him.

And on she rambled, far beyond the usual limits prescribed by camp
regulations. Well might a poetic fancy be lured by such a scene. The
cloud-crowned caps of the Wind River Mountains loomed ghost-like in the
rare, blue air—the sloping prairie around was green in its spring
freshness—the foliage, that marked the river’s tide, glitteringly
bright, and the just rising sun throwing over all its rare and delicate
sheen of golden-vermilion. These before, and above, and around; while
behind, the tented wagons dotted the greensward, looking as if a fairy
caravan had encamped in a new Eden.

Careless of all danger—thinking but of the glorious scene around her,
Esther Morse stepped rapidly over the rolling ground and soon was lost
to sight. Now and then she paused and stooped to examine some dainty
bud, and then, as if anxious to make the most of her time, pressed
forward again. The plash of swiftly-running waters greets her ears, and
soon she stoops over the sparkling tide which came surging over a pile
of rocks. Well might she look in the pool below. Such rare beauty was
never mirrored before in that sylvan looking-glass; the foot of a being
so fit to be the sovereign of the scene never before trod the mossy
brink. She cools her brow with the spray, and the foam-beads flash amid
the blackness of her luxuriant hair. She bends still more closely over
the silvery tide, and can almost count the snowy pebbles beneath. A bird
flits by and she listens to its song for a moment, but to send back a
reply still more sweet. An antelope stays its rapid course for an
instant, upon the opposite bank, to gaze upon her with its pensive eyes,
ere its hoofs, swift almost as light, ring a merry chorus as it speeds
away, buoyant with innocent life. Truly it is a bower of beauty—a very
paradise in the far distant wilderness. The spirit of evil should indeed
forbear to set his foot or leave his serpent trail in a place like that.

Hark! Like the aroused stag, her ear is bent to listen. She holds her
breath and stands poised for flight. Is it the wind playing idly among
the branches—the stir of her father’s train preparing for their onward
march—the rush and thunder of the buffalo herd, or the stealthy tread
and long, shambling gallop of the gaunt, gray wolf? Is it the step of
some one sent in pursuit of her—some one to guard her against
danger—or—and the very thought sent a thrill of fear quivering through
her entire frame—is it, can it be the wily savage seeking for plunder,
prisoners, perhaps scalps?

Little time did she give herself for thought, but with a quick, startled
glance around she turned to go; but with the first step confronted an
Indian girl standing in her very path. To pass her and rush to the camp
before the red warriors could cut her off from the way, appeared to be
her only hope; but even as she hurried past, the skirt of her dress was
caught and retained, while a not unmusical voice whispered, in strangely
broken accents:

“Look. Me no enemy to you. Look! Has the pale-face no thought of the
Laramie? The memory of the white squaw is not true like the heart of the
red one.”

In a moment the swiftly-retreating blood flowed back to Esther’s heart.
She recognized the Indian girl as one whom she had slightly befriended
weeks before.

“The white squaw good to me. She has no forgotten?” asked the Indian
girl, or rather wife, for she was in fact the bride of a dusky chief of
the Sioux.

In the bright sunlight, as she stood there waiting to be recognized,
this Indian woman was the very incarnation of that rare, almost
spiritual beauty sometimes to be found among the daughters of the
red-men. Slight, yet tall, with movements so perfectly graceful that
they approached those of a leopard; with a small foot, whose
richly-ornamented moccasins fell light, almost, as the dew upon the
prairie-blossoms; with long, black hair, knotted with scraps of gorgeous
ribbon, she stood before Esther. Her eyes, large, lustrous and pensive
as those of the antelope, were fixed upon the young girl. You would not
have thought, from the expression at the moment, that they could be
piercing as the sun-gazing eagle, when insult or danger aroused the
slumbering passions of uneducated nature. With that look, and a voice
flute-like and musical, it would have been strange indeed if she could
so soon have been forgotten.

“Yes,” replied Esther, “I remember you well; but what could have brought
you so far from your tribe? You Indian women are not used, I think, to
stray away from your wigwams or leave your husbands.”

“Waupee has no husband,” was the response of the young wife.

“No husband! What do you mean? It is not a month since I saw you the
bride of a great warrior—high in power and famous on the hunting-path.”

“One day there came to the wigwam of the Black Eagle a woman fair as a
white rose. The warrior forgot Waupee, his wife, and his heart turned to
the white rose. Waupee has no husband.”

“Waupee—White Hawk—what story is this? What do you mean?”

“The warrior can not see the moon when the sun is showering its golden
arrows to the earth.”

“Why talk to me in this ambiguous manner? Speak plainly, so that I may
understand.”

“The Black Eagle of the Sioux has feasted his eyes on the beauty of the
pale-face.”

“On me? You can not mean me?”

“The tongue has traveled the trail of truth.”

“But it is folly—madness! He will never see me again. I shall soon be
forgotten, Waupee, and then all will be well with you again.”

“The red-man never forgets.”

“And you have traveled so far—so many long miles, to tell me of this—to
tell me that—”

“The wigwam of Waupee is desolate.”

“But you must have had some other motive. It can not be this alone could
bring you so far.”

“Let the daughter of the pale-face bend her head so low that Waupee can
whisper to her. The woods have ears, the flowers hearken, and the trees
drink in words.”

“What mystery—what new fear is this? Tell me quickly, for my heart leaps
wildly in terror of some danger that you know of.”

“_The Black Eagle of the Sioux is flying swiftly upon the trail of the
pale-face he would have for his mate!_”

“Horror! Even now he may be concealed between me and my father’s camp.
Thanks, thanks, good Waupee, and—”

“Hark!” and the Indian woman laid her ear close to the ground and
listened for some time in silence. Then rising, she continued: “The
earth is thundering beneath the hoofs of swift-running horses, but they
are still afar. Let the daughter of the pale-face hasten to her people,
and never again let her moccasin wander. The eye of the Black Eagle is
keen, his wings swift, his talons sharp, and his heart knows neither
pity or fear.”

“And you, Waupee?”

“The Great Spirit directs me. The poor Indian woman has risked her life
to save you, for you were kind to her. But now—” she started suddenly as
if serpent-stung, and without another word disappeared in the thick
undergrowth.

Left to herself, the white girl paused but for a moment—a single one, as
if to consider her nearest and most secure path to the camp, then darted
off, with the swiftness of a frightened deer. Now and then she listened
intently, while pausing to gather breath, and once, in passing, bent
over the swift-running water that washed the green grasses and tiny
flowers at her feet, attracted, even in her flight, by some unwonted
object.

Was it the eyes of a basilisk that so enchained her? What was the form,
but half hid by the drooping bushes, that robbed her cheeks of their
healthy red and brought a cry of anguish to her quivering lips. Do
demons lave their black limbs in the limpid waters of the mountain
streams, or forms Plutonian sport where the salmon should alone flash
its silver sides?

The waters parted with a turbulent dash, and a dark form arose, dripping
like a water-god, before her. It was Black Eagle, of the Sioux.

“Ugh!” The arms of the Indian were extended, his eyes flashed with the
fires of savage triumph. He gathered her up from where she stood white
as death and frozen with fear, and, as a hawk seizes rudely on its prey,
bore her off.




                              CHAPTER II.
                     NATURE’S NOBLEMAN—WALTERMYER.


“Abel Cummings, what are you a-doing there, my good man? Come, be
stirring;” and the speaker issued from a large wagon near at hand.

“Doin’, Squire? Only lookin’ out to see if I could see any thing of Miss
Esther. But it ain’t of no use, for she’s gone clear out of sight,”
replied the man, addressing the owner of the train, and the father of
the wandering girl.

“You might be in better business than spying after a runaway girl. Let
her go. Hunger will soon bring her back again, I’ll warrant. So stir
around—wake up the men, and have every thing ready for a start.”

“But, Squire, they say that thar’s lots an’ lots of Indians a-skulkin’
around, and who knows but that they may carry Miss Esther off and—”

“Eat her up, I suppose!” interrupted the parent, with a hearty laugh.

Checked in his speech, the man turned sullenly away, and in the bustle
of the hour had soon forgotten his fears. So, indeed, it was with the
majority, if they had in fact any curiosity about a young creature who
had always been accustomed to wander at will and without restraint. But,
careless as the father apparently was, he often turned his eyes in the
direction pointed out by the man, and grew more and more troubled that
she did not return.

Strange, very strange it would have been if that father had not been
anxious, for she was all that remained to him of a beloved family. Wife
and sons had fallen victims to the terrible reaper of the scythe and
hour-glass, as he swept in a fearful epidemic through the land. This
beautiful daughter was now his sole idol. Heart-sick, he had turned his
back upon the place of his birth—gathered up his means, and, following
the westering star, had determined to make for himself a new home in the
regions “where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound save its own
dashings.”

The breakfast-hour arrived and still the girl came not; passed, and she
had not appeared. The time of starting was delayed, until a feeling of
intense uneasiness—a vague sense of danger, took possession of every
heart. Anxious eyes were strained prairie-ward, but in vain. No flutter
of dress or springing step told of her coming. Once, only, moving life
appeared in the distance: they saw a troop of horse sweeping over a
far-off eminence—wild horse they must have been, for none bore riders.
For one moment they flashed before their eyes, floundering madly on, and
then were lost in a cloud of whirling dust, which alone told of their
passage.

Simple as the incident was, they remembered it well in the hereafter.

“Saddle up your best horses, boys!”

The order came with startling sternness, for the heart of that poor
father was now sorely troubled.

“Abel Cummings, lead the way. You saw her last, and should be a sure
guide.”

“Waal, Squire, yes; but, yer see—”

“Silence! This is no time for words. Action, man, prompt and decisive
action may save my child; nothing else. A hundred silver dollars to him
who first brings me news of her. Mount and forward! Mount all, except
those who guard the wagons. Mount and—”

A little cloud of dust, scarcely larger than an infant’s hand, arose
suddenly in the distance, whirling in eddies aloft, and checking further
speech, for in those regions slight causes often produced events of the
most startling character. Who could tell that this little cloud of dust
might not be caused by the hoofs of a savage band, resolved on robbery,
if not murder!

Without waiting for commands, the circular line of the corral was again
formed, the cattle and horses secured within, and each man, fully armed,
at his post. Then every eye was turned upon the prairie, eager to learn
what the cloud might portend.

Nearer, still nearer, it came, as if lightning were trailing its red
flashes along the earth, searing the foliage as it passed and leaving
only a train of whirling dust behind. Nearer it came, and soon the
beating of each heart was less fitful, and every rifle was dropped from
its poise. Nearer—still nearer, and two horsemen came bounding up the
slope, “bloody with spurring, fiery red with speed.”

The foremost—for his good steed, though held in check, came many lengths
ahead—was mounted on a horse of great power. With the exception of a
single snowy spot in his forehead, the superb animal was black from hoof
to fore-top. He cleared the earth with great, vigorous bounds, his thin,
open nostrils red as coral, his head matchless in its symmetry, ears
delicate and pointed, and tail and mane waving like twin banners in the
breeze. With a firm, yet light hand, the rider controlled his slightest
motion, and guided him at will. When he had reached the corral, and the
rider flung himself carelessly to the ground, there was not a quivering
of the limbs or heaving flank to tell of the rapid race he had just
finished.

“Who and what are you?” demanded Miles Morse, as the new-comer glanced
around and appeared to take in the entire scene with a single look,
while every eye was riveted upon him.

Well might these men gaze upon the new-comer both in admiration and
surprise, for a more superb specimen of the Western hunter and border
scout never trod the earth. More than six feet in height, with long
black hair, and a thick beard sprinkled with gray, an aquiline nose, and
eyes piercing and restless as the eagle’s, he was a man well worth
remembering as a noble specimen of the class.

His dress was the usual picturesque costume, formed mostly of doeskin,
curiously fringed and embroidered. His hat was the true slouch—“rough
and ready,” with a gold band glittering around it. He held a long rifle
in one hand, while pistols and a knife bristled defiantly in his belt.
As he stood stroking the arched neck of his good horse, you saw the very
_beau ideal_ of that pioneer race who, scorning the ease and fashionable
fetters of city life, have laid the foundation of new States in the
unexplored regions of the giant West, and dashed onward in search of new
fields of enterprise, leaving the great results to be gathered by the
settlers that come slowly after him. There he stood, leaning against his
horse, lithe as a panther, fearless as a poor honorable man may well be
after he has, companionless, traversed the trackless desert, and fought
the grizzly bear in his own fastnesses.

“Who am I, stranger?” he said, with something like a smile. “May be you
have heard of Kirk Waltermyer?”

“Waltermyer? I think I have heard your name before.”

“Heard of me, stranger? Why, I am well known from the pines of Oregon to
the chapparel of Texas. Ask La Moine, there, if we haven’t danced at
every fandango, hunted in every thicket, and trapped on every stream.”

His companion, whom he had called La Moine, was a tough and wiry
specimen of the half-breed Frenchman, so often found among the
north-western hunters and voyageurs—a man of but few words, but true as
steel to a friend, and implacable in his hate of an enemy.

“Yes, I have heard of you,” continued Morse. “I remember, now, and was
expecting to find you somewhere in the vicinity of Salt Lake. I was told
you could guide me by the best route to the Walla Walla valley.”

“I guide you!” and the weather-bronzed man laughed in a reckless and
heart-whole manner. “I guide you? Why, stranger, I could do it
blindfolded.”

“Well, I believe you, but we’ll talk of it another time. First, let me
ask what brought you here?”

“Why, my good horse—the best-limbed, swiftest, surest horse on the
perarer. None of your mustangs, that, stranger, but a full-blooded
cretur, worth his weight in diamonds.”

“I know that; but your business? From what I learned about you, this is
not your usual trail.”

“Waal, it hain’t, that’s a fact; but some of the skulkin’ followers of
that devil-worshiper, Brigham Young, ukered me out of nigh a hundred
head, and I’m not the man to play such games with, sure as you live.”

“Hundred head? What do you mean?”

“Ha! ha! Waal, you must’er come from the tother side of sunrise. Head?
Why, cattle, to be sure; but they didn’t steal them, for they knew my
rifle had a rayther imperlite way of speakin’ its mind, so they bought
them and have forgot to pay.”

“I understand. And now, listen to me. My daughter wandered away from the
camp early this morning and has not returned. I fear that—”

“La Moine,” interrupted Waltermyer, somewhat rudely, while the cheerful
expression of his face changed into a frown as black as a thunder-cloud,
and his entire nature appeared to have assumed a stern purpose, “La
Moine, do you remember the red rascals we saw dashing over the perarer
like so many frightened wild horses? I told you thar was something
wrong—that some traveler had lost his stock or something worse had
happened. Which way did the girl take, stranger?”

“There—toward the timber.”

“And some skulkin’, thievin’ savage was lyin’ in ambush for her, I’ll
bet a dozen beaver-skins. La Moine, go with—who saw her last—you,
man?—well, go with him and see if you can find the trail.” As the
Frenchman departed, accompanied by Abel Cummings, he continued: “Ef thar
ever was a man that was part hound, had the hearing of a deer and the
cunning of a fox, thar he goes;” and he stripped the heavy saddle from
his horse, took the bit from his mouth, and allowed him to graze at
will.

A half-hour—which appeared very long to the watchers—and the two men
returned.

“Waal, La Moine?”

“The girl has been carried off, Waltermyer, that’s sartin. But one
Indian did it. Thar is the print of another moccasin, but it is a little
one—that of a squaw. I should say that the white gal and the squaw had
been talkin’ together, and after they had separated, some Indian devil
of a warrior jumped from an ambush—dragged the gal inter the stream and
across it—found his braves waitin’, and after lifting the gal inter a
saddle, off they went like so many black thieves.”

“Ef you say so, it is so, and I’ll swear to it.”

“We saw a troop of horses in the distance,” said the father, “but as
they had no riders, thought they must have been wild ones. No, no! they
could never have carried Indians.”

“Not them!” replied Waltermyer, “not them! Why, man, any boy that ever
saw a perarer could have told you how it was. They were hiding behind
their horses—with only one foot thrown over the saddles, if they had any
at all, while the girl was bound down and kept on the further side. It’s
too old a trick to fool any one. But which way were they going, the
prowlin’ wolves carryin’ off young lambs? West, were they? They will
strike for the South Pass; but what in the name of common sense should
take them thar with a stolen girl?”

No one appeared competent to solve the question, and all was silence
until the Frenchman—for so he habitually called himself, notwithstanding
his Indian blood—whispered in the ear of Waltermyer the single word
“Mormons.”

“Right, man! Right for a thousand slugs! Stranger, did you come by the
way of Laramie?”

“Certainly, we stayed there a number of days.”

“War thar any followers of the holy prophet—as the infernal sinners call
themselves, though I call them thieves—around?”

“A large train. We left them there.”

“And they saw your girl?”

“Every day. Several of them visited us. One in particular came often and
appeared very anxious to converse with us.”

“What sort of man was he?”

“Large, rather good-looking, and a plausible and gentlemanly appearing
man.”

“With black hair, as smooth as my colt’s skin, and a scar on one cheek?”

“Yes. I remember it distinctly.”

“I know him, stranger.”

“You! But that is not improbable.”

“I’ll bet my rifle I do, and a bigger Satan never disgraced the name of
man. He’s a hull mule train in rascality, that man is. It isn’t the
first of his infernal capers that I have been knowing to, and unless you
travel swift you may make up your mind to find your daughter in that
serpent’s nest, Salt Lake City.”

“Heaven keep her from it! Death, even, would be a blessing compared to
that.”

“Amen to that, stranger, and ef you had seen and knew as much as I do
you would say it with your hull heart.”

“What can be done to save her Waltermyer? She is my only child—all that
is left to me. You will help a father in his worst troubles? Go with
me—help me and name your price—any thing, all, I possess shall be yours,
if you save her.”

“Stranger, I will go. Thar’s my hand on it, and though I say it who
shouldn’t, it’s just as honest a hand as thar is on the frontier, and
never yet took money for a kindness.”

“I know it—I believe it.”

“Then don’t talk to me of pay. Kirk Waltermyer ain’t no Digger Indian,
or yaller greaser to take blood-money. If thar is any thing, stranger,
that would have kept me from lendin’ you a helpin’ hand it is that same
offer to pay.”

“Forgive me and forget. Trouble—this terrible trouble, should outweigh
my mistake.”

“And so it does. Besides, you didn’t know any better. You men who are
brought up in cities and have your souls cramped up between brick
walls—who buy and sell one another like horses, don’t know what it is to
live out human freedom on the perarers—to enjoy life—to be MEN! But we
are losin’ time. Let half a dozen of your best men mount their swiftest
horses, arm themselves to the teeth and follow me. La Moine, you stay,
guide the train to Fort Bridger and wait thar until you hear from me.
Every hour we can gain now is worth a day to us. Come, stranger, don’t
get downhearted. Kirk Waltermyer will see your girl righted or thar
shall be more howlin’ and prayin’ in Salt Lake than Brigham Young ever
got up at one of his powows.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he had whistled his
horse to his side, saddled and bridled him, flung himself on his back,
and was dashing away with the perfect grace and horsemanship of an
Arapahoe. Rude as he was in speech and manner—unlettered and unrefined—a
purer diamond never yet was concealed in any man’s breast than the heart
of Waltermyer.




                              CHAPTER III.
                              THE APOSTLE.


The followers of Joseph Smith, the martyr to his own fanaticism, were
traveling slowly, like the Israelites of old, from their ruined homes in
Illinois to the far-off Salt Lake. On the night in which our story deals
with them, they had pitched their tents for the night on the grassy
banks of the Sweet Water river. Before them loomed up Independence Rock,
like some castellated tower of feudal times—grand, hoary, grim and
picturesque. Beyond was the “Devil’s Gate,” through which they would
soon have to pass. A strikingly appropriate name this for the passage
that was to usher them to the valley of the “Saints” beyond! He who
named it must have been gifted with prophetic wisdom with regard to the
people who were to travel it in after days.

The scene was attractive, even beautiful, for these people wandered like
the Patriarchs of old, with flocks and herds, pitching their tents in
the wilderness. The last rays of the sun struck with slanting light the
canvass homes, tinging them with dusky gold. The cheerful hum of busy
labor rose healthfully on the breeze. The song of the maidens while
milking the cows—the prattle of little children—the gay laughter of
young people and the tones of manly voices swelled together—an anthem of
toil. Bright fires were already sending their smoke on high, wreathing
in fanciful coils and drifting through the air, tinged with a glorious
brightness like thunder-clouds when the sun strikes them. Busy mothers
bent over the coals, preparing the evening meal, while their husbands
wheeled the heavy wagons into a circle, and formed a temporary fort,
calculated to protect them from attack from without, and stampede
within. The air was soft, and the clouds mottled, dolphin-like, changing
as the sun went down into deeper hues of crimson, gold and purple. The
trees were aflame—the swiftly-running stream, molten silver—the burning
death-fires of the day had flooded the earth with evanescent brightness.

            “Showered the maples with celestial red;
            The oaks were sunsets—though the day was dead;
            The green was gold—the willows drooped in wine;
            The ash was fire—the humblest shrub divine;
            The aspen quivered in a silver stream.”

Amid all this loveliness, selfish passions were at work, striving for
their own ends, with a deluded people toiling on to erect a molten calf
in the wilderness to be worshiped in the place of the true God!

But the smoke of the evening fires became thin, and faded away; the
glowing coals died out amid the whitened ashes. The children, innocent
as yet, thank Heaven, had passed into the sweet dreams that infancy
alone can know, and the elders gathered to hear the mockery of an
evening service, to profane that almost holy solitude with the idolatry
of a purely sensual religion.

The master spirit rose, the beguiling serpent who had lured these
ignorant men and women from their quiet homes in the old world, and
desecrated the quiet of that lovely evening with his pointless
ravings—inflammatory pictures of the “promised land” that should soon
dawn upon their longing eyes; all the blasphemous teachings of a wily
brain.

A man, subtle in his nature and in his speech—with a superfluity of
words, and gifted with the low cunning of an adroit impostor, he yet was
looked up to as one on whom the sacred mantle of “the prophet” had
fallen. Practice, and his own nature had enabled him to assimilate
himself with the peculiar ideas of those he wished to influence—to lower
himself to any level, and cunningly use it for his own selfish ends and
personal aggrandizement.

Nature had done much toward enabling him to become the living lie he
was. In youth his figure had been fine and his face attractive; and
though years had told upon the one, rendering it somewhat coarse, and
evil thoughts had plowed unmistakable furrows upon the other, enough of
early grace and manly beauty remained to enforce the iniquity of his
doctrines.

With great unction and show of reverence his discourse was delivered;
the sweet strains of the evening hymns rolled forth, echoed by the rocky
reverberations of the grand old hills afar off; the smouldering fires
were extinguished; the guards placed, and silence settled down upon the
shores of the Sweet Water.

But Elelu Thomas—for so the prophet was named—had no inclination for
sleep. His tent had been pitched apart from the others, and with little
difficulty and no fear of observation he could make his way from the
corral into the open prairie.

Alone, if one filled with evil thoughts can ever be alone, he sat for a
long time. No sweet memories gathered around his heart and thronged the
mystic cells of the brain. No tender recollections flashed,
fairy-footed, through the halls of thought, but unholy fancies alone had
power with him.

“Yes,” he muttered, between his closely compressed lips; “Yes. The plan
will work to a charm. Never yet has a human soul escaped me. This shall
be the master-stroke of my life. Hark! No, no, it is not what I long to
hear. It is but the half-suppressed song with which the sentinel cheats
the long hours. But it is so near midnight—the poor fools who have so
blindly followed and given me their gold are asleep—dreaming, perhaps,
of the bright valley I have so often told them of. What a waking there
will be soon! Well, well, it is necessary to keep up the delusion, and I
would be but a fool like them to kill the goose that lays my golden
eggs.”

The man opened a trunk upon which he had been seated, took out some
arms, and cautiously left the tent. He crept stealthily through the
wagons, skirted along them, half hid by the shadows, and gained the
woods unobserved.

“Rare sentinels these,” he thought. “To-morrow I will teach them a
lesson that they will not soon forget. But here is the spot, and—”

A touch upon his arm caused his cowardly soul to leap to his lips, while
a deep voice whispered in his ears:

“The pale chief watches not well the stars.”

“Ah! Black Eagle, is that you?”

“The red-man has been waiting. When the moon first touched the tops of
the trees he was to be here. It’s light is now creeping down the
trunks.”

“Yes, I know I am late, but now that I am here tell me how you have
succeeded?”

“Has the pale-face forgotten his promise?”

“No; here is the gold; the rest you shall have at the proper time. Now,
about your mission.”

“He who would keep should watch also. When the fawn wanders far from the
horns of the buck, the wolves are soon on its trail.”

“Yes, yes; but tell me plainly what you mean.”

“The eye of Black Eagle is keen, his arm is strong and his horse swift.”

“Bah! with your Indian circumlocution. Tell me about the girl, man. Have
you got her?”

“There is mourning and blackened faces in the wigwam of her tribe.”

“You have carried her off then?”

“As the eagle of the mountains does the young dove of the valley.”

“And you brought her here? Here? Where is she, man?”

“Not like the children of the prairies can the pale squaw ride. She is
feeble as the little pappoose, and her heart is sick as the
snake-charmed bird.”

“What of it?” and a dark frown settled on the face of the speaker. “Why
did you not bind her to a horse and bring her here at all hazards? My
people would have tended her as—”

“The wolf the lamb.”

A strange speech that, to come from a nomadic, red warrior, and the eye
of the white man quailed under the fiery glance fastened upon him.

“Well, yes, something like it,” he replied, trying to conceal his
feelings under an unpleasant laugh. “But where is the girl?”

“In the lodges of the Sioux.”

“I must see her this very night.”

“Has the pale-face become a child? Is he a woman, that he forgets the
thoughts of yesterday, and would, like the serpent, sting itself to the
death.”

“No, no. I had forgotten the plan for a moment. She is safe, you say?”

“As the beaver in the iron-tooth trap.”

“And her father knows nothing of the trail—who carried her off—when or
where?”

“The red-man leaves his footsteps in the running water; It rolls over
them and they are gone.”

“Keep watch of her, then, as you would guard the very apple of your eye,
for she is to my heart as the ‘rose of Sharon and the lily of the
valley.’” The old hypocrisy would break out from his impious lips, and
the deception of a lifetime found utterance even when his soul was
unmasked.

“The lodge of the red-man is as safe as the log war-house of the
pale-face.”

“Well, you know the plan. In the roughest part of the cañon—even in the
‘Devil’s Gate,’ as the children of the world call it, I will be prepared
to rush down upon you and rescue her. She will be grateful, for her
heart is warm and loving. Be sure you are at the appointed spot at the
right time, and then—”

He had half turned away from his companion, and on looking for the Black
Eagle again, found himself alone. Silent as had been the coming of the
Indian was his departure. With a mind filled with conflicting emotions,
the impostor turned back again toward the encampment. Very little faith
had he in the fidelity of Black Eagle, for his own treacherous heart
made him suspicious of others, and this, added to the well-known
character of the red-man, made him fear the result. Reaching the corral
in safety, he crept through the barricades made by the wagons, and was
soon sleeping calmly as the most innocent child in the encampment.
Looking on that man, you might have fancied that some angel’s prayers
had showered poppy leaves around him, and some kind hand had held to his
lips a balmy nepenthe against all the trials, cares and passions of
life.

When guilt sleeps, then let the pure in heart rejoice. But what a
strange anomaly it is, when an evil nature can throw off its corroding
fetters—its whirlwind passions, debasing influences, and slumber like
untainted childhood—that even the most depraved can for a time change
the entire current of their lives, and, touched by the leaden wand,
become oblivious of their own wickedness. “To the pure, all things are
pure,” and a very paradox it is that sin, when slumbering, can throw off
the crushing millstone and wander like innocence joyously among the
roses.

The Indian, when he had secured the gold of his infamous patron, and
noiselessly departed, struck at once into the middle of the stream, and
dropping into the current, swam leisurely down, till he reached the
shadow of an overhanging rock. Here he drew his lithe form cautiously
up, shook the water from his garments, and then plunged into the
thicket.

His savage nature had mapped out the path he was to follow, and no
meddling fancies were allowed to intrude upon him. A double purpose he
had in view—gain, and the gratification of his own selfish purposes. The
tenets of his savage religion offered no bar to their accomplishment,
and he knew quite as little of conscience as his employer.

An hour later, and just as the sun was lighting the fleecy clouds, and
all nature sung its first song of praise for the coming day, Black Eagle
emerged from the forest, many miles distant, and entered the camp of his
followers.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                           CLAUDE AND ELLEN.


The great West has its villas and palaces now crowding out the
log-cabins of thirty years ago. You find them sheltered superbly by the
ancient forest-trees, and surrounded by velvet lawns, through which the
wild prairie-flowers will peep out and make an effort at their old free
blossoming, but only to be uprooted for the hot-house roses and fuchsias
of other climes.

In one of these luxurious dwellings lived the La Clides, the most
refined and wealthy family to be found in the neighborhood of St. Louis.
The owner, a young man, not yet four and twenty, and his mother, one of
the most beautiful women of her time, occupied this noble dwelling, and
the vast wealth which had been left to their control was day by day
expended in making it still more beautiful.

Claude La Clide’s grandfather had been a French fur-trader, when western
enterprise of this kind yielded enormous profits. Like many of his
class, he married among the Indians, choosing for his forest-bride a
daughter of the Dacotahs, as the tribe loved to call itself, or more
commonly in their savage relations, Ochente Shacoan—the nation of the
Seven Council Fires—though by the white traders they were designated as
Sioux.

The fur-trader soon accumulated a fortune in his profitable traffic, and
having buried his Indian wife in the forest, took his only child, a
daughter, back to St. Louis to be educated.

There La Clide invested his money in real estate, which rapidly rose in
value, and, almost without an effort or a wish, he became one of the
richest men of the West. While his daughter was in her first youth, the
fur-trader died, leaving her his great wealth in direct possession.

Two years after her father’s death, a young French gentleman,
impoverished and exiled for his participation in one of those
revolutions which are constantly scattering the old families of France
into strange lands, came to St. Louis. He was a man of peculiar
refinement, handsome and modest as refined men usually are. He met the
young heiress. Her beauty, the shy, wild grace inherited from her
mother, softened and toned down by education, fascinated him at once.
She was something so fresh, so unlike the females of his own world, that
her very presence was full of romance to the young exile. She loved him
and they were married.

La Clide brought all his taste and knowledge of architecture into
action, when a new home for his bride was built near the town, and yet
removed from its bustle and crowds. It commanded a fine view of the
monarch river, whose eternal flow could be heard from the veranda and
balconies when the day was quiet. Its stone walls were soon draped with
the choicest climbing plants. Passion flowers twined in and out through
the stone carvings of the balconies, roses curtained the windows. Great
forest-trees waved their branches over the roof, and clothed the distant
grounds, and above all, love reigned within—that quiet, deep love for
which a man or woman is so grateful to God that it breaks forth in
thanksgiving with every smile and word.

But not even love can stay the black-winged angel. He came one night
when the first tinge of silver had crept into the husband’s brown locks,
found the mysterious mechanism of the heart diseased, and gently stopped
its beating. So, without one sigh or word of farewell to the beloved
wife slumbering by his side, he passed away.

Never was grief so sacred or so quiet as that which fell upon the
mistress of that residence when she found herself alone, the guardian of
a young son, and a widow forevermore. She had been a proud woman in
married life—proud of her husband, proud of her beauty for his sake,
and, oh, how more than proud of his noble son, her only child. The fiery
Indian blood that ran in her veins, and gave that splendid brunette
complexion, was no bar to her reception in society with the people of
St. Louis, for an intermarriage with the Indians had been no uncommon
thing with the first settlers, and in her the savage blood was so graced
with refinement that it was forgotten even by the new-comers, who had
begun to bring their prejudices beyond the great river.

But enterprise and civilization, as it concentrated in the neighborhood,
had sometimes shot its poisoned arrows at this noble woman, and a
shrinking thought that there might be something in her Dacotah blood to
wound the pride of her son, or impede his generous ambition, had
silently taken force in her nature.

But there was nothing in this to disturb her position as a leader of
society. In her husband’s lifetime his house had been the center of all
that was intellectual and of worth in society for miles and miles
around. A genial hospitality had won the talented and the good to his
roof. The widow permitted no change in this. All that her husband had
thought right became a religion with her. All that he had been, all that
he had enjoyed, should reappear in her son.

Was it wonderful that she almost worshiped the young man as he grew so
like his father in expression and voice, so like herself in the rare
beauty of his person?

Five years of widowhood, and this idol of her life had become perfect in
his manliness. The raven hair of his grandmother, but softened, finer
and glossy, fell in thick waves over his forehead. The tall, lithe form,
erect and graceful, the eagle eye, the proud poise of the head, were
splendid in their regal beauty; while the soft, olive-tinged skin,
warmed by the flashing blood of his transatlantic father, the tender
light that sometimes filled his eyes, the blush that flushed his pure
forehead, were perfect in their blending of refined and savage beauty.
Just enough of the wild grace and _insouciance_ of his Indian ancestry
had been mingled with the pure blood of the old French nobility to
render this young man strikingly beautiful in person and most alluring
in mind.

La Clide’s physical education had been perfect. A more fearless horseman
could not be found, even in his grandmother’s tribe; yet, in the dance
he was quiet and graceful, his walk remarkable only for its stately
ease. Like his person was that proud, tender and fiery nature. No frown
could swerve him from the right, no allurements win him to the wrong. He
neither gave offense nor brooked insult. Love, with him, was a sacred
passion; women, creatures that stood half way between him and the
angels, not worth winning save by aspiration. And this man was in love.
That pure, strong heart had been given away blindly, as such hearts will
sometimes go from their own keeping. He had been accepted, and was now
betrothed.

One spring evening, when the perfume came sweetest from the balcony
which opened from his mother’s sitting-room, the young man came in from
the city. Springing from his horse, he tossed the bridle to an
attendant, flung his whip after it, and entered the house. The moss-like
carpets smothered the sound of his heavy footsteps, or the mother must
have guessed at his agitation before he reached her.

As it was, Mrs. La Clide sat quietly amid the cushions of her
easy-chair, reading. Even in his passion, the young man paused a moment
to regard her; with those surroundings she broke upon him so like a
picture of the old masters. The walls of that room were lined in every
part by richly-bound volumes that gleamed out richly in the first
twilight. Near the broad sashes that opened into the balcony, two
statues, a bacchantic and a graceful dancing-girl, were holding back the
frost-like lace of the curtains, allowing the light to fall on that calm
face, surmounted by its coronal of braided hair.

Was he mistaken, or did that face look paler than usual? Was it pain or
thought that drew those beautiful brows together?

This anxious thought held the anger with which he had entered the house
in abeyance. He stepped forward.

“Mother!”

She started and dropped her book, pressed one hand suddenly against her
heart, and gasped out:

“Well, my son.”

“Are you reading? Have I frightened you?”

“Reading? No, I only held the book. One falls into thought sometimes,
forgetting every thing.”

La Clide took up the volume she had dropped. It was a medical book, and
had fallen upon the floor open at a treatise on diseases of the heart.

“Why, mother, what is this?”

“That? Oh, nothing. It chanced to be on the table. But what is the
matter? You look strangely, Claude.”

“Do I? Very likely, mother, for I come to tell you that I can never
marry Ellen Worthington.”

“My son—my son! Another lover’s quarrel—is that all?”

“It is no lover’s quarrel. But she is heartless—my wishes are nothing to
her.”

“Heartless, dear Claude. I think you do the girl wrong.”

“No, mother. She treats our engagement as if it were a spider’s web, to
be swept through with a dash of her hand. Not an hour ago I saw her in
the most public street of St. Louis, leaning on the arm of that
miserable gambler, young Houston.”

“No, no. It can not be so bad as that.”

“Worse than that; she was hanging lovingly on his arm, while he bent and
whispered—yes, mother, whispered in her ear.”

Mrs. La Clide seemed surprised; but she was a good woman, too good for
hasty conclusions. She thought a moment, and answered her son gently.

“Ellen may be giddy, my son. That is a fault of youth, and she is young.
But I think—I am sure she loves you.”

“She loves the wealth I have, and the position we can give her.”

“Now you are harsh, Claude.”

“Harsh? No woman trifles with the man she loves.”

“Yes, dear; sometimes in mere thoughtlessness.”

“But when her fault has been more than once pointed out?”

“Perhaps you have not done it with sufficient gentleness. We are
sometimes haughty in our demands without knowing it.”

“You are kind—very kind, mother. All this would console me if I did not
know how resolutely Ellen has persisted in disregarding my wishes—if I
did not know that she has attempted to conceal her intimacy with this
man from me.”

“Is this really so, Claude?”

“Would I make the charge if it were not true?”

“Miss Worthington!”

In their excitement, the mother and son had not heard the colored
waiter, and his voice startled them when he announced the very person
they were talking of.

“Show her in here,” said the mother, seating herself, and again pressing
a hand to her side.

The man retired, and directly a light voice and the flutter of a pretty
muslin dress came through the outer room.

“Where are you, my beautiful mamma that is to be? Oh, Claude, I did not
expect to find you here,” cried the golden-haired beauty, turning her
deep blue eyes upon him. “Wait one moment, while I kiss your mother.”

Down she fell upon her knees, winding one arm around Mrs. La Clide, and
holding up her rosebud mouth for a kiss, which the elder lady gave her
very gravely.

“There, now!”

She started up, drew the perfumed glove from her hand, and held it
toward him, glowing from its imprisonment.

“What, you will not take my hand?” she cried, turning away to use the
hand in smoothing the braids of her hair. “Never mind; it isn’t a
butterfly, to settle twice in the same spot;” and, with a careless
movement of the head, she ran for a cushion and sat down at Mrs. La
Clide’s feet. “Oh, my sweet, black-eyed mamma, how I have longed to see
you,” she said, in a sweet, caressing whisper.

“I have always been at home to you, Ellen,” was the somewhat cold reply.

“But I have been so busy. Claude, I say, angry yet? What is it all
about?”

She held out her hand again, glancing at him a little anxiously from
under her long lashes. No ordinary man could have withstood that look,
the creature was so lovely in her rich health and graceful position.

“Don’t be cross, Claude. Only think, I haven’t seen you in three whole
days. How can you treat me so cavalierly?” she pleaded, a little
frightened by his persistent coldness.

“Still, I passed you in the street but little more than an hour ago,”
was his grave answer.

The color fluttered unsteadily over her face.

“Indeed? I did not see you.”

“I presume not. You were occupied.”

“Was I? Oh, dear, yes—I remember. I happened to meet Mr. Houston. He was
telling me of—”

She caught the force of those large black eyes bent upon her, and broke
off, while a blush rose visibly from the crests of foamy hair on her
neck, up to her forehead.

“Ellen, why will you associate with that bad man?”

Claude asked the question in a grave, steady voice, which would have
warned a wiser person not to trifle with the subject. But Ellen
possessed the coquetry and craft of a small character—no real wisdom.

“Bad man! Everybody that I know of calls him a gentleman, except you.”

“You can not be a judge where a person like this is concerned. No
refined woman could have the power to understand him.”

“But other people receive him.”

“I do not, and with good reason.”

“Claude, you—yes, I see it—you are jealous.”

The reckless girl clapped her hands like a child, and, burying her head
on Mrs. La Clide’s lap, broke into a forced laugh.

“No, Ellen, I am not jealous. No honorable man could be, here.”

“Then do be good, and let this poor man alone.”

“Ellen, listen to me.”

“Well, I listen, but do get it over with. I hate scolding.”

“This has become a serious question between us—a question which may end
in a separation.”

The girl flushed crimson, and sat upright, with angry gleams coming into
her eyes.

“Well, sir, what is it you want of me?”

“I wish you to give up any acquaintance which exists between you and
young Houston.”

“Indeed!”

There was a sneer in her voice, but he did not notice it.

“I desire that you will never walk with or speak to him again.”

“And turn hermit or nun—which would please you best?”

“Neither would please me. You know how well I like society, and I know
how well you can adorn it. Let this be happily and worthily, and I ask
no more. Look around these rooms. How often you have seen them filled
with the best and highest of the land. I wish nothing different in my
married life. But no disreputable man shall ever cross my threshold or
speak to my wife; of that be assured.”

“Indeed, you begin early to play the censor over me and my friends.”

There was something in her voice now that hardened her lover.

“The woman I marry must be so far above suspicion that censorship can
not reach her,” he answered, almost sternly.

“Suspicion, sir—suspicion!”

“Do not mistake me. I charge you with nothing. On the contrary, I
believe it is your very innocence that leads you into the appearance of
evil.”

“Evil! evil!”

She sprung to her feet, and confronted him, like a beautiful fury. All
her craft, all her cunning forsook her in that storm of temper. In a
single moment she was dashing the work of her life into fragments. All
this was so different from the honeyed words she had just been listening
to from the lips of that bad man, that her true nature broke forth, but
not yet in words.

“Still you misunderstand me,” said Claude, grieved and astonished, “and
to avoid this I must speak more plainly. This Houston is not a proper
associate for any woman, much less for the one who is to share my home.
You are young; you are ignorant of the stories afloat about him, or you
would not thus persist in wrecking both my happiness and your own.”

The girl had been growing pale with suppressed anger; every fiber in her
frame quivered, but still she had a smile upon her lips.

“Pray, Claude, reserve these lectures till you have a right to force
them on me.”

“That time will never come, Ellen.”

Claude spoke in sorrow, but firmly.

“Then I am to understand you break our engagement?”

She turned white to the lips; he, too, was pale and cold.

“Better that than see my name dishonored. Mother—mother, do not leave
us!”

Mrs. La Clide seemed frightened. There was something strangely wild in
her eyes. This scene was becoming too painful for her. She looked
imploringly on her son.

“Yes, I must go; the air of this room is close. Do not be unkind, my
son. Ellen, remember how we have loved you!”

The young girl turned upon her almost insolently. Her lips curved into a
sneer, but she restrained her speech, and Mrs. La Clide left the room.
Claude was softened by his mother’s words. He followed her with loving
glances from the room, then turned more gently to his betrothed.

“Ellen, dear Ellen, I do not wish to be unkind. You know well how I have
loved you. Your wish has always been my law, but I can not surrender my
self-respect.”

“Nor can I.”

“Ellen, I beg—beseech you to listen to me.”

“I do listen, sir.”

The rapid beat of her foot on the carpet, the firm clinch of her hands,
the compressed lip and suppressed breath, told in unmistakable language
with what spirit she listened.

“Give up the society of that man, for my sake, for my noble mother’s
sake—she, so honorable, so sensitive to all the proprieties of life, it
would kill her were a breath of shame to fall on one of our household.”

“Well, sir, I will not forget your mother. She has been in my thoughts
very often since this engagement.”

“Well!”

“No, it is not well; of what more do you accuse me?”

“I accuse you of nothing—only plead with you. Give up this dangerous
acquaintance.”

“Suppose I do not choose to gratify your jealous demand?”

He stood in silence a moment, looking at her steadily, with a glance in
those velvety eyes that would have touched any other woman to the soul.

“Then you and I must part.”

“Then be it so!”

The rage in her heart broke forth, now she had lost all control of
herself.

“Ellen, think again, for my mother’s sake; she loves you already as a
daughter. Look, she is coming back.”

“For her sake. What is she to Ellen Worthington—the half-breed—the
Indian?”

She had advanced to the door, and stood with one hand on the latch,
revealed in all the bitterness of her true nature. She turned, and stood
face to face with the woman she had insulted. The deathly white of that
face struck her insolence dumb. She shrunk away and crept from the
house, baffled and in fierce anger with herself.

Mrs. La Clide stood near the threshold, waving to and fro, but without
the power to move.

Claude sprung forward.

“Mother, dear mother!”

It was the wail of a strong heart in agony—the plaintive cry of a soul
suddenly stricken in its love.

She fell across the threshold, before his outstretched arms could reach
her. He lifted her up, and laid her head upon his bosom, calling out:

“Mother! mother! mother!”

  She made no answer; her eyes were closed, a tinge of blue crept around
her mouth. During all that scene, her heart had been laboring with
fearful struggles. When the last insulting speech fell on her ear,
piercing the hidden pain of her life, the poor heart gave one wild leap,
and carrying death with it.

Days of dark delirium to the bereaved man followed. His body became a
wreck and his mind a chaos. Wild shapes flitted through his brain, and
fever parched up the springs of life. With body and brain thus terribly
wrung—thus strained to an unnatural tension, the wonder was that he
survived the shock of that cruel loss. But life had many stern duties
for him—lessons to be learned—battles to be fought—deeds of daring to be
done.

Breathing, but unconscious—dead to all around him, he lingered for weeks
on the parting ridge between time and eternity; then came days of rest,
of sweet, unthinking repose. Mind and body both slept, and, refreshed,
he awoke, weak, very weak, but sane. A month of careful nursing
followed, and his mind became bright, though somewhat chastened in its
fiery impetuosity—his figure resumed its erect poise and grace of
motion—stern determination took the place of vacillating purpose. He was
once more a man! But that house could no longer be his home. The serpent
had left its trail over every thing there. He must seek a new life.

His course was soon adopted and his plans completed. He left his estate
to the care of a tried friend. But even then, some lingering of the love
he had sternly banished from his soul flashed up again for an instant,
and he secured a competency to the woman, who, rock-like, had
shipwrecked his last hopes. From the elk-horns on which it had so long
rested, he took down the very rifle his grandfather had carried when he
went on the Indian trail—took the wampum belts, and pouch, and tomahawk
and knife—arrayed himself in the same well-worn hunting-dress—flung upon
his horse the trappings of a _gens du lac_, and turned his back upon
civilization, to seek in the wild prairie forgetfulness of self. The
home he sought was in the wigwams of the Dacotahs.




                               CHAPTER V.
                     THE PRISONER OF THE DACOTAHS.


On a gently-sloping bank, which fell greenly to one of the many streams
that empty into the north fork of the Platte, the Dacotahs had erected
their encampment. On the rich sward, and in the shade of clustering
trees, the wigwams had been hastily erected, and the business of savage
life commenced its course. The fires of the morning were just beginning
to send up white puffs and blue curls of smoke, that floated among the
forest-branches in a thousand fanciful wreaths, at which the painted
warriors gazed dreamily as they smoked in silent idleness around the
encampment. Half-clad children tumbled on the grass or rolled in and out
into the stream, rioting in the waves like water-dogs, and shouting out
their animal joy, till the whole prairie rung with it.

Outside the camp, snarling curs fought over the already well-picked
bones, or slunk off yelping, when punished for their constant thefts. In
the background, horses browsed luxuriantly on the tender foliage of the
trees which surrounded the little prairie with a belt of arching
greenness.

Through the openings of these trees, hunters could be seen in groups,
returning from the woods laden with game. The wigwams were built in a
large circle, apart from a lodge of superior dimensions that stood in
the center, and yet, in a way, guarding it. This lodge was gaudily
decorated, and the painted buffalo-skins which covered it were fastened
closely to the ground.

Every thing about this lodge was silent as night; there was no noise
from within, no sign that it was inhabited Not a curve of smoke came
from its cone-like top. Not a child played near it: so closely was it
guarded, that a savage footstep dared not venture within speaking
distance of it. Yet how still the lodge was—you would have thought it a
habitation of the dead.

The Black Eagle came from his night rendezvous and entered the
encampment, not with his usual savage pomp, but quite alone, and
stealthily, as if he would gladly have escaped observation. It was not
fear or modesty, but crafty cunning which rendered him so cautious. The
gold which he had received weighed him down with anxiety. His treachery
in holding the secret negotiation he well knew would, if once known,
destroy his popularity with the tribe. Besides this, it would enforce a
division of the spoils.

To place this gold in a safe hiding-place had been his first object;
compared to this, the safety of his prisoner had sunk into a secondary
consideration. More than once, in his rapid march toward the Dacotah
camping-ground, he had resolved to bury his treasure in some rocky
gorge, or hide it in the crevices of some unfrequented cañon, or sink it
deep in some swift-running stream. But avarice, the master demon passion
of his nature, forbade this. So long as possible, he yearned to detain
the gold in his own personal keeping. Thus, he brought it with him to
the tribe, and crept like a thief stealthily into the camp where he had
a right to command.

He entered his own wigwam, and after cautiously assuring himself that no
one was present to observe his action, thrust aside the brand from the
center fire with his foot, and buried his treasure deep, deep in the
ground underneath. He stamped it down close, scattered the ashes deftly
over the spot, heaped the brands together again, then breathing deeply,
as if a load had been lifted from his heart, gathered up his savage
dignity, and stalked forth into the encampment.

The Black Eagle paused to speak with no one, but strode forward to that
lone wigwam, and raising a corner of one of the skins, entered it.

An abrupt movement, and a wild sharp cry greeted him. Like a fawn, which
some deep mouthed hound has tracked to its hiding-place, Esther sprung
from a pile of furs, and retreating to the furthest bounds of the
wigwam, stood regarding the savage, her eyes full of wild terror, her
white lips trembling, and every pulse in her body quivering with horror
and disgust.

Black Eagle looked upon her in grim triumph.

“The daughter of the pale-face has been smiled upon by the Manitou of
dreams. The waves of sweet slumber have been surging in her ears,” he
said, toning down his deep, guttural voice into something like
gentleness.

“Why am I kept here? Tell me, why have I been so cruelly torn from my
father?” she cried, passionately. “How could you have the heart to
return our kindness in this way? Think of the Laramie. Did we not
befriend you then better than any of your own people?”

“Pale-face, your words fall on the ear of Black Eagle sweet as the song
for birds in spring-time; his heart drinks them in as the dry earth
opens itself to the summer rain—speak on.”

“You are cruel, unprincipled; you evade my question. Tell me, oh, I beg
of you, tell me for what purpose I am here. Why have I been made a
prisoner? If gold is your object, my father will give it you in handfuls
for my safe return.”

“The yellow dust of the pale-faced chief will yet be stored in the
wigwams of the Dacotahs.”

“What! Man, if you are a man, what terrible meaning is hid beneath your
words?”

“The Dacotahs are masters of the prairie! When the moccasin of his
enemies leave their print upon the trail, the warriors gather thick
around like the buzzards. He has robbed the red-man of his lands and
hunting-grounds—has driven the deer and buffalo away before the thunder
of his fire-weapon. They starve for food—he has plenty. They long for
the swift-footed horses—he has them by hundreds. Their little ones cry
for milk—his wigwams are filled with it.”

“Then you would basely steal his daughter and afterward plunder him.”

“Let the girl of the snowy skin listen. The words of the warrior are
few. Not his the tongue to prattle like the little pappoose, or tell of
his deeds like the squaw of an hundred winters. The Eagle of the
Dacotahs saw the young dove of the valley. He swept from his mountain
home on his broad wings and there was mourning and blackened faces in
the parent nest.”

“But why have you done this, if gold was not your object?”

“When a soft glance of the fiery-eyed sun steals into the wigwam of the
pale-faces, does he shut it out? When the smile of morning cleaves its
way through the shadows of night, does he hang thick blankets in his
way? The red-man is not a fool. He has eyes and he can see.”

“Why speak in riddles? Tell me plainly of your meaning, if you would
have me answer.”

“The daughter of the chief of the long rifles came to the wigwams of the
Black Eagle. He looked upon her and his heart grew sick of the brown
faces of his tribe. When he returns from the long trail, with aching
feet and tired limbs, the white-faced maiden shall make his wigwam
bright.”

“Still I can not comprehend. Your words are a mystery and your actions
shrouded,” answered Esther, turning deathly pale.

“Black Eagle would have a pale-face squaw to dress his venison and
fringe his leggins with the scalp-locks.”

“What! Your wife? Merciful heavens, you can not mean that!”

“The tongue of the pale girl is sweet; her hair is like the silk of the
maize, when browned in the moon of the falling leaf. She has turned the
trail of truth. She shall find a home in the wigwam of the red-man. The
Black Eagle has said it.”

“Never! I will die first.”

“The angel with wings like the thunder-cloud that stands by the dark
river comes not when the children of earth call. Many years yet the
moccasin of the wife of Black Eagle will press the prairie.”

“Your wife—the White Hawk—yes.”

“Waupee will wait upon the new wife of Black Eagle. She is put away from
the breast of the warrior.”

“Any thing but your wife.” The poor girl shuddered as she spoke the
hateful word. “Merciful heaven, am I reserved a fate like this?”

“The dove may beat its tender breast against its prison, but the coo of
its song will yet be music for the ears of its mate when it looks for
his coming with its wings folded.”

“I your mate! I dwell in your wigwam! Listen to me, treacherous man.
Sooner than submit to that, I would leap from the precipice and dash
myself into atoms on the jagged rocks beneath—leap into the deep stream
and float a disfigured corpse among the reeds on its shore—with my own
hand I will destroy the life God has given me, and escape with
self-murder from your loathsome power.”

Without deigning to reply to what he perhaps scarcely understood, the
savage whistled long and shrill. In a moment the poor, injured and
abandoned wife, Waupee, entered, shrinking and trembling as if in mortal
terror. A few words of command were given to her in her nation’s tongue
that the white girl could not understand, and without lifting her eyes,
Waupee departed.

“Let the child of the white man prepare!” continued Black Eagle. “The
Medicine of the tribe is hastening to prepare the marriage ceremony of
the Dacotahs. The maidens are weaving the bright flowers of spring, and
the warriors decking themselves in their best robes. The hour has come.
The wigwam of the sachem shall lift its mat for a new bride.

“Man! man! is there no mercy in your heart, no feeling, no pity?”

A whistle—a signal, apparently—fell upon the ear of the Indian. He
seemed greatly disturbed, and without reply, hurried from the wigwam. As
he lifted the covering on one side in passing, the form of the White
Hawk entered at the other.

“Waupee, White Hawk!” exclaimed Esther, clinging to her. “Save me from
this awful fate. Think of my father—think of my friends—of those that
love me, those that I love. For the sake of heaven, if I was ever kind
to you, save me now.”

The finger of the poor, discarded wife was pressed upon her lips, and
bending low she kissed the hem of Esther’s dress but did not speak a
word. But her movements were rapid as thought. From the folds of her
garments she drew forth a long and slender knife, placed it in the hands
of the prisoner, and almost before her purpose could be divined, glided
from the wigwam.

“Thanks, at least, for this,” muttered the prisoner under her breath.
“When all else fails, I will use your knife, poor Waupee.”

A step approached, and concealing the knife, she stood, white and
statue-like, awaiting the next phase of her destiny. It was only a girl
of the Dacotahs who brought food. In her desperation, Esther strove to
question her; but the girl stood motionless while she spoke, with her
eyes bent on the ground, but gave no word of reply.

She placed the rude meal, upon still ruder dishes of birch bark, on a
mat in the center of the wigwam, and went out, having performed her task
in profound silence. Filled with terrible apprehensions, Esther did not
touch the food, but, drawing the knife from her bosom, stood at bay,
ready to use it in self-defense, or, failing that, in self-sacrifice.

“Why should I not use it now—before he comes?” she murmured. “It is but
a blow, and I am safe. But oh, the dark labyrinth of that unknown
valley; my very soul shudders at the thought of threading it unbidden.
Better endure the black horrors of my situation a little longer,
trusting in a merciful God, than escape by crime.” A touch upon the arm
brought her with a wild leap from the ground where she had been sitting.
It was Waupee, the wife of Black Eagle.

“The daughter of the pale-face can cease weeping. Black Eagle is
listening for the hoofs of his enemies. He sees a great cloud of dust on
the prairie, and he has many foes. Eat in peace; he will take the trail
and ride toward the setting sun.”

Esther’s strength gave way now. She fell upon her knees, and sobbed out
her passionate gratitude, clinging to the poor Indian wife and lavishing
kisses on her robe and her hands.

An hour later, and, seated upon a but half-tamed steed, with a painted
warrior at either side, she was hurried forward toward the rocky cañon
known as the South Pass.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                                 WATER!


With the long mane of his swift and sure-footed steed streaming in the
wind, his tall form seeming a part of the horse he bestrode, Waltermyer
led the way, followed by the anxious father and his men. There was no
drawing of rein or slacking of speed—no breathing of horses or resting
of men. It was to be with them a race for life, and every minute was
dear and important as weeks of common time. But what course should they
take? This was now the question, and Miles Morse, as he spurred his
horse forward in the almost vain task of equaling the pace of
Waltermyer, felt that all was uncertainty. But not so the border man.
Blind trails were to him pleasant explorations. He was ever on the
watch, his wits sharpened by constant exercise and constant danger. The
wild excitement of a chase like that was far more to his liking than the
winding horn and the baying of hounds ever was to hunter. Mot a single
thought had he of failure. True he might be too late to save the girl
from the clutches of her enemies, but not too late to make them pay the
penalty of their dastard deed.

“Stranger,” he said, suddenly reining in his horse upon the summit of a
knoll that enabled him to overlook the country for miles, “Stranger, did
you say the gal was pooty?”

“More than that—most people call her beautiful.”

“And the Mormon—Thomas—has seen her?”

“Yes; I remember that was his name.”

“To be sure it was. Kirk Waltermyer ain’t a fool, by a long shot. When
he sees a doe wandering alone on the perarer, he knows from what thicket
the cayotes will start in pursuit.”

“But we waste time.”

“Better take breath now than have our horses without wind when the time
comes for them to go. And she was a pooty gal, was she?”

The question was not unnatural to a man like Waltermyer, whose life had
been spent in those trackless prairies and in the rocky cañons of the
mountains. Since his childhood he had scarcely even seen a beautiful
woman, or met with the refinement which no man appreciates more keenly
than the border scout.

No one was more familiar with the squaws and dancing-girls of Toas, or
the pale wrecks of civilization sometimes found in the squatters’ cabins
on the Columbia; but feminine refinement had been to him a vague memory
that soon became his dream. His idea of a beautiful and educated woman
would have matched the inspiration with which more perfect imaginations
regard the angels of heaven. He could not think of a woman so endowed
without a bowing down of his iron will, in imagination, at her feet. He
was bashful and timid as a little child when these fancies crossed his
path. He would have considered Sampson a happy and honored man in being
permitted to lay down his strength at the feet of a beautiful woman. The
border man looked upon women of this class as flowers that a rude hand
like his would crush even in kindness—formed of far different and more
celestial material than that which composed his strong arm and
symmetrical limbs.

It is a truth that your daring Western frontiersman makes a refined
woman his idol—a creature to work for, fight for, and die for, if need
be, without a murmur. A smile from the beloved lips is ample payment for
days and nights of toil, and a word of praise is reward enough for any
danger that life can bring to him. Living, as he does, amid all that is
poetic and sublime in nature, his associations render him peculiarly
alive to the visions that take force and form from the solitude of
thought to which he is often left, weeks and months together.

Thus the man who would not shrink from a hand to front encounter with
the giant bear of the rocky sierras is ready to worship the being who
has realized his fancy—to guard, defend and reverence her as less
powerful natures never could.

“Pooty, is she?” repeated Waltermyer, after a pause. “Waal, she’s no
bird, then, to find a cage among the animiles at Salt Lake. I’d have
give fifty slugs or an hundred head to have been upon the trail sooner.
’Tain’t every horse can keep up with mine, stranger; but if it was, we’d
be rattlin’ onto the rocks of Devil’s Gate before the sun rose again.
No, no; ’tain’t of no use. I don’t know of but one kedripid this side of
the big river that can keep the lope with him for a hull day. A master
horse this, stranger. More’n once he has saved my life, when the red
devils were buzzin’ thick as bees onto my trail and sharpenin’ their
knives to take my har. But Kirk Waltermyer had but to speak, and they
thought a streak of black lightnin’ was rolling over the perarer. I’ve
owned many a horse in my life, but this one is—”

“See; there is dust rising yonder,” interrupted the impatient father.

“Yes, I see!” and he sprung erect upon his steed to get a better view.

“What is it? Are the Indians coming?”

“As sure as you are here. But they ain’t coming this way. Is your guard
strong enough to keep your train?”

“Against an ordinary force. But why do you ask?”

“Because if they hain’t there will not be a single hoof left. The red
devils know you’ll try to find the gal, and so they think they’ll kinder
pitch into the ring and help themselves.”

“What is to be done?”

“DONE!” almost thundered the frontiersman in reply, as he again resumed
his place in the saddle. “Done? You can go back and take care of the
train if you like, but Kirk Waltermyer never leaves the trail of that
gal.”

“Neither shall I.”

“Let the men go back! If your hand is only firm, and your eye true, it
is all I ask; if not, you turn back too, and I’ll take the risk alone.”

“That would not be safe.”

“Safe! I have never seen an hour of safety since I cut loose from the
settlements and took to a roving life. Stranger, I am a rude man, but I
know, though I never had much book learnin’, that I carry my life in my
hand. But there is a Power above that minds the poor, lone wanderer as
well as the dweller in cities.”

“Yes; God never is forgetful of his children.”

“But, stranger, we must not stand to talk here. Yender goes a thievin’,
throat-cuttin’ gang of red-skins. They mean to have your stock; but if
your boys are only steady and fight half as well as La Moine, they will
go back howlin’ without ary a hoof.”

“Let us proceed, then. Cattle, property of any kind, is not to be thrown
into the scale against my daughter.”

“All the herds on the perarer are not worth a single curl of her har. Do
you see that timber yender?”

“Yes; but it appears far distant.”

“Forty miles in a bee-line; but if we don’t get thar before the moon
rises, we might as well turn our horses loose and give the gal up.”

“Let us push on, then. The day is a long one—our horses are not fresh,
and the day is drawing nigh to noon.”

“Thar you’re right. The sun comes straight down without castin’ a
shadder. If your horses had been only perarer-born now, and could travel
all day without water, then—”

“Travel all day without water!”

“_Thar is not one drop between us and that timber!_”

“Few then will reach it; but—hark!”

“The boys are at it! I’d give a sack full of slugs to be thar! Aha! how
the rifles speak! There goes a red devil at every flash if they’d only
Western hands hold of the stocks. By the eternal! but they’ve stampeded
the cattle! No; it’s the prowlin’ reptiles runnin’ away like a pack of
whipped cayotes. Yes, there they go scamperin’ over the perarer. Your
train is safe, stranger, though thar may be more’n one hand less to tend
it; but heaven have mercy on the next that comes along weak-handed.
It’ll take many a hoof and many a scalp to pay for this day’s work; and
if they have seen La Moine, it will be dangerous travelin’ for Kirk
Waltermyer after this.”

“You—why?”

“Only that I will have to father the hull of the business, for they know
the Frenchman and I always hunt in couples. But no matter; the bullet
ain’t run yet that will put a stop to my breath. Now, stranger, since
your yaller-boys and stock is safe, we must put the long miles behind us
if we’d save the gal.”

With the words still ringing upon the air, he dashed forward on his
errand of mercy—perchance of doom! Forward as a protecting Providence,
and it might be as an avenging Fate! Forward, as a lover seeking his
mistress, and yet the trail might end in blood!

The checked and restrained pace of the city steed was but as a snail’s
progress to the whirlwind of their speed. Proudly their crests were
tossed aloft and their heads stretched out as they flung their sinewy
limbs in the long gallop that appeared to laugh at space and scorn time.
Joyous was the music of ringing snaffle and spur, sweet the lyric of
their clattering feet to a horseman’s ear, and wild, almost, as if
“desert-born” their career, as they dashed on, snorting the hot breath
from their scarlet nostrils and flinging the foam from the champing
mouth. It was a race such as pelted thorough-breds may never know of,
and the pampered, stall-fed beast would fail in, before a half-score
miles were accomplished. Deeply the gopher and the prairie-dog had mined
the earth beneath—the wolfs hole was yawning under their feet, and the
long grass, trailed and curled, tangling around them; but determination
had grasped the rein and a heart of fire led the van.

“Halt!”

The quick and ever-watchful eye of Waltermyer saw that the horses of his
followers were unequal to the task, and, checking his own, he allowed
them to move more slowly up a slight rise—a green billow as it were, in
that emerald sea, crested with flowers, and looking more like the
rolling swell of mid-ocean, when the night-tempest has passed and the
morning sun has touched the topmost wave with light and fretted it with
fleecy gold.

“We can never stand this pace—it will be death to the horses, if not the
men,” exclaimed Miles Morse, as he gazed at the heaving flanks and
sobbing nostrils—the sinking fire of the eye and the trembling limbs.
“The horses can not endure it, and unless we proceed more slowly we
shall soon be compelled to go on foot.”

“It’s a pity, stranger, to be mean to dumb beasts. I always go agin it;
but when there is life, human life, and that, too, a woman’s, dependin’
on’t, it ain’t no use to talk about horseflesh. It’s twenty good miles
to the timber yet, and if we don’t manage to reach it, every hoof will
die of thirst.”

“And yet our only chance of life is in riding more slowly.”

“And her’s in bein’ swift and persevering as the black wolf of the
mountains, that can outrun the buffalo and tire the antelope.”

But one thought had possession of Waltermyer. His vivid though unrefined
fancy had exalted Esther Morse into a paragon, and, like Juliet, he
wished but to annihilate space and time, until he rescued her from
danger. In action—fierce, rapid and daring action, such souls alone find
rest; and once enlisted, nothing can swerve them from what becomes, in
their generous imagination, a sacred duty.

“Waal, waal,” he continued, after a pause, “let the beasts jog on for a
while. You can’t expect horses that never saw a perarer before to keep
the speed. But if I had only a know’d a month ago that we should’er had
such a race to run, I’d’er had horses from a corral I know of, that
would not have broke a gallop till they run their noses into them trees.
It’s only fun for my horse, but it’s death to your’n.”

Slowly, for an hour, they proceeded, with the hardy pioneer chafing
every moment at the delay, and his equally hardy steed pressing against
the bit, as if wondering at this unusual restraint.

“Waal, waal,” he said, addressing his horse from time to time, as if he
had been his sole companion, “Waal, waal, Blazin’ Star, (he named him
so, from the single white mark he had about him—the snowy spot in his
forehead,) I didn’t think we’d be joggin’ across the perarer to-day as
if we was goin’ to a funeral. Any horse that is not good for an all
day’s run isn’t of any account here, and the sooner the buzzards
foreclose the mortgage they have on them, the better.”

Insensibly, unknown to himself, he had slackened the rein, and his
impatient horse had stretched his lithe limbs again into a gallop. With
the careless fling that tireless power ever gives, and the certainty of
foot that only comes with constant practice, he sped along, making light
of the task, and leaving the rest far behind. Keen-eyed, and with heart
of fire and limbs that mocked at exertion, he would have sped on, on,
until the shafts of death struck him in his reckless career, had not the
iron curb again forced his will to bend to the strong hand.

And a sad scene for one so tender of heart awaited his eyes. The truly
brave are ever merciful, and as the gallant soldier is both just and
kind to his conquered enemy, so is the master to the dumb beast that
becomes at once friend and companion on the lengthy trail. The pain of
his steed becomes his own, and, tenderly and kindly as a mother, he
watches, and strains every nerve to alleviate his sufferings.

The horses came struggling through the rank herbage up the long swell,
reeling, staggering, and to hold their own in the desperate toil. On
they came, flecked with foam, their great eyes dim with exhaustion,
their flanks heaving, their inflamed nostrils widely distended as the
hot, dry breath panted through them.

Poor wretches, it was a pain to look upon them, so patient and so ready
to drop down dead in that horrible journey. Their poor lips were drawn
back, for the relaxed muscles no longer held them firmly in place, and
the dry tongue fell helplessly through the yellow teeth, now visible to
the roots. As the poor, dumb creatures turned their glaring eyes on
their masters, but one wild pitying cry went up from the human lips:

“Water! water!”

That speechless agony of insupportable thirst—the horrible tragedy of
mindless creatures perishing in dumb submission, made those stern men
forget their own anguish. That picture of men and beasts grouped
together in one horrible suffering was awful to behold.

“Waltermyer,” whispered the despairing father, in a voice that came
hoarse and faint from the parched lips and seared throat, “can we not
find water?”

“Have you no flask, man?”

“It is emptied long ago.”

“Take mine, then.”

“Good! But the horses? Can we not dig a well here?”

“Dig! Why, man, you would go to China before you found enough to wet the
tongue of a bird. Do these sage bushes look as if they had ever seen
dew?”

“Then the horses must die.”

“Not yet. Strip them of your heavy saddles—throw the blankets away. The
cool air will revive them, and so we gain miles. Then, if worst comes to
worst, they must be left, and my word for it, they will find water
themselves long before morning. A beast’s instincts never fail in that
matter. I’ve seen it tried over and again. Off with your saddles, boys,
and drive the horses before you.”

He was obeyed, and again the company started, and straggled on. But the
toil soon told on the men. They mounted once more, and forced the beasts
forward, staggering, stumbling, falling.

“Water!”

The cry came now most piercing from parched human lips, for the sun,
blazing above their heads, poured down sheeted fire upon them, and the
now almost herbless earth was like an oven beneath their feet. Dense as
the smoke from the smouldering ruins of a burning city, the dust rose,
but to settle again, choking and blinding them. The breeze of morning
was dead, and millions of myriads of insects swept a dense cloud along
their path. It was agony to struggle on—death to remain!

“Water!”

With cracking lips and bloodshot eyes, they staggered on. The horses
were fast becoming mad with thirst, and covered with blood from the
pitiless stings of hungry insects—with the fiery sky and baked earth
beneath, they still stumbled forward, hopeless, fainting, gasping for
life.

“Water!”

In the yet distant timber, the green leaves rustled and sung a dewy
psalm—the liquid crystals dropped into mossy pools—flashed over the
white pebbles—leaped from the lofty rock—danced in foamy eddies, and
flung high the wreaths of misty spray. Cool and sparkling they slept in
the deep pools, sung along the rapids, and showered the jutting rocks,
until they looked like Tritons shaking their wet locks, and rising from
an ocean’s bed. From the far-off springs, the icegrottoes and eternal
snows of their mountain home, they had come, laughing, leaping, dashing,
to charm the mind with fairy pictures, and gratify the thirsty soul,
until it reeled with the overflowing of perfect satiety. Ah! what a
dream for fevered lips—bodies aflame with heat, and hearts sinking with
the long-endured sufferings of ungratified thirst. What a vivid mockery
it was.

“Water! water!” whispered every tongue, and the hollow-eyed and gasping
horses told of still deeper want.

“Water, for God’s sake, Waltermyer, guide us to water,” was now the
continued cry.

“Be men! A short hour will bring us to it. See yender, where the ground
looks dead, and dry, and parched. That is the long grass of a savanna;
beyond it we can find water by digging. The _arroyas_ may not be dried
up, but if they are, thar is, or was an old well thar that never failed
me yet.”

“Come on, then!”

Oh! with what fearful hoarseness the sound came from the seared
throats—a harsh, file-like, rasping sound, as if the breath was forced
between the thickly-set saw-teeth, or could find an outlet only between
ragged stones.

“That I will, boys. I’d even go before—for, see, my horse hasn’t turned
a hair yet—and bring you water, if I dared. Put a bullet in your mouths,
and we’ll drink toasts yet, around the Challybate spring.”

A horse dropped now and then, but they could not pause for that. Mind
was superior in the struggle to matter. A man fell but was lifted up,
encouraged, and again toiled on. The savanna was reached—the tall, dry,
flag-like grass rose above them on every side, and walled them in alike
from air and sun, but, alas! so also it confined the dust, and robbed
them of the scanty breathing they had before enjoyed. But on! on! wildly
they crept.

“A mile more and we are safe. Courage, boys!” shouted Waltermyer,
standing up, as was his wont when he wished to reconnoiter, upon the
back of his steed.

The rods appeared to lengthen out into furlongs, and the furlongs into
miles; but, cheering each other, they still continued, almost groping
their way. Hark! The heads of the remaining horses were lifted at the
strange sound—their ears were erected—their eyes flashed wildly, and
with a loud neigh they dashed over those who stood in their path, and,
as if fiend-driven, rushed to the stream, and almost buried themselves
in the tide.

An hour later, swarthy forms were stretched upon the grassy banks, and
gratified senses were satisfied with the dewy mists rising around, and
the cool, mountain-fed waters that sparkled at their feet.

Waltermyer had redeemed his promise, and the tide flowed by as
uncared-for as if it had not been to them Heaven’s gift itself only a
few hours before.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                           THE MORMON’S RIDE.


Morning came, and the tents of the Mormons were struck—the jaded teams
harnessed and the march began. So long had they been upon the trail that
there was no confusion. All had been reduced to system—each man knew his
place, and few were the orders required. All, save their leader, were
looking forward to the “promised land,”—the valley that was to flow with
milk and honey—the city of refuge—the abode of the saints. Truly with
these people ignorance was bliss. They were happy in this
delusion—satisfied with anticipation. But the man that rode that day
alone—the man whose serpent tongue had lured the ignorant to leave home
and kindred by the most infamous falsehoods—who knew well that the
living springs he had pictured would become as the Red Sea, and the
golden fruits as bitter ashes to their lips, thought neither of city or
valley—temple or font. His mind was wandering amid a rocky cañon, and he
was planning a rescue that should give to him the prestige of a
benefactor. Yet even he felt the truth of the words, “the wicked flee
when no man pursueth.” Might not his steps have been followed, and the
conversation with the Indian overheard? With the suspicion of guilt he
narrowly examined the faces of those who had been on guard the previous
night, and endeavored by wily questions to learn the very thing he
dreaded most to know.

Slowly the patient cattle toiled over the dry prairie, for on leaving
the well-watered camping-ground the scene around them changed as if the
angel of destruction had passed before them, leaving blight and
desolation. The green grass had been replaced by withered sage—the mossy
bank by sun-cracked earth, and the cool, dewy air by the breath of a
furnace. But still they toiled on, for was not the golden dream-land
beyond? On, on, over the fenceless prairie—up the long slopes—along the
road beaten by thousands upon thousands of feet until hard as iron, they
wandered, a lost people seeking for rest they would never know.

It was near noon, hot and sultry, and the fainting teams were unyoked.
In the scanty shade of the wagons the men threw themselves down, while
the poor women cooked, toiled and fretted over the fire. “Elder” Thomas
relaxed his dignity and seated himself amid a group of the youngest and
fairest, and strove to ingratiate himself with the still hopeful
maidens. Apparently at his ease, and with a mind untroubled by care, he
was in reality as if clad in the shirt of Nessus, for it was nearing the
hour of his appointment with the Indian and his base heart was trembling
over the result of his plan.

Some plausible excuse was necessary in order to free himself from his
companions—not all, though, for cowardice would not allow him to face
Black Eagle and his savage warriors alone. They knew that he possessed
gold—for he had been forced to give up a portion of his hoarded store to
gratify the avarice of the Indian, and well he knew that their cupidity
was not easily satisfied, or their longing for plunder ever put to rest.

“The cañons are lurkin’ places for the rascally Utes,” he said, to one
of the foremost of the train who came to learn his commands with regard
to the march. “It would not do to lead the Lord’s people into an ambush
where they would be slaughtered like sheep in a pen.”

“They have not dared to attack us thus far,” was the response.

“I know they are afeard of us on the open ground,” said the elder, “but
when they hide in the rocks and shoot their poisoned arrows down from
their secret dens, bravery is of little use.”

“We should send scouts ahead, then.”

“Yes, that’s just what I’m going to do. I’ll take about a dozen of the
young men and see that the coast is clear.”

“You?”

“Even I! Am I not a leader in Israel?”

“But think of your precious life!”

Verily he was thinking of it, and how precious it was, at least to
himself; but in a far different sense than his follower supposed. There
was a rare prize to be won, or he would never have ventured his precious
person in the undertaking.

“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church,” he replied, having
somewhere picked up the expression and deeming it particularly _apropos_
to the present occasion—high-sounding, and likely to “tell” upon the
hearers.

So it was settled; accompanied by half a score of picked men, he set
out, after having designated the point where the train should rest for
the night—a place having the indispensable accessories of feed and
water. A short gallop brought the elder and his men within view of a
rocky gorge of the hills, that appeared as if cleft by some wizard spell
from topmost crest to base; or as if a giant thunder-bolt had been
hurled from on high and torn its way through the living rocks; or a
riving plowshare of huge proportions had left a mighty furrow, never to
be planted by the hand of presumptuous man.

“Now, boys,” the leader said, dropping his voice to the lowest octave
within its range, “we’ll soon be there. I’ve often traveled it before
and will lead the way. Keep close together and mind you keep your eyes
about you, though I don’t think we shall have any trouble. Hark!”

The hoarse croaking and a great flapping of wings bespoke the passage of
a buzzard in search of its loathsome prey—of some poor beast which had
been left to feed these scavengers of the wilderness and their fierce
copartners, the ravenous wolves. How he scorned them, as, ghoul-like,
they passed, stretching their thin necks and casting dark shadows on the
path. Yet, was not his own errand far less merciful? Were not these
wolves his peers?

An eagle rose and soared on its strong wings higher and higher until it
became a speck in the ether. A matchless bird was that eagle; his nest
was built on the topmost cliff of a cloud-piercing mountain—from the
giant pine that stood on its crest he could look down on the whirling
storms and listen to the thunder rolling and crashing below. His eye
shrunk not, blinded, from the noonday sun, like meaner birds, but looked
on when its red disk seemed steeped in blood, nor closed when the forked
lightning shot its flame-tipped shafts hurtling through the murky gloom.
A matchless bird—freedom’s grand type, the chosen bird of Jove, the
tameless and fetterless. Ah! brave wanderer, mount ever where foot of
man can never stray. Tracker of the pathless azure, where his thoughts
alone may wander—dweller in the boundless fields of the upper air and
monarch of a mighty realm—realization, almost, of the spirit’s
dreamings, shall not the day come when we too can roam at will, tracking
the infinite, defiant of space, regardless of time, cosmopolites of the
entire Universe?

Hark! A crash like a million of ringing anvils! Leaping, bounding,
thundering down the scarred side of the mountain, rolls a huge rock,
torn from its bed by some unknown power and sent crashing into the
yawning gulf below. The slumbering echoes thunder back the sound, and
nature quakes under the fearful rush of the avalanche.

The rocky bed of a dry stream was reached, and cautiously the men
proceeded, with their horses almost feeling the way amid the loose
stones. It was a moment of fear with them all, for the giant bowlder
must have been forced from its bed by some fearful human power. What it
might portend none could tell, but caution in that locality became a
necessity. Every eye was turned upward, expecting that this avalanche
would be followed by others more imposing and more fatal. Every moment
they expected to hear the thundering of another mass and see a mammoth
rock come leaping from the lofty crest, whelming them in _debris_ and
death.

But they still proceeded in safety. Still the tired horses daintily
picked their way and the riders watched the frowning cliffs. At length
the leader turned, and led them through the thick underbrush by a
winding path that each moment became more difficult of ascent. Even his
power and iron will, so long paramount to every scruple, was fast
yielding to the terrors of the place. They looked upon the march as one
of certain death, if a foe should be lurking above—the undertaking
foolhardy in the extreme, and they but victims to a causeless whim. In
silence the Mormon heard their complaints for a time, then commanded a
halt.

“Remain here,” he said. “Perhaps you’re right, and I stand a better
chance of finding out what is above if I go alone. You stay here, boys,
and keep quiet; but if you hear a shot fired, leave your horses and come
to my help.”

The men took him at his word, and he started on foot, having given up
his rifle, and armed only with well-concealed pistols. His plans had
been thwarted by the reluctance of his companions. But his path was not
a long one. From a lookout rock he saw a dark train of savage warriors
winding through the valley, scarcely a mile ahead. Dashing down the
hillside, he again joined his companions.

“It’s Indians!” he shouted—“rascally Utes, and, by the beard of the
Prophet, they are carrying off a white girl! Now, boys, be steady and
brave, and we will not only punish them, but free their prisoner. Come
on, men, but do not fire—it will only exasperate them. Ride them down,
and make a show of your arms, but don’t shoot, I say; you might kill the
girl.”

The dreams of many a dark hour were near their fulfillment, as he fondly
thought. He had but to stretch out his hand to grasp success. Mounting
again, he led the way back to the bed of the dry stream, and the men
followed, urging their horses forward with all possible speed.

“There they are, riding like so many devils,” he whispered, to the
nearest; then, recollecting his office as spiritual guide and
instructor, continued: “that is, speaking after the manner of men. See!
they turn the point—now are out of sight. By heaven—may I be forgiven
for the word—they are aiming for the hills! Once there, and no white man
can follow them.”

“But why should we follow?” asked the one nearest to him. “The girl does
not belong to us, and we only risk our lives for one of the ungodly.”

“By precept and example, by persuasion, and, if need be, by the sword,
we are instructed to pluck the lost like brands from the burning. Let
him who fears return. I will go forward, for is it not written on the
golden plates found by the martyr, Joseph Smith, that he who falls in
_the cause_ shall gain a crown of priceless glory?”

An unearthly yell rung through the valley ahead of them, as if fiends
kept holiday, and sent their howling song mocking the echoes—a very
chaos of strangled joy. But words are feeble and language faint to
describe the horrors of an Indian war-whoop when first it bursts upon
unaccustomed ears. Earth has nothing horrible or thrilling that can be
compared to its shrill, quivering notes. It is more like the laugh of
demons rejoicing over a lost soul than aught that human lips could, by
any possibility, compass. Echoing amid the fastnesses of a
mountain-gorge—telling of the brawny and pitiless savage thirsting for
blood and seeking for scalps—of the blackened torture-post and the
lingering agony by fire, it becomes the very knell of all that is
horrible and soul-affrighting.

“Indians! Indians!” whispered the men, with blanched lips, as they
crowded together like threatened sheep, striving to gain courage from
proximity.

“Yes,” replied Elder Thomas, “it’s the way with the reptiles. They
always yell like so many panthers. But it ain’t the bark we have to
fear, boys, but the bite.”

“Had we not better go back and get help?”

“If you knew the ways of the critters you wouldn’t talk so. If they had
intended any harm they wouldn’t have let us know where they were. No,
no. All we have to do is to go ahead. Hold your horses hard, boys, and
let them feel the spur. It requires a steady hand and sure foot to—”

The rest of the sentence was lost in air, for the horse that had so long
borne him safely, springing from the sharp rowel, missed his footing,
and both man and steed fell heavily rolling over and over down the
ragged hillside.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                             PRAIRIE FIRE.


Not long, although the scene around them was verdant and peculiarly
enticing after their severe struggle for life, did Waltermyer allow his
men to rest, for he knew well that the enemy he was following would make
no pause, and their steeds, prairie-born and trained, wild and hardy as
those they carried, would make light of what to them had been a sore
trial. He knew, also, that night would put an almost effectual barrier
to their progress. As soon, therefore, as he thought the horses
sufficiently refreshed for travel, he gave the requisite order, and,
seconded by the poor, anxious father, found but little difficulty in
forcing obedience.

“Up, men!” he shouted. “Ef your horses hain’t rested by this time,
’tain’t no use tryin’ to go on.”

“Which way are we to proceed, Waltermyer? No more prairie-work, I
trust.”

“No; we’ve done with that kinder thing, but we shall have to cross the
sloo again, before we can strike the trail. It ain’t very wide. Then
we’ll skirt along it, until we strike the p’int thar whar the nose of
the mounting runs inter the perarer.”

“Can we not keep on this side?”

“Onpossible; thar isn’t footin’ for a crawlin’ snake, and I reckon them
things can go almost onyw’ares. Ef you’ve a mind to try it you can, but
Kirk Waltermyer hasn’t parted company with his senses yet, by a long
shot.”

“Of course we trust entirely to your guidance. Lead on and we will
follow.”

“Ef you only could foller as I could lead, we’d soon overhaul the red
rascals. But it ain’t no use in tryin’ to make such brutes as yours keep
up with a horse! Stranger, I told you before there wasn’t but one on the
perarer that could, and he is—”

“What sound is that?”

“Only some stun rollin’ down the mounting. I’ve often done the thing
myself, just to see it jump and hear what an infernal noise it would
make.”

“May it not be Indians?”

“Indians? Now just you look a-here, stranger; if you consate that any
red-skin ever cut up such a white man’s caper as that, you don’t know
any more about them than I do about Scriptur’, and that is mighty
little. But this isn’t followin’ the trail and savin’ the gal. Inter
your saddles—no, thank fortune you haven’t got any, and your beasts
would never stand them ef you had. But mount, onyway, and mind you don’t
go stragglin’ through the sloo, for though thar isn’t any water thar
now, there are quicksand beds, and ef you git inter one you’ll go way
down—down—down into China.”

Jaded as they had been by their previous journey, the sparkling waters
of the chalybeate spring, that foamed clear as crystal and aeriform as
champagne, and the soft, juicy grasses that margined them, had revived
the horses, and again they sprung forward, as if endowed with new life.
Restraining and petting his noble black, Waltermyer took the lead, and
soon they were lost to all surrounding objects in the tall dry rushes
that ever mark the course of what the Western borderers call “sloo.”
Fully two miles wide, the task of crossing was not only seriously
uncomfortable, on account of the heat and the clouds of insects that
arose before and around them, but the footing was insecure, mined with
holes and tangled with treacherous roots.

They rode on in silence, save when, now and then, some serpent, gliding
suddenly from under the feet of the horses, startled them, and they
leaped madly aloft with a wild snort, their riders wondering at the
movement, for their eyes had not fallen on the reptile, with its
gorgeous skin and fire-like eyes, as it glided rustling along to seek
some deeper hole in which to coil its shiny folds.

“Many a time,” exclaimed Waltermyer, with an almost noiseless laugh, as
one of the company was dismounted by the leaping of the animal he rode,
“I’d been willin’ to have been thrown higher nor Independence Rock, to
have just caught sight of one of the critters.”

“Of what? What was it? I didn’t see any thing.”

“No, nor know any thing until you found yourself flat. Why, man, it was
a rattlesnake, that’s all.”

“A rattlesnake!”

“To be sure it was; and I suppose you didn’t know either that the
reptiles and perarer dogs and owls all lived in one hole—sorter family
parties.”

“Pshaw!”

“Waal, you may pshaw, for you don’t know any better; but when you have
hunted for them to eat as long as I have, you’ll be up to the dodge.”

“Eat snakes!”

“Yes, and mighty good eatin’ they are, though I don’t hanker after them
when thar’s any thing else round.”

“I’d starve first.”

“Wait till you try, boy. I tell you, a starvin’ man ain’t no way
perticular about what he eats. It’s a sorter first come first served
game. Now a mule isn’t the best kinder meat, but it’s palytable then.
Horse is juicy, ef he hasn’t been worked to death, and rattlesnake is
prime.”

A hearty laugh followed the epicurean opinion of the hardy frontiersman,
and the march was resumed, with many an eye turned to the ground to
watch for the unwelcome visitors that are a terror alike to man and
beast, when Waltermyer continued:

“Just hold your horses, boys, for a minute. A little rest won’t hurt
them none, and mayhap they’ll need all the vim they’ve got in them when
it comes to the mountings. It’s about four years ago since La Moine and
I was crossin’ this very sloo. It was a dreadful hot day—August—when the
snakes are blind as bats and ten times as venermous as in any other
month. You knew that, didn’t you? If one bites you then it’s sartin
death. Waal, as I was a-sayin’, the Frenchman and I was a-ridin’
along—it was before I got this horse—when, all of a sudden, I heard him
give two of the orfulest yells that ever was. It wasn’t any time to ask
questions, so I kinder looked, and, as I hope for mercy, ef thar’ wasn’t
two of the biggest kind of rattlers twisted around his horse, and bitin’
away with all thar might at his throat. Somehow, I never could
understand the right of it. The horse must have trod on their tails.
Onyway, they didn’t live long, and the poor horse died the orfulest to
behold.”

“I thought you could cure the bite,” remarked Morse.

“Waal, yes, so we can, ef we are only whar the blue-ash grows or the
snake-fern is to be found. But I can tell you, stranger, that ef a man’s
time has come ’tain’t no manner of use to doctor him. It is only wastin’
whisky and time. Remember that, boys, and—”

The same war-whoop that had so startled the companions of the Mormon
fell upon their ears, but so faintly that few, even if they had ever
heard one before, could determine what it was.

“Thar they go, way up in the mountings, the yellin’ painters.”

“What, the Indians that stole—”

The heart-broken father could not finish the sentence. His feelings rose
beyond his control, and when they burst through the fetters manhood
attempted to impose upon them, they ran riot and ended in tears.

“I don’t think it is them, stranger, or else they have got inter a
fight. They wouldn’t be howlin’, and yelpin’, and tearin’ round in that
style, ef they was tryin’ to escape. No, no; they are cunnin’ brutes,
and know how to keep their tongue between their teeth better than white
folks. Anyhow, we shan’t catch sight of them by stayin’ here talkin’
snake, and get afeard of seein’ the crawlin’ reptiles.”

“Let us press forward, then, and lose no more time.”

“Waal, we ain’t a losin’ time. Haven’t you found out, stranger, that a
day’s restin’ when on a journey sometimes was a day gained?”

“Certainly, and have never traveled on the Sabbath.”

“Sunday or week day, the same thing is a fact; but them that know, say
that rest is sweeter on that day. It may be, stranger, and I ain’t
book-learned enough to deny it, ’specially as I hain’t known Sunday come
more’n twice in the last ten years, and that was when I was among the
_Bois Brulé_ gals, way up on the Red river. Somehow, they keep count
with beads and little crosses, and I used to go to church with them, and
throw the worth of a beaver-skin onter the plate, so that they wouldn’t
refuse me when I wanted them to dance.”

A smile flitted over the faces of his band at the peculiar reason given
by the guide for his piety. Perchance many of his more civilized
neighbors could have offered no better one. Once more he dashed to the
front and led the way. But very careful, indeed, were his movements,
often standing erect upon his horse, and looking over the waving sea of
parched foliage. Once, on again resuming his seat, he called the band to
his side.

“What now?” questioned a man who was among the most restive of the
group. “Why not dash ahead and get out of this confounded mud-hole?
Whew! its enough to worry a man to death in here. No air, no nothing but
dust, gnats and poisonous snakes.”

“Are you ready to die?” said Waltermyer, solemnly, his usual gay
demeanor changing, and his honest face wearing an expression of intense
anxiety, if not pain.

“To die? What kind of a question is that? No man is ready to die.”

“Yet death is around you. Hark! Do you hear that noise?”

“Yes, something is rushing through the dry reeds. One of the horses we
left, perhaps.”

“No horse ever traveled so fast as that. Even a deer could not keep the
pace.”

“What is it, then?”

“Stand up on your horse and look.”

“I see a great cloud of thick dust—thick as if a hundred buffalo were
crowding along.”

“Thar may be buffalo, and thar may be deer, but, my life for it, they
are not coming this way.”

“Tell us, Waltermyer,” interrupted Miles Morse, “what is it George Cary
sees?”

“Smoke!”

“Smoke? I do not understand you.”

“Smoke and fire. But you will soon learn for yourselves.”

Every one sprung upright, and from the backs of their steeds could see
dense volumes of smoke, through which flashed red tongues of living
flame, and again the question was asked as to what it could be.

“The sloo is on fire!” he replied. “We are cut off—surrounded!”

“Great heavens, can this be true?”

“Just as true as the heaven you call upon!”

“Then we are lost!”

“Thousands have been before you, and not enough left of thar bones to
tell whar the fire has been.”

“Let us hurry on—run our horses, and gain the open ground.”

“You might just as well try to reach the moon. I tell you the horse was
never yet shod that could outrun perarer fire. Even my good black, that
can go two lengths to your one, would never live in such a race.”

“And must we perish thus? Die a horrible death without so much as a
struggle for safety?”

“It is gaining rapidly on us! It is coming a perfect whirlwind of
flame!” said the now agonized father. “Oh, God, that I should perish
thus! Oh, my poor, poor lost daughter!”

“At least, let us make a trial to outrun it,” said another. “Any thing
is better than standing idle.”

“Come!” shouted his companions. “Come, we’ll dash through and reach the
high ground. What are you thinking of, Waltermyer, standing here?”

“Thinkin’,” blurted out the guide, “how little men like you know of the
great perarers.”

“If you are going to stay here and be burned, I am not.”

“Hold!” and the strong hand of Waltermyer was laid on the bridle-rein,
effectually checking the course of the steed, that now, like its mates,
snuffing the smoke that was fast closing around, stood trembling,
snorting and pressing against the restraining bit, with wildly tossed
head and flashing eyes.

“What do you mean? Are you mad?”

“Not I, but you. You know Kirk Waltermyer by this time, and ef you don’t
you’ll learn him soon enough. So hear what I say, and remember it, too.
I know that the fire is comin’—will soon be here, but the first one that
offers to stir will have a short journey, for I’ll send a bullet
straight through his skull.”

“But to stand still, Waltermyer,” said Miles Morse, “when there is at
least a chance of escape.”

“What do you take me for, stranger—a crazy man or a fool?”

“Neither, but—”

“Now you just keep cool and listen. Tie your horses heads together,
every man of you, and mind you don’t make knots that will slip, for all
the men on the perarer couldn’t keep them from stampedin’, when the
flames roar around them.”

The command was obeyed, for there, as everywhere, in the hour of danger,
the master spirit controls and directs—the firm hand and heart, and
unflinching eye, tell of the pilot, that shall, unquestioned, guide,
though the course he travels is crowded with shoals, quicksands and
breaker-foaming rocks.

“Now bring us yours,” they said, when all the rest had been securely
fettered.

“Not it! He ain’t none of your city-bred horses, and it ain’t the first
time that he has been surrounded by red fire and black smoke. He knows
his business here, better than you do,” and, at a motion, and slight
touch of the bridle-rein, the noble black lay down and stretched his
sinewy limbs, as if enjoying a grateful rest. This accomplished to his
satisfaction, for he was very proud of this perfect command over his
steed—(and what true horseman is not?) he stripped himself of his
hunting-shirt, and threw it over his head, in such a fashion that it
perfectly protected his lungs from smoke; then turning to his comrades,
continued:

“Now, men, it is time you were to work. Just now you talked about being
idle. Strip a circle clear of the grass—as large as ever you can, and
mind you do it clean. At it, boys, hand and knife, tooth and nail! Ef
you want to live, be active;” and he set the example, tearing up the
rank grass with his immense strength, and piling it around the ring of
horses.

Perchance, in his scorn at their want of knowledge, he had waited too
long, for the mad flames were leaping upon them before they had time to
make a cleared area of any considerable dimensions. In their very faces
the fire came roaring on, darting through the black smoke, which rolled
in clouds, threatening them every moment with destruction. Waltermyer
saw that something must be done to turn it aside, or there was but
little chance for escape.

“Fight it! fight it! and die for the ground!” he exclaimed, snatching
the hunting-shirt from off his head, and beating out the fire where it
came nearest. “Whip it—whip it—thrash it—out with it” he shouted, as he
rushed recklessly into the danger, burning his hands, with his hair and
whiskers curling and scorching, as he gave the command.

“Thar, that will do,” he continued, seeing that the danger had passed,
and the fire had swept by, leaving a black, smoky belt of earth behind.
“And now, boys, as you never saw a perarer fire before, look! It ain’t
every day you’ll see such a sight, I can tell you.”

Though his words were rude, they were simply true! Words are powerless
to describe a broad prairie conflagration, and the brush of the most
gifted artist would fail to paint a tithe of its dazzling beauty.

See, where it begins, when either purpose or chance has dropped a tiny
spark into the dry herbage. A little curl of smoke, a tiny flame
struggles for a moment for life. The slightest breath of air falls upon
it—a gleam, scarcely larger than a fire-fly among the tangled leaves,
and in an instant a lurid flame leaps forth—is kindled into a
furnace-like glare, and directly a wandering hill of flame is sweeping
resistlessly over the prairie. The harvest was ready for the
flame-sickle—the sapless and withered stalks were waiting the reaping.
Spreading like a circle in the tideless lake, the fire knows no bounds,
save when exhausted for want of fuel, it turns back on itself and dies.

See, with bounds swift and longer than an antelope ever compassed, it
o’ertops the tallest leaves—runs stealthily along like a golden serpent,
darting spitefully its forked tongue of living flame on every side,
while crackling, hissing, roaring, its terrible writhings uncoil. In
waves of living fire, flashing from a background of dense inky smoke, it
rushes on, regardless of barriers, and scornful of bounds, a winged
maelstrom of devastation.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                              TRUE HEART.


The band of Indians having Esther Morse in charge, led by the
treacherous Black Eagle, belonged to that portion of the Dacotahs or
Sioux, usually known among border men as _gens du large_, to distinguish
them from the _gens du lac_, who lived in villages on the borders of
Spirit Lake, and kept themselves aloof, in a very great degree, from
both plunder and murder. Scarcely divining the object of their leader in
conducting them through the rocky mountain passes, while another portion
had been sent off to attack the train of the white men, and totally
ignorant of his plans, they yet followed blindly on, believing that the
end would compensate them for their toil.

It was upon the very crest of a rocky spur of the mountain that he had
raised the war-cry of the tribe, intending only that it should lure the
Mormon still deeper into the fastnesses, and so place him completely at
his mercy, either for the disgorgement of hoarded gold, or it might be
for total robbery. Very much to his surprise, a single clear, ringing
voice, powerful as a trumpet, answered from a still higher point, and a
single horseman was seen picking his way down the steep mountain side,
holding every movement clearly within the range of his vision.

It was not wonderful that an object like this, appearing suddenly in
that lonesome place, should startle the superstitious men who composed
Black Eagle’s band. For an instant they huddled close together, watching
the horseman with a wild look of terror, thinking him the Manitou of the
mountain, or some messenger sent from the Walham Tanka, or Great Spirit
that dwells on high, who smiles in the sunshine, or frowns in the
thunder-cloud, whispers in the morning wind, or rolls his anger over the
earth in the rushing tornado.

Esther Morse watched the horseman with suspended breath, as he rode
along the verge of the beetling cliff. To her vivid imagination, he
seemed more like a warrior of the air, descending from the fleecy
clouds, than a mortal being. Then, as he descended toward them, and
became more distinctly visible, her fancy returned to earth, and she
could but regard him as a knight of romance coming to her rescue, with
eagle plumes, tinged with sunlight, his shield shaped with golden bars.

It was strange, but even in that moment, Esther forgot her peril, her
bonds, and her captivity. Strange, and yet is not our being twin-mated?
Are we not composed of widely different natures—different as bright day
from ebon night, yet, like them, bound in indissoluble fetters? One the
soaring spirit—the mystical essence of immortality, and the other, the
dull and sluggish clay that shall never know aught of eternal life; the
ethereal essence of endless being, and the lifeless clod of the valley;
the foreshadowing of things to come, and the inanimate pitcher that
shall yet be broken at the well; the subtle lightning of Divinity, and
the gross longings of dust. Ah! well, indeed it is, that:

     “The soul itself dissolving from clay fetters, heavy, dreary,
       With spirit wings can travel the land of dread and doubt;
     Can revel in the brightness, when fainting and earth-weary,
       And for itself the secret of the mystery find out.”

A short descent, and the turning of a sudden curve brought horse and
rider to the plateau upon which the band of Black Eagle were resting.
With the silent greeting, usual among the red-men, he was received, and
yet, more than one lip murmured audibly—Osse ’o.

Esther Morse watched his movements with keen interest. There was
something kingly in his presence, and commanding in his movements, that
convinced her he was a man of authority among the Indians. His dress
partook more of a white hunter’s, than that of a Dacotah chief. The
saddle and decorations of his horse bore evidence of having been
manufactured by the hands of an artist. His dress and moccasins were of
finely-dressed doeskin; a cap of soft fur sat easily on his head,
surmounted by a single eagle’s plume; around his neck, hanging upon his
bosom, as the Indians usually wear some favorite ornament, was a small
shield, exquisitely engraved, and studded with silver knobs.
Silver-mounted pistols were secured by a crimson sash, that girded his
waist, and in his hand he poised a spear of finer workmanship than ever
came from savage hands.

Surely this man was either an exquisite in his tribe or a man of
wonderful authority—no warrior ever displayed a form more lithe and
sinewy. His eyes were large, bright, and of a color rare among the
Indians. In the graded avenue or the broad prairie it would have been
difficult to match him in that haughty grace which gives command and
insures respect. There was a softness, too, in his deep, rich voice
which seemed inconsistent with his wild life, and once, when he turned
to look upon Esther, an encouraging smile stole over his lips, a thing
so unusual with his people that the young girl felt her heart beating
quick with wild hopes.

“The warriors of the Dacotahs are wandering far from their wigwams,” he
said, addressing Black Eagle, and looking with piercing eye around the
circle of his followers as if he read the motive of their journey.

“The moccasins of Osse ’o are not often heard so far from the Spirit
Lake,” was the evasive response.

“The prairie is open to every one. The _gens du large_ may roam
unquestioned to worship the Manitou in the giant caves of the mountain.”

“My brother is a _gens du lac_. Has he been seeking the Great Spirit?”

“When the war-cry of the Dacotahs rung upon his ears he thought himself
alone with the spirits of the mountain. But why are the horses of the
Black Eagle turned toward the setting sun? The trail they are following
leads away from their squaws and little ones.”

“The white man has many hoofs. His pouch is filled with the red gold.
The Dacotahs are poor. The buffalo and deer have been driven from his
hunting-grounds—the beaver and otter from the stream. The wild horse has
fled before the fire-weapon of the pale-face—the green maize is cut down
beneath the roll of his iron-shod wheels. The children of the prairie
seek food for their little ones in vain. The wigwam is empty. The
pale-face robbed the Dacotah and they but take their own back again.”

“The words of Black Eagle are like the trail of the serpent, crooked and
full of guile. His tongue is forked and his feet have lost the trail of
truth. There is neither hoof nor food of the pale man in his keeping.”

“They were beaten off—the pale-faces were thick as the berries of the
mahnononee.”

“The kernels of the wild rice are countless. The Dacotah is not a mole
that runs blindly into a trap. The fire-weapons of the pale-face are
death. Where are the wounded and the dead among the red-men?”

Quailing as Black Eagle did in heart before this straightforward
questioning, and well aware that the stranger knew the truth of the
matter, he yet prevaricated:

“The red-men fled. When they saw that the pale-face would sweep them
from the earth, they—”

“Stole this innocent girl and fled like cowardly wolves.”

Bitter indeed was the taunt contained in the words, and the iron frame
of the Black Eagle shook with the fury of his rage—a rage that he dared
not exhibit while the cool, unflinching eye of Osse ’o was upon
him—though he would not for a moment hesitate to seek revenge when he
could do so in safety to himself. When in the hour of darkness he could
strike assassin-like, or from some lurking-place send the stone-tipped
arrow on its deadly mission, Black Eagle never hesitated; but now his
coward eyes sunk under the gaze fixed upon him.

“What was your purpose in taking the girl?”

“Gold, gold.”

“And you brought her here into the almost pathless mountains, expecting
to find those here who would give you gold?”

It was another home thrust, and even those who had been the firm
followers of Black Eagle began to see that he had some secret purpose in
leading them thither. A quick suspicion that they had been imposed upon
and detained for the selfish purpose of their chief, when they might
have been plundering the train, or following in the trail of the
Mormons, picking off their cattle as opportunity offered, or by some
_coup de main_ stampeded their horses, disturbed them greatly.

“No,” replied Black Eagle, who had taken time to consider, for he dared
not mention the Mormons as being in any way connected with his plan,
“No; but the Dacotahs are not fools! They leave not a plain and open
trail. The paths through the mountains are known to them. They turn not
from the high precipice or grow faint on the upward path. Their enemies
can not follow. True Heart has not followed the hunting so little that
he needs to be told of these things.”

“Unbind the pale-face!”

It was the first words the poor prisoner could understand, the former
conversation having been carried on in the Indian language. But now she
felt that she had gained a protector, if not a friend, and with tears in
her eyes she ventured to thank him.

“The tongue of the pale-face,” he replied, “is twisted to the flattering
language of her tribe. It has learned to belie her heart,” and he turned
hastily away as if in anger.

The idol which Esther had raised so suddenly in her imagination was
shivered to atoms in a single moment; the man’s voice, so changed and
cold, struck a chill to her heart. Notwithstanding, she was very
grateful for relief from her bonds, and springing to the ground, felt an
exquisite relief in her freedom of limb. An Indian, at the command of
her deliverer, went to a little spring that gushed through clustering
ferns and tall grasses from a cleft in the rock behind them, and filling
a birchen cup with water, brought it all cool and sparkling for her to
drink. Another hastened to supply her with food, and Osse ’o took a
softly-dressed bear-skin from his saddle, and throwing it at her feet,
motioned her to rest.

There was something in the thoughtful kindness of this action that
filled her with gratitude again. She lifted her eyes to his face but did
not venture to speak. She saw that the man was evidently concealing his
real character. That he could not be an Indian was her first thought;
but as she looked again, the idea was discarded, for both color and
feature bore too strong proof of his descent to admit of doubt. But why
should he be so kind? It was altogether foreign to the red-man’s nature.
Could he also think of making her his bride? Had she unawares attracted
two savage lovers, who wished for a white slave in their wigwam? Again
the old fear came upon her, and with throbbing heart she bent her head
and gave way to a passionate burst of tears. But hope sprung to her
heart again. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and raising her head saw
Osse ’o standing with folded arms by her side.

“Let the maiden of the snowy skin dry her tears,” he said; “they will
wash all the roses from her cheeks. When the great and good Manitou
placed the red-men on the prairies he did not give them all hearts of
stone.” Then, as if swayed by some sudden impulse he again turned
sternly away.

“Will Osse ’o rob the Black Eagle of his prize?” When Black Eagle asked
this question True Heart stood directly before him upon the very brink
of the precipice, so near that a touch would have sent him headlong to
his death. He did not answer, but stood with his arms folded, looking
out upon the prairie.

“Let the Dacotahs scatter themselves on the mountain and watch the
coming of the pale-face,” replied Osse ’o, without deigning to answer
the question, until it was repeated imperatively.

“My brother knows that Osse ’o never stains his soul with blood—that he
keeps his hand free from plunder.”

“Why then come between me and my prisoner?”

“Is the Black Eagle afraid that a feeble girl will escape when
surrounded by his warriors? Is he a coward that he binds her as he would
a strong man at the stake?”

“No!”

“Does he think her tribe will pay him more gold when they know that he
has tortured her without cause?”

“No! But he does what he likes with his own prisoners, and allows no man
to interfere.”

“The taunt of Black Eagle falls like the wind upon the ears of Osse ’o.
He hears it not.”

Standing as the Eagle did a step in the rear of his companion, it
required but the raising of a hand to gratify his malice—to revenge the
insults he had received and free himself forever from molestation. This
was far too good an opportunity to be lost—too important a moment to be
neglected. The brawny arm was raised—was descending—at the instant Osse
’o turned and saw the movement, though little dreaming of the purpose.

“What does my brother see that he points far away upon the prairie?”

“The buffalo and the deer are being driven by the Manitou of fire!”

“True; but far beyond the rolling smoke the train of the pale-face winds
along, like a white serpent. The hoofs are many for they leave behind
them a long trail of dust.”

“Like the buzzards, they cover the hunting-ground of the red-man; like
the Manitou of starvation, they leave neither food nor grass behind.”

“Like them, the Dacotahs can raise the golden grain—the rustling maize,
and—”

“And be slaves! The Great Manitou gave to the children of the pale-face
the grain for his squaws and little ones; but to the children of the
prairie he gave the hunting-grounds. When the Dacotahs bow their neck to
the yoke, like the cattle of the pale-face, then will their glory
depart, the totem be torn from their breasts—their bows broken, their
arrows headless, and their glory depart forever!”

“When the red-man no more reddens his hand in blood—when the torture at
the stake is forgotten, and no scalp-locks fringe his leggins, there
will—”

“Osse ’o is always talking peace. He is a coward, and dare not go in the
war!”

Osse ’o turned from his companion, with a smile of scorn curving his
lips. Once more folding his arms, he looked forth on the distant
prairie, now a sea of surging smoke and flame.

Black Eagle crept close behind him; slowly his arm was uplifted. A
thrilling cry broke from the white girl: it was too late! The blow fell
with crushing force on the head of Osse ’o as it was slightly bent,
gazing into the distance. The powerful form of the young chief tottered,
his arms were flung wildly out, and he fell headlong over the precipice
into the horrible abyss below.

Black Eagle gave a low, exultant cry; and springing upon the captive
girl, lifted her to the white horse that Osse ’o had ridden down to the
cliff. Regardless of her shrieks and struggles, he bound her firmly to
the saddle; and calling to his warriors, prepared to descend the
mountain. The savages looked astonished when they saw the young girl on
Osse ’o’s horse, and Black Eagle standing by her, alone.

The chief saw discontent in their eyes, and condescended to explain.

“Osse ’o has fallen over the cliff,” he said; “his foot was not sure on
the path. He was like an eagle with broken claws. Let him go.”

There was no one to contradict this monstrous falsehood; for Esther had
fainted on the saddle to which she was bound.




                               CHAPTER X.
                CANT—A STRUGGLE—A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE.


Though stunned by his fall, and covered with wounds, fortunately for him
not of a serious character, the Mormon was lifted by his companions from
the poor horse that had been killed by the fall—a noble brute sacrificed
to save the life of a far less noble man—and laid upon a shelving rock.
No remedies were at hand, save the gushing water that bubbled from the
base, and the flask that he always carried with him; but the stimulus,
liberally supplied, soon restored him. Not a single thought did this man
give to his truly providential escape—not one word of thanks to the God
whose hand had saved him from a sudden and horrible death—a literal
crushing out of brain and heart—a total annihilation of body!

“Where’s my horse?” was the first question that passed his lips.

“Dead.”

“The brute! to fall, and nearly crush me, when I was so near—”

His tongue had almost betrayed him into the revelation of his secret;
but he checked it in time, and continued:

“The prophet of the Lord was saved for the great work, and it is
requisite that he be up and doing. Bretheren, in this day’s work you can
see one of the miracles written of on the ten golden plates—one such as
only those on whom the mantle of the Prophet Joseph has fallen.”

Were there ever blasphemous words like these uttered in a situation so
painful? Was there ever man who had just faced a violent death capable
of such hypocrisy?

“Yea, of a verity,” he continued, “we must be up and doing; for is it
not written that we should let our lights shine? The horse has been
given to the buzzards of the valley, but the spirit that is within man
rises superior to the accidents of the moment. It is for him both to
will and to do—to suffer and grow strong. Bretheren, give me a little
more of the drink that is medicine in the hour of pain! Bretheren, the
book revealed to the martyr Joseph teaches that the grossest sin of
earth is disobedience, and shall never know the joys and privileges of
the Latter Day Saints. Anathemas shall be heaped like coals of living
fire upon the heads of the Gentiles who disbelieve! The keys of the
kingdom were given to the rulers; they hold them in their hands, and woe
be to him who disobeys! Into outer darkness shall they be cast who
hearken and yet murmur!”

How much longer he would have indulged in this kind of sermonizing it
would have been difficult to determine, had not one of the listeners,
possessed of more courage and less blind belief than the others,
interrupted him:

“Take my horse, Elder; he is sure-footed and strong. It is past noon,
and unless the band moves on, we shall not only be caught in the
darkness, but lose all chance of overtaking the Indians.”

At any other time the Mormon would have been sorely displeased with the
interruption and advice; but now he thought only of gaining the prize he
had ventured so much for, and eagerly caught at the proposition.

“It shall be as you say; and when the hour comes that our journey is
finished—when the lamb of the Gentiles that has been carried away by the
wolves of the Sioux shall again be restored unto her people—when her
soul is secure in the fold of the saints, then will I further instruct
you in the tenets of the Prophet, whose spirit was translated from the
earth.”

“Mount, then, and—”

The sound as of some large body rushing through the air, tearing through
the slender bushes, struggling for life on the side of the rocky cañon,
fell upon their ears, and the foot of the Mormon was stayed as he placed
it in the stirrup. Different far from the fall of the huge stones was
this strange noise; and for a moment they all stood doubtful and
terrified. Urged on, however, by the Elder, they at length advanced. As
they turned the point ahead, the body of an Indian, swinging directly
over the ragged rocks, suspended by a slender root, and with fully a
hundred feet between him and the bottom, met their appalled gaze.

“There is one of your red-skins,” cried Elder Thomas, “punished for his
crimes even while on the earth!”

“Shall we not try to save him?” asked one of his companions.

“It is not given unto the Lord’s anointed to stoop to that which is
unclean.”

“But he is a man, and will be dashed to atoms.”

“He is an Indian.”

“But you will not let him hang in that awful way? See I the root to
which he clings is parting! The earth is breaking away from around it;
and then—great heavens! he is—”

“No, not gone! and yet it would be monstrous to leave him in such
danger. I, even I, will save him, as did the Gentiles the Prophet
Joseph!”—and snatching a rifle from one of his nearest followers, he
raised it, and fired.

The report, and the swift whizzing of the bullet as it cut the air,
awoke the countless echoes of the rocky cañon with grand reverberations;
and the smoke, lifting like a fleecy vail, showed them that the Indian
had disappeared. A stone, loosened from its scanty earth-bed, most
probably by his fall, rolled down to their very feet; but what had
become of the swarthy form that a moment before hung above the abyss,
suspended, as if by a thread.

“The ravens will find him in the holes of the rocks,” said Thomas,
coolly returning the rifle to its owner, and without bestowing the
slightest attention on the horror that ran through the group at this
unnatural murder.

“And now, bretheren, not forgetting the glory of the Prophet, let us
hasten onward and save the dove from the snares of the savage fowler.”

Strange, indeed, would it have been if sadness and silence had not
followed a brutal murder like this. As Thomas led the way, the remainder
followed, not only dumb with astonishment, but sorely grieved that one
they had looked upon with such reverential love, should not only stain
Christianity and manhood, but even common humanity with a crime so
terrible—that the saint should disappear in the murderer, and the
garments of regular succession from the immaculate Joseph should be
steeped in crime. Ah! could the blinding scales but have fallen from the
eyes of “the faithful” everywhere, how soon Salt Lake would be a city of
ashes, and the “beautiful valley” again a wilderness. When the _true
religion_ is stripped of cant, hypocrisy, forms and idle ceremonies, how
beautiful in its simplicity will the journey be that the soul must
travel to reach the gardens of eternal sunshine, and purity, and love,
beyond “the river.”

A small white flag, waving in advance, instantly fixed the attention of
the party. It was a strange symbol in that lonely place, and much more
so when held, as it was now, in the hands of a lone Indian. All except
the Elder stopped in astonishment, doubtful how to act, but he
recognized in the bearer his ally the Black Eagle, and instantly
commanding a halt, proceeded on foot to ascertain the meaning of his
appearance.

“Has my white brother,” began the Indian, as soon as the other was at
his side, “seen the body of a Dacotah lying among the rocks?” Certain as
he was that no one could have fallen like Osse ’o, without being dashed
into a thousand atoms, yet he wished to assure himself of the fact by
ocular proof. He even desired to pay the last rites of burial to the
corpse, knowing well that it would be to his own benefit, and stand
between him and suspicion with the tribe by whom the chieftain was more
than loved.

“I saw an Indian hanging by a root from the precipice, and was going to
help him, when all of a sudden he fell, and was crushed at the foot of
the rocks.”

Black Eagle could not well doubt the story, for, base as he was, the
Indian would have scorned to leave his worst enemy in a situation so
terrible. The savage would have rescued him, even if an hour afterward
he had sought his scalp, and therefore had no suspicion of the white
man. If he had dreamed of what had passed, the lone rock upon which they
stood would have been the theater of a second crime, and the first
murderer would have executed fearful vengeance upon the second.

“It was Osse ’o of the Dacotahs,” he continued, after his careful
scrutiny of the Mormon had ceased. “We were standing together upon the
cliff. He was looking over the prairie—the rock was treacherous and
broke from under him. He fell before the arm of his brother, Black
Eagle, could save him.”

“Well, it’s to be regretted.”

“He has gone to the happy hunting-grounds. The swift canoe has ferried
him over the dark waters of the river of death, and his song is heard in
the flowery prairies of the Great Manitou.”

“May he rest in peace! And now, about the girl?”

“Has my pale brother been trying strength with the giant bear of the
mountains?” was the evasive question, as the Indian glanced at the torn
garments of the Mormon.

“No; my horse fell with me—that’s all. But the girl?”

“The trail upon the steep hillside is not for the warriors of the
pale-face. The Manitou gave them to his red children. Their foot is
sure—their horses trained to the rugged path.”

“Well, well, I’ve no time for words about it. Have you brought the girl
as you promised?”

“Has the pale-face brought the yellow dust that his people have made a
great Manitou? Has he remembered the gold?”

“Yes; let me but get the girl into my power, and it shall be yours.”

“Will he let his red brother look upon the gold? It is bright as the
sun, and he longs to see it shine.”

“When I see the girl, then—”

“Look!” and the Indian led him forward a few steps and pointed into a
little valley, apart from the main one, and closely screened by high
rocks.

“Surely it is the Lily of the Valley,” exclaimed the Mormon, clasping
his hands. “Mounted upon a milk-white steed, she cometh to gladden the
soul, as sweet waters doth the thirsty earth. She is fair as the Cedar
of Lebanon, and the—”

“Gold!” interrupted Black Eagle.

With reluctance, the Mormon doled out half the required sum. It was hard
to part with it, but harder still to give up the vision he had indulged
in so long.

“Is the tongue of the pale-face crooked? Are his eyes dim that he can
not see? Have his fingers forgotten how to count?” asked the Indian,
somewhat savagely.

“No, no, it is all right. When—”

A shrill whistle rung through the valley, and Black Eagle cut the
explanation short.

“My brothers call. The Black Eagle will lead his warriors out of the
little valley into the broad road. Then let the pale-face come and get
the young squaw for his wigwam.”

“Come and get her?”

“Did he not so tell the red sachem?”

“True, I had forgotten. Mind your men don’t fire. I have told my men not
to shoot. Let there be a sort of a sham fight, and as soon as I have got
the girl, you can come quietly to me, and I will pay you even more than
I promised.”

Without another audible word the Indian departed, but his thoughts were
the embodiment of treachery. The white man had gold—should it not be
his? The girl was fair—should she not fill his wigwam far away by the
margin of Spirit Lake? The companions of the Mormon should only play
with their weapons—should his be so careful? They were the enemies of
his race—should not their scalps hang in the wigwams of the Dacotahs?
Ah! it was a great temptation for a savage warrior, and little faith
could be put in his promises when red gold, and rich plunder, and a
snowy bride, were luring him to the accomplishment of the very things
his nature panted after.

The Indian to the fragment of his tribe, and the white man to his
companions, and again both parties proceeded, each leader giving a far
different version of the meeting, and each one shaping it to suit his
own ends. A scant mile, and they were brought into full view—neither
rock, tree or hill obscured their vision.

“There they go, the cowardly thieves,” shouted the Mormon, as he waved
his little troop on.

“There come the false warriors of your tribe,” whispered the Black
Eagle, in the ears of the shrinking, yet hopeful girl—shrinking from him
and hopeful of rescue. “Yes, like wolves, they come, but let the maiden
beware. The knife of the Black Eagle is keen-edged and his tomahawk
heavy—his bow-string is strong, so is his arm. Let her not try to leave
his side, or—”

The shouts of the Mormons urging on their steeds, and the desperate rush
of the spur-driven brutes, admitted of no further threatening. The ranks
of the Indians were formed to resist the attack, and their arrows flew
thick as hail, but, purposely aimed too high, passed over the heads of
the white men. So also was it with the bullets of their adversaries. It
was soon front to front, and hand to hand, and seemed more like a
bloodless tournament—a base and senseless imitation, gotten up as a
foolish aping of the chivalry of olden times, than the meeting of two
races that ever have and ever will be enemies. But this rough play could
not long continue without arousing fierce passions—fierce hands
clutching the ready weapons in earnest. One of the Mormons, more
powerful and better mounted than the rest, succeeded in breaking the
ranks of the Indians, and gaining the side of Black Eagle, who had
remained in the rear to keep guard over the girl. It was Elder Thomas
who should have been there—he was to have been the savior, and loud he
commanded his impetuous follower to turn back. Possibly, he was unheard
in the din of the, as yet, bloodless strife. At any rate, he was
disregarded, for the brawny Mormon saw the girl and dashed to her side,
perfectly regardless of all the opposition that attempted to stay his
course.

“By heaven!” he shouted, “it’s the very gal that we used to see, and
that sung so sweet to us at Laramie. Down with the cursed red-skins,
boys! Give them no quarter, the infernal brutes!” and his pistol-butt
struck the Black Eagle full upon the skull, and leveled him to the earth
in a moment.

Vain now were all attempts at control. A fierce blow had been struck; a
chief of the Dacotahs hurled from his horse. In less than a minute,
knife and pistol were doing their deadly work. Wildly pealed the fierce
battle-cry of the savage; loudly and clearly it was answered by the
challenge of the white man. The innocent trial of strength had been
changed, quick as thought, into the fearful tumult of the battle-field.
Now, death’s dark hounds must lap their fill of human blood!

But it was of short duration. The superior skill, strength and weapons
of the white man could not long be withstood, and, with many wounded
though none killed, the Indians withdrew, commanded still by the Black
Eagle. The chief had been but stunned for a moment, and soon separated
himself from the _melée_. But it was to find himself standing face to
face with Elder Thomas, both effectually cut off by the combatants from
the girl. The narrow valley denied them footing on either side, and
when, at length, they had succeeded in drawing off their followers, they
looked in vain for milk-white horse or snowy prisoner! They had
vanished, as if the earth had swallowed them.

In sullen silence the parties of the white and red-man separated, but
each with dark thoughts of revenge at heart. Ah, many a peaceful
traveler has paid, with life, the price of that day’s work. Many an
unwary man has been shot from behind rocks and trees—has died with the
poisoned arrow festering in his side; or, worse perchance still, been
robbed of all, and left to lingering death by starvation. And many a
red-man, too, has been shot down in very wantonness—has fled from his
burning wigwam, and seen all he loved perish, literally butchered by
bullet and flame, like sheep in the shambles. Yes, the Oregon trail is
beaten down hard as iron with the hoofs and wheels of the thousands of
emigrants, but so, also, is it lined upon the map with blood.




                              CHAPTER XI.
         PARTING—A LONELY RIDE—A NIGHT STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS.


Rapid riding soon brought the party of Waltermyer to the first swell of
the mountain. A rest here was necessary, but the frontiersman granted it
grudgingly, for his iron frame despised repose when any exciting purpose
urged him forward. With the horse he was master of, an animal that
between sun and sun had coursed his hundred miles, it was very difficult
for him to realize that the steeds of others could grow faint upon so
short a trail. But his keen eye told him that some of these poor
wretches, at least, were sorely distressed, and his kind heart would not
permit of cruelty to the meanest beast alive; yet he chafed at the
moments thus wasted, as he said, when one in whom he had become so
strangely interested was a prisoner, either with the Indians, or—and, in
his view of the matter, far worse—the Mormons.

“Lite, boys, lite,” was his command, “and give your horses a good
rubbin’ down, though it ain’t of much use, neither, nussin’ up such good
for nothin’ but pullin’ beasts. Thar isn’t five miles an hour left in
any one of them, and ef we catch the red-skins, we’ll have to travel
faster than that by a considerable sight. But give them a good rubbin’
down, and, ef worst comes to worst, it will help them to get back to the
train.”

“Then you think, Waltermyer, that there is little chance of overtaking
them?” asked the anxious father.

“Yours, yes. And I might as well tell you the truth, stranger, now as
any time. I’ve kept it back because I was rale sorry for you, and
couldn’t find words soft enough. Kirk Waltermyer calls himself a man,
but he has a woman’s heart about some things, and when he sees a fine
old gray-headed chap like you a-weepin’ for a daughter, he can’t help
thinkin’ of a sister he had once—a little blue-eyed darlin’, that went
to sleep when the early snow-flakes were fallin’, and never woke again.”

The stout frontiersman drew a hand across his eyes to free them from the
tears that swelled into them.

“God knows how much I love Esther, and—”

“Esther? Yes, I had almost forgotten; but the little child that the
minister said had gone to heaven to be an angel—them war his own words,
stranger—was named Esther. Est—little Est, I used to call her, and—but,
stranger,” and his words were toned down into a deeply-breathed whisper,
as if coming from the very bottom of his heart, “but, stranger, do you
think a man that has lived the life I have can ever go thar?” his finger
was pointed reverently upward as he spoke, and an anxious glance shone
out through his tears.

“Heaven is ever in sight, my friend. It is as near to you here in the
wilderness, as if you lived within the sound of church-going bells.”

“Stranger, I thank you.” He wrung the hand of Morse convulsively, and
then continued: “Yes, stranger, Kirk Waltermyer, thanks you, and that is
a thing he doesn’t often do, for he has lived with Diggers and Greasers
until he has got to be a’most as unpolite as they are. I have often
thought of this thing when ridin’ along alone over the wide perarers,
but never had any schoolin’, and, therefore, couldn’t make up my mind.
Sometimes, stranger, I have thought I heard that far-off bell tolling
again, just as it did when they laid poor little Est in the ground. And
then again, when campin’ by myself—when layin’ out nights, with nothin’
under me but the bare ground, and nothin’ over me but the starry blanket
they call heaven, I have thought I could see her blue eyes looking down
upon me, and have heard her whisper, just as she used to do, ‘Now I lay
me down.’ I’ve forgotten the rest, stranger, but I always try to be
better afterward, for poor little Est’s sake.”

There was something so pitiful in the sorrow of the hardy frontiersman,
so unusual and different from any that he had before seen, that Miles
Morse felt that the accustomed common expressions of condolence would be
entirely out of place, and wisely refrained from giving them utterance.
Ah, when such men weep—when their strong natures are melted into tears,
be sure the grief is deep, and far too sacred for human cure. Believe,
full surely, that there is a spot somewhere, concealed though it be from
public gaze, a sacred cleft in which a tiny flower is budding for
heaven.

Incompetent to give sympathy, there remained but one way to give
Waltermyer relief, that of changing the subject, and this Morse hastened
to do, believing that his volatile nature would soon recover. And in
this he was right. A prairie life is one of constant changes and
excitement. Few are the moments that can be spared from watchfulness,
amid its ever-present danger, to give to regret. The tear must be dashed
from the eye to sight the deadly rifle, and the hand that is performing
the last acts of affection for the departed must turn hastily away for
self-protection. It is a school, the like of which there is not
elsewhere on earth, for training men to be self-reliant, brave to
recklessness, scornful of privation, uncaring for hardship, and steady
and unquailing in the hour of strife. Turn to the blood-written records
of Henry, Donelson, Pittsburg Landing, and read there the proof of the
matchless daring, unflinching bravery, and almost hopeless victories won
by our frontiersmen—the hardy, prairie-nurtured and trained gladiators
of the West.

“You were going to tell me,” continued Morse, after a pause that he
deemed sufficient to allow the turbulent waters in the breast of
Waltermyer to subside, “you were going to tell me something that you
couldn’t find words to express. This is what you were saying.”

“Soft words, stranger, soft words. Yes, I was, but poor little Est put
it all out of my mind. Forget it, and don’t think me a baby for cryin’
about one who has been so long dead.”

“Forget it? I think the better of you for it. It shows you have a heart,
and that it is in the right place. No brave or true man forgets his
little ones who are sleeping beneath the cold sod of the valley.”

“Truer words you never spoke, and the memory of that dear little child
that God took to be a bright-winged angel—yes, them was the very words
the old minister used—has kept me from many a sin out on the frontier.”

“May it always do so.”

“And now, then, about what I was a-goin’ to say. Ef I don’t word it
softly, stranger, you must forgive me, for it’s the tongue and not the
heart.”

“You need no apology. Go on, friend.”

“Friend, yes. Waal, I will try to earn that name. And now, stranger,
what I was a-goin’ to say was this. _You can’t follow this trail any
longer._”

“Not follow the trail? You must be mad.”

“No, no. I only wish I was. You’re an old man, and the hard ridin’ ana
hot work we’ve had is tellin’ on you. You need rest and must have it or
you will die right out. Stranger, a horse or a deer that outruns its
strength falls suddenly. I know the nature of the beasts and I allow its
just the same with humans. Then, too, you haven’t a horse in the bull
crowd that could stand an hour’s journey in the mountings. Besides it
will soon be dark—dark as a pile of black snakes, for thar is no moon
to-night, and he who rides must have a sure hand and an eye that is used
to followin’ trails.”

“Alas, you but speak the truth. But my daughter? My poor, poor child?”

“Didn’t you say just now that the Lord was on the perarer the same as in
the great cities? I believe you did, and I believe it’s gospel truth.
But your Esther shall not want a friend, if it was only for the sake of
the poor little child that was named for her.”

“But what shall I do?”

“You and the boys must stop here. When it gets to be dark you will see
the light from the fires of your train yender. La Moine would never pass
that camping-ground. It’s a cl’ar road—no sloos or rocks between, and
you ought to ride it in two hours. I’ve done it many a time in half the
time. You must go there and tell the Frenchman that Kirk Waltermyer says
he mustn’t move until he hears from him.”

“But suppose any accident should happen to you?”

“Accident! Well, stranger, thar mought be such a thing, that’s a fact,
but I don’t believe it,” and he laughed as if disaster to him was an
utter impossibility. “Anyhow, you keep quiet thar, and if I don’t come
back within three days and bring your daughter safe and sound, tell La
Moine to take the back track, hunt up my bones and bring them in.”

“And I?”

“Must trust in heaven. Kirk Waltermyer will have done all that was
possible for man to do.”

“I believe it must be as you say. The horses, poor things, are worn out,
and I feel that I could not long endure riding. But had you not better
take some of the boys with you?”

“Not a single one. They would only bother me.”

“Go, then, friend, and if you do not come back within three days I
myself will follow, and never rest until I have found you if alive, and
if dead, which kind heaven avert—make for you a grave.”

Again a tear stood in the eye of Waltermyer. He strove to speak, but the
words were lost in his throat. A strong, hearty shake of the hand was
the only thanks he was able to return, then, as if fearing to trust
himself further, he whistled his horse to his side, sprung upon his back
without touching the stirrup, and with a wave of his hand dashed toward
the frowning steeps and disappeared.

The disconsolate parent followed his advice, and just as the guard was
changed at midnight, reached the train—there to relate the story of
their wanderings—hear of the attack and repulse of the Indians, and
then, after partaking of food and drink, to fall into the dreamless,
all-forgetting slumber that follows arduous toil.

Waltermyer reached the rocky bed of the cañon, muffled his horse’s feet
so as to deaden as much as possible the sound of his footsteps without
lessening his speed or rendering him liable to fall. He stripped his
steed of every thing except his bridle, making his load easy as
possible, then again mounting urged him forward. The twilight was just
beginning to gather around him when he parted from his comrades, and
soon the shadows settled thickly in his path. Blacker still they became
until night had enveloped the earth in a starless, moonless vail.

“Black as a mounting of black minks,” muttered the lone rider to
himself, and then, as if pleased with the idea, he continued: “and I
reckon them reptiles are e’en a-most as black as you are, Star,” and he
patted the neck of his horse. “How I pity any one that has to ride in
such a night. Ef that gal is abroad now she will—as I live ef it hain’t
a-goin’ to rain, too. Thar fell a drop—a great, big drop pat on my hand.
Hark! that rumblin’ way up in the hills means thunder and nothin’ else.
Waal, waal, we’re goin’ to have a night of it, and I allow it’s lucky
that I didn’t bring them green boys along with me. Softly, pet—steady,
boy.”

A sudden flash—a living chain of fire that flashed before the horse,
dazzling and blinding, had for an instant startled him, and it needed
both voice and rein of the master to control him for a moment; but when
another followed and the rolling thunder shook the very rocks beneath
his feet, he was calm, and, unmoved, felt his way along the dangerous
path. Felt, for even the eyes of the quadruped will fail when the
flood-gates of a night storm are suddenly thrown open and the lurid
glare of lightning fills earth and sky.

The slowly-dropping rain became a torrent, and the wind, aroused from
its slumber in the hills, came raving through the rain, and howled a
terrible anthem among the mountains. Moaning it crept among the crevices
in the rock, and howling it swept through the high-walled cañon, and
wrestled with the tortured trees and shook the granite portals of the
mountain. Catching the huge drops in its embrace, it whirled them in
fleecy mist aloft—ragged, torn, drifting away into the black darkness.
The deep-worn gulleys in the gray old rocks were aflood with water—the
cañon’s floor a roaring river, and still the pitiless wind-driven sleet
fell deluge-like. Along the inky sky the lightning played, flashing its
red bolts—twining in many a fantastic link its burnished gold—tinging
the cloudy rifts with shining white, and lighting up cavern and crevice
as with shooting star-light. Oh! it was grandly sublime!—a panorama of
light and blackness—of gloom and brightness—of blackest chaos and of
burning light, and shown to such music as the world can only know when
the fingers of Jehovah plays upon the lightning-strings, and the
thunder-gun of heaven is fired from the murky battlements of the
whirlwind. Such was the mountain storm in which the frontiersman found
himself.

“Oh! night, and storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,” sung he of
the gloomy lyre years ago, and there, where Jura answered, came such
sounds and flashing bolts as rung around the head of that brave
frontiersman as he bowed his head to the storm, thinking, save now and
then of the little one that was above, of the one below, who might even
then be forced by savage warriors to struggle with the tempest as he was
doing.

But there was little of written poetry in Waltermyer, and if there had
been, custom had blunted his taste for the beauty of a night
thunder-storm in the wilderness. He knew the danger of the path that he
was traveling at any time—even in the daylight—but now? Death was
lurking beneath every footfall. And yet, knowing this, he gave no
thought to his own safety or made any effort to escape the beating force
of the storm. The mad rushing of the rain, the roaring of the angry
thunder or the blinding glare of the lightning was nothing to him. A
girl, a feeble girl, was waiting for him to rescue her from the hands of
savage warriors, and all the fiends of the storm could not have forced
him to pause for his own safety. Besides, he knew that Indian warriors
would not travel on a night like that, and if she was still in their
hands, he could gain upon them. Shrewdly surmising at what point and
under what shelter they would pause, he kept on his dangerous way.

His horse stumbled; he sprung to the ground—if such a flinty floor could
so be called—in an instant, and removed the mufflings from the animal’s
feet. Then, as the path became more steep, he led him carefully—trying
every step before he ventured his weight upon it. And thus, brave heart,
he moved still slowly along, while the sky was ablaze and the thunder
boomed in his ear, mingled with the shrill whistle of the wind, the
rattle of the falling rain, and the crash of tree-boughs beating against
each other.




                              CHAPTER XII.
            LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS—AN UNEXPECTED GUIDE—REST.


When the battle between the Mormons and the Indians composing the
company of Black Eagle was at its height, Esther Morse was forced to be
a looker on. Tied firmly to her seat in the saddle, with only her hands
at liberty and with her savage captor at her very side, she dared not
make a movement toward escape. But when the strong arm of the white man
had stricken the red one to the earth, and she was comparatively
unwatched, the brave girl gave her steed the rein, and urging him
forward soon disappeared up the valley.

So intently had the combatants been playing the game of blood that no
one saw her go, knew of her going, or could tell when or whither she had
flown.

Ah! a noble steed was the one that Esther Morse rode that night, worthy
to carry so fair a load. Whirling around the nearest point of rocks, she
paused but long enough to release her limbs from their bonds and prepare
herself in the best manner in her power for easy horsemanship. Then,
without the slightest knowledge of the road she must travel in order to
gain her friends, she hurried on, striking into a downward path that she
hoped would end in the prairie. The fear of recapture was greater in her
breast than death itself; so she rode on recklessly over paths that, at
another time, would have made her heart sink and her head turn giddy.
Many a time she looked anxiously back, thinking that she heard the
clatter of pursuing footsteps; then finding that it was the echo of the
hoofs that were so faithfully and swiftly bearing her on, a faint smile
would ripple for a moment over her face, banishing the stern lines of
anxiety and pain. But these gleams of incipient joy were transient as
summer lightning, for reality stood too near with its stern danger. The
sky was too black, and heavily vailed with clouds, to admit of the
star-light flashing through, unless by chance there might be parting
rifts that permitted a gleam now and then to reveal how dreary her path
was.

Alone in the mountains! Few minds can compass the meaning of the words,
for they know neither of the dangers or the fears that surround a
position so terrible. But that brave rider was thinking only of escape,
and when night and storm indeed settled around her, she awoke as from a
pleasant dream. The companionship of any one wearing the semblance of
mortality would have been pleasant then, for the fearful stories she had
heard and read came back to her mind with terrible acuteness, and in
each shadow darker than the rest she saw the form of a wild beast
panting for her blood. There were wild beasts abroad it is true, but the
storm that drove them to their dens and hiding places—the pitiless rain
that drenched her through and through, was her safety.

Storm? Yes; for the same lurid glare and terrific thunder that appalled
even Waltermyer was sweeping and crashing around her. An untrained horse
would have swerved and been dashed to atoms on the ragged rocks hundreds
of feet below—would have missed his footing and plunged down the gulf,
hurling his rider a shapeless mass to the bottom. It was a terrible
ride—terrible for any one, and how much more so for a feeble girl, lost
in the rocky wastes of the inhospitable mountains and fleeing for her
very life.

The bridle slipped from her grasp. The cold rain and numbing atmosphere
rendered the hand powerless to hold it longer, and while the clang of
the firmly-placed hoofs fell hopefully upon her ears in the lull of the
tempest, she poured out her soul in prayer to Him who holds the earth in
the hollow of his hand.

Up! still up! Oh! how strangely she has missed her road! Not to the
sloping prairie—not to the level paths, where her father’s train was
camped, did she bend her way, but still higher—ever higher, toward the
dizzy summits where the eagle builds its nest and seeks no companionship
save from its kind.

Upward! still upward, where the sure foot of the mountain goat dare
hardly travel, and where the mists hang heavy with death and chilling
dews. Oh! will that rising trail never end? Will the point never be
reached where the foot can no higher press the flinty road—the winding,
serpent-like course that glides along the frowning wall above and
perpendicular precipice below?

A sudden, blinding flash! A glare as if the vail of night had been rent,
and in one unbroken flood let the starry glory through. Then all was
utter blackness! Chilled to the very heart, unable longer to retain her
upright position, she crouches in the saddle, and bends downward until
her long hair, loosened from confinement, mingled with the milky,
wind-tossed mane of the gallant steed. Her arms clasp his arched
neck—she clings to it for life, and, half fainting, with closed eyes, is
borne along—whither?

Whither? The brave horse strains still upon the rocks, but when, where,
will his journey be finished? It is past midnight and the thunder has
ceased. The darkness is terrible, but the flood-gates of heaven are
closed and the drenching torrent has exhausted itself. Shivering,
hopeless, she clings wildly to that drooping neck with the grasp of one
sinking beneath the swell of a strong tide. She feels her clothes
brushing against the stony walls, and shudders, feebly feeling that any
moment she may be swept off and hurled—whither? She dares not
think—dares not dwell upon her fearful situation. The thought thrills
her with horror. Her only hope is centered, next to God, upon the rare
animal of which she has so strangely become possessed—upon his keen eye
and sure foot. If he falters—if his foot should chance to fall upon a
rolling stone or fail to span the yawning chasm, then—what then? She has
no strength to picture the horror that would follow.

On! good steed. On! thou desert-born! A priceless human life is hanging
on those firmly-planted hoofs. On! champion of the prairie, with thy
white mane and tail waving like phantom banners in the darkness. On!
There must be no pause for rest, till that poor shivering creature finds
a shelter. Alone, unguided, horse and rider tread the perilous way, but
with instinct nearly allied to mind, the steed carries his fair burden
patiently, but still upward. There is strength in his sinewy limbs, and
fire in his eyes—swift blood coursing through his veins and courage in
his heart; but beware! The fiends of death are weaving their spells in
the dark valley,—their stakes are set and toils ready to snare thy
unsuspecting feet.

Is it a dream—some phantom of the brain? Can it be that she is losing
the balance of mind, or is it a joyful reality that the path becomes
more level—even downward, and the horse steps more surely and promptly,
as if a firm hand were upon the bridle-rein? Intently, thrilled to the
very heart’s core, she listens, but the hollow tramp of the steed alone
greets her ear. Dare she look? Would she see again the form of her
savage persecutor? Was she once more a prisoner? Alone with him, that
red-browed warrior, the Black Eagle, on the mountain crest, in darkness
and midnight? The thought was death.

Yes; the course is downward! That much she knows. But is she still a
lonely wanderer? Ah! to solve that question might well have tired
stronger nerves than hers, especially when stretched as they had been to
the utmost tension by anguish and fear. But, suspense was not to be
endured. Look she did, but without raising her head. She looked and
closed her eyes, shuddering. An Indian was leading the horse carefully
forward! Her worst fears had proved fatally true; the blackness of the
night was as sunshine, when compared to the terror that seized upon her.

An hour of silence—an hour that had been lengthened out into days by her
agony—then her steed halted. A hand was laid gently upon her shoulder,
as if to arouse her. She sprung wildly to the ground.

“Off!” she exclaimed. “Don’t touch me, for heaven’s sake, or I shall
die!”

The night had broken away from the mountains. The earth was fresh and
fair around her. Leafy pine and feathery hemlock framed the spot on
which she was standing, and dripping with rain, they filled the air with
their resinous odors. Every object was clear to her vision. She took
courage from the growing light, and began to wonder why the Indian she
had so passionately addressed, returned no answer. She turned toward
him—her savage tormentor, whom her very soul loathed—and saw, not the
Black Eagle, but the proud form and clear, calm eye of the mountain
chief, Osse ’o.

Something like a smile lurked in the corners of his clearly-cut mouth,
and flitted over his bronzed features. He spoke to her in the same
measured and musical tones she so well remembered.

“The child of the pale-face is safe. The _gens du lac_ found her
wandering alone in the mountain.” Inadvertently, perhaps, he addressed
her in the language of the Dacotahs, and then, as if remembering
himself, repeated the words in French, and perceiving that she
understood him, continued:

“When the storm was howling its wildest, and the red bolts were
quivering to earth from the bow of the great Manitou, Osse ’o saw his
own white horse flash through the darkness like the horse that shall
bear the warrior when he has passed the dark valley. Osse ’o’s heart
filled with joy, for he knew the steed at once, and was wandering
himself afoot.”

“But I saw you hurled from the precipice,” gasped the girl, gazing upon
the Indian with her strained eyes.

“The great Manitou that gives to the eagle wings can keep his children
from harm. The hounds of death were howling for his blood in the rocky
caves below; he was swinging on a branch as slender almost as the hair
which falls from that head. A white man—one of her own tribe in skin,
but not in heart—raised his fire-weapon, and the bullet hissed as it
passed through his hair.” The Indian removed his otter-cap, and pointed
to a hole in it.

“Good heaven! can this be true? A white man shot at you when you were
swinging over that fearful abyss!”

“There are black hearts among Indians and white men alike. It was the
sachem of the Lake of Salt.”

“The Mormon! Thank mercy it was none of my people.”

“The trail has been long, the night cold, and the girl of snowy skin
trembles like a dove when the hawk is swooping down to wet his beak in
her blood.”

“Yes; I am very, very cold.”

“By that tree, scarred and splintered by the forked lightning, there is
a cave. Let her go and rest within it. Osse ’o will build a fire to warm
her limbs, and bring her food. She must rest. He will watch her while
she sleeps.”

“But you are—”

“A Dacotah!”

“And the Black Eagle?”

“Will never find her. But she trusts no Indian face, she fears Osse ’o.
He means her no harm.”

“No, I do not; but—”

“The tongue speaks, but the heart feels.”

“I will trust you, for you have been very kind to me. Still, you are an
Indian, and a stranger.”

“I am a MAN!” was the proud reply, and taking her hand, he led her,
unresisting, into the cavern of the mountain.

As if touched, insulted, by her doubts, he spoke no further, but hastily
collecting the remnants of a former fire that lay scattered around the
floor, and had been effectually protected from the storm, he very soon
kindled a blaze that was grateful indeed to the shivering girl. Then
leaving her, he hastened to the thicket and soon returned loaded with
fragrant pine-boughs, and after carefully arranging and covering them
with smaller and softer ones, he motioned her to rest. From some clear
spring near the cave, he brought, in a hastily improvised cup of leaves,
a cool draught, and held it to her lips, as one would have given drink
to a child, for he saw that reaction was taking place, and her trembling
hands almost refused their office. From a pouch that hung on the wall,
he took dried deer meat and pounded corn, and after boiling the former
carefully, placed it in her lap upon a plate of bark.

“My horse,” he said, turning to go.

“Oh! forgive me for having doubted you. I was mad with that fearful
ride,” she pleaded, touched to the heart, not only by the care he had
bestowed on her, but by the truly gentle and respectful manner in which
it had been performed, so entirely different from any thing she had
before seen among the Indians.

But he either did not heed or cared little for her words, for he
abruptly left her side, and then, apparently touched by the tears that
had gathered in her eyes, and the sad shadows upon her face, returned,
and almost whispered, in his strangely thrilling voice:

“Let the daughter of the pale chief sleep. Let her banish the black
thoughts from her heart. She would go again to the moving wigwams of her
people. It shall be so. But first she must renew her strength by
slumber. The _gens du lac_ will keep guard, and she may rest safely as
if her mother rocked. When the sun is high, and birds that love the
bright gold of noon are singing their songs of praise to the good
Manitou, then will Osse ’o call her and the trail shall begin.”

“Thanks, a thousand thanks. Yes; I am very weary. But my poor, poor
father.”

“There will be joy again in his heart. Sleep! The herbs of the forest
are sweet as the rose-scented gardens of the East, where the honey-bee
wanders and humming-birds fold their wings in the cups of flowers.
Sleep, lady, sleep; the Wahkan Tanka, the Supreme Spirit of earth, air
and water, ever guards the pure in heart. Sleep.”

With these words the Indian left her. She watched his tall, graceful
form as it passed from the cavern, and was seated at the entrance with
the face turned away. Faint and worn out, she lay down in the couch of
fresh pine-branches and strove to sleep, but wild fancies haunted her
tired brain, and she could not hush them into slumber while the strange
man’s shadow fell across the mouth of the cave. Who could he be, with
the garb of a savage and graceful courtesy which marks the highest
civilization? Truly, he was an Indian, but with that voice, those gentle
words, it was difficult to think of him as a savage. He had been kind to
her as a brother, and evidently meant her well. Or—her heart bounded
again, as if serpent-stung—could all this be treachery? She put this
idea aside. Then the scene changed and she thought of her father, of his
agony at her loss, of his brave heart but aged limbs toiling on the
mountain trail to rescue her, of his patient sufferings and utter
forgetfulness of self. But again she looked and saw Osse ’o still seated
as before, but with his head bowed upon his hands. Could he, also, have
bitter thoughts? Did the heart of an Indian ever feel the fierce
passions that cause the sufferings she was enduring?

“Oh, shame! shame!” almost burst from her lips, as she reflected how
nobly he had acted, and then her folded arms received the aching head,
and she softly wept herself to sleep.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                   THE DACOTAH’S CAMP—LOVE’S TRIUMPH.


Surprised as the Black Eagle was at the escape of his fair prisoner, he
was too free from the superstitions of his people for any idea that she
had disappeared by supernatural means. But for the certainty that Osse
’o had been thrown over the precipice by his own hands, to meet a death
which no mortal power could avert, he might have suspected that singular
man of being the agent of her escape; but no human agency was apparent
here. The girl must have extricated herself in the height of the
_melée_, and urged her horse off in wild desperation. Ignorant of the
trail, she must still be wandering in the mountains, and to discover and
bring her back was his first business. He waited, however, to see such
of his band as had been wounded properly cared for, as that was a duty
no Indian chief could delay with impunity. Then, leaving a guard to
protect them from the wild animals that a scent of blood had drawn
prowling to the neighborhood, he gathered up the rest of his force, and
took the backward trail.

It was not difficult to find the trail, or, for a time, follow its
windings. But when it had led him into the most intricate fastnesses of
the mountain, the thunder-storm burst out in its furious wrath, and he
stood in the depth of the wilderness awe-struck and trembling with
abject fear. The angry Manitou was howling fierce wrath upon him for the
cowardly murder he had done. Struck with terror by this idea, the stout
warrior of the forest fell upon his face and shrunk his limbs together,
groveling close to the earth, in dread of the fiery arrows that came
shooting through the leaves, while the mountain on which he lay
reverberated with thunder-bursts. As every battle-note of the storm
swept over him, he clung closer to the earth, till the eagle-plume on
his head was trailed in mud, and his rich barbarian garments were
dripping with rain. When the telegraph of heaven sent its subtle fluid
athwart the face of the mountain, a cold shiver ran through him, and he
cried aloud in his wild Indian tongue, pleading for mercy. His only
answer was a fresh burst of thunder, more vivid gleams of lightning, a
wilder turmoil among the giant forest-trees, which brought him up from
the earth in a fierce panic. When this fresh outbreak of the storm had
gone howling off through the wilderness, he sunk crouching to the earth
again, and in the darkness and drifting rain, blinded, chilled, and
shocked to the soul—a very wreck of savage pride and savage perfidy.

“The Wahkan Tanka is angry with his children,” whispered a savage, who
sat near him. “He has sent the dark-winged spirits of the evil one to
upheave the strong mountains, and topple down the lofty cliffs.”

“The spirits of the Wahkan Shecha are here!” replied the Black Eagle,
shaking in all his limbs, when a fiercer crash burst upon their ears,
and a tree was splintered and fell in blazing ruins almost at their
feet, lightning-struck, and illuminating all the rocky points of the
mountain.

“Let the children of the Dacotahs turn back to their wigwams. The Great
Spirit hates the trail their moccasins are following. He has sent the
fire-eyed ones from his giant wigwam, in the far-off clouds, to warn
them,” cried an old warrior, starting up in the red light of the
stricken tree.

“When they met the sons of the pale-face in battle,” cried another, “he
turned their arrows aside, made their arms weak as the little pappoose,
and their bow-strings snap like the dry reed in the breath of the
tempest. Manitou is very angry!”

“Hark!” exclaimed another—for in an hour like that, all the usual
etiquette of the council-fire was thrown aside—the pipe was left
unsmoked, and the wampum-belt was not passed from hand to hand. “Hark!
the chieftains of the Dacotahs are not deaf. They have ears, and they
can hear his voice as it was in its anger. They are not blind; they can
see the flash of his eye as it lights mountain and prairie with its red
glare. Let them go back again to their homes.”

“Yes,” answered the old warrior, stoutly. “When the sun-spirit smiles
again upon the world—when its golden wings drive the black-plumed ones
to their hiding places, then the foot of the Dacotahs will take the
trail. No horse of the prairie, or moccasin of man can keep their
footing in the mountains now.”

But with the voices of his people in his ears, Black Eagle shook off his
terror. Even in that hour—even in the short lull of the storm which had
followed the lightning-stroke that shivered the giant pine of the
mountain, and scattered the _debris_ in a fiery storm around them, his
black heart aroused itself, and resumed its wicked purpose. Again he was
plotting treason and weaving crafty spells.

Ah, man! man! how vain is all warning to the selfish and cruel of heart!
A moment before, and that wild chief had cast himself to the earth,
aghast at the lightning, and crouching in fear at the open-mouthed
thunder. But the sky-written lesson of doom passes from his mind while
its fire was yet flaming around him.

“See!” whispered one of the warriors to Black Eagle, “See!”

Far down in the valley, but coming noiselessly up the very side of the
mountain, climbing as it were along the bald face, a snowy object
glides. What is it? what can it be? each Indian asks of the others, for
their tongues were fettered by terror. Surely nothing mortal would be
abroad in a storm like that; and if a human being could be found so
desperate in courage, it was impossible to scale the dizzy cliffs.
On—on, still it goes, dimly visible, ghastly white, unearthly, in the
dim, bluish gleams of lightning. They look again, and it is gone. Gone
even as a smoke-wreath disappears from before the eye, we know not
whither. It was a spirit to the many—a wandering semblance of something
once belonging to earth. To the Black Eagle, it was the phantom-horse of
his murdered brother, that, killed among the rocks, was wandering,
ghost-like, seeking for his late master. But if this was so—and his
superstitious soul could not shake the belief off—where, then, was the
girl for whom he had ventured and lost so much?

But the wind sobbed itself to sleep, the black clouds were no more riven
by flame, and the earth was left unshaken by the thunder—the airy
fountains had dashed themselves to spray against the rocks. The world
wrapped itself in the mantle of darkness and slept, still shivering
under the storm that had passed over it. The solemn silence of the calm
followed the terrific crashing of the tempest, and slumber settled
heavily down upon the travel-stained and weary band of red-men, whose
strength had been exhausted by their fears.

Is it true that angels guard us when we slumber, and, awake, leave us to
temptation, and perchance crime? In the hour of darkness, is there an
unseen, unknown power, that watches by our pillows, blunts the edge of
the assassin’s knife, and turns the glittering steel aside? If such a
power there be, (and who will dare dispute it?) then it kept watch and
ward of the sleeping warriors of the Dacotahs—blood-stained and
merciless as they were, in that almost unsheltered bivouac. When the
weight pressed upon eye and brain, and when the body was most leaden,
there crept into their midst, timidly, and as that spirit might have
taken form had it really watched there, Waupee, the abandoned wife of
Black Eagle. Bitter, indeed, must have been the passion, and deep the
love which had so long kept her upon the trail of her husband, and
severe must have been the toil she had endured tracking him, like a
sleuth-hound among the winding-paths of the mountains. Love, fiery
love—the one master-passion of an Indian woman’s life—must have been
entirely blotted out, and all the serpents that lurk among human
passions in the hour of its darkness, must have entered and held
triumphant sway in her savage nature. It is a terrible thing when all
the finer feelings of our nature are thrown broadcast to the winds, and
standing on the verge of the maelstrom of despair, an immortal soul
recklessly plunges into the mad waves beneath, to be whelmed and lost
forever!

Groping along in the darkness, with lowly-bent form, and step light as
the snow-flake’s fall, the Indian woman examined the face and dress of
each sleeper. At length she kneels and touches with gentle fingers the
fringed leggins and quill-worked hunting-shirt of a chief, who lay
somewhat separated from his companions. The garments were dripping with
wet, but she knew them. Then her hands are pressed over her beating
heart, as if to still the wild outcries that struggled for utterance, or
to subdue the terrible pain throbbing there. Her own fingers had woven
the mystic emblems she was tracing on the chief’s garments. She had
herself dressed the tough deer skin, embroidered, the curiously-woven
ornaments, colored the gaudy horse-hair fringe—and all for whom?

Memory is busy within her inmost soul now. She sees a painted wigwam, at
whose base the sleeping waters of the Spirit Lake ripple. The form of
one, praised as the beauty of the tribe, sitting and singing as she
weaves the sparkling beads into designs of grace and beauty. A manly
step falls upon her ear, and her song is hushed, but to drink in far
sweeter music to a maiden’s ear, the words of affection from the lips of
the chosen one who already owns her heart. Then the happy bridal, and
the wild, sweet bliss of a love-marriage—the resting of a soul fully
satisfied—the low cooing of the dove that has folded its silver wings in
its pretty nest, and pours out heart music all the day long! That was a
true picture of the past—but now?

Lower bends the lithe form, until the fringe upon her robe mingles with
that with which she has adorned her once lover. Even the long locks of
her hair, unbraided now, disheveled, wet and heavy, fall upon his face
and startle him. Muttering in his sleep, he turns on the earth, throwing
his strong arms on either side, and fully exposing the broad breast,
heaving with the deep pulsations of a busy heart.

Was there a truer mark for knife or hatchet? Did murder ever gaze upon a
surer target for its venomed shafts?

The woman drew back, until all again was still, and then her cold hand
searched that broad chest until she felt the throbbing heart beneath.
Quick as thought, a slender knife leaps from the concealment of her
dress, and flashes like a silver thread in the gloom. The arm is raised
on high, the form drawn to its perfect height, the lip compressed, and
the nerves braced, and then!

Warrior of the wilderness, if around thy path a good spirit ever
flitted—if a white-robed angel ever fanned thy swarthy forehead, or took
thee in its holy keeping, now—_now_, let it guard thee from sudden
death. Let the broad shield of mercy be held above thee, and that cruel
knife be turned aside in the hand of thy wronged wife.

The poised knife descends, cutting the air like the flash of a
star-beam. It is driven by a desperate hand. Let the canoe be waiting on
the hither shores of the river of time, to ferry that savage soul to
that farther bank that angels call “here after.”

No, thank God! She was a savage, but could not stain her innocent hand
in blood, wronged though her love had been. The pure, womanly gold
triumphed over the base alloy of passion. Once she had loved him; once
he had been kind to her; once—it was gone now—all gone; but holy
thoughts of those days came back, and she flung the knife from her with
a shudder, bowed herself beside the sleeping man, and wept piteously.
Ah, triumphant love, undying devotion! Alike in the civilized and savage
soul—the last at the cross and the first at the tomb.

As one suddenly awakes from a fearful dream, that poor, sorely tried and
tempted woman pressed both hands to her throbbing temples. Then the old
deep love surged up through all her wrongs, and asserted its dominion
once more. All the wild adoration of her heart in other days came back,
baptizing her soul afresh. No, no, she could not murder him sleeping.
That head, lying so dusky and massive in the star-light, had been
pillowed upon her breast. The heart her knife menaced had beat against
her own. He had been kind, very kind, once. But it was death to her to
be found near him. She refrained from using her power, but would he
prove equally merciful if he awoke. And he was going—whither? There was
madness in that thought. Going to seek another and a fairer bride—to put
her, the true wife, from his wigwam forever.

Bending still lower, softly, gently, as a mother would caress a sleeping
babe, she kissed the full lips, then in silence left the encampment. It
was the last kiss—the last—she should ever press upon that false mouth.
All the world now was utter darkness to her, the road she traveled
uncared for. To flee—flee, as it were, from herself—was the only object
she had in view. Swift as a hunted deer she dashed down the mountain
side, and away into the wilderness.

At any other time, Dacotah as she was, Waupee would have carefully
scrutinized the path, for well she knew that the gaunt bear of the
mountain made his den in the caverns and hollow trees around her; that
the monarch of the fastnesses growled his anger when wandering footsteps
sounded near his den, and tore the intruder on his domains piecemeal.
She knew that each step was margined with danger, from the sliding
_debris_ on the narrow path, and pitfalls lurked unseen to tempt the
foot to press the mimic bridge that concealed destruction. But all fear
was swallowed up in one giant heart-pain, and, half distraught, she
rushed along, unthinking, and heedless of the end. The serpents of
despised, cruelly disdained love, had coiled themselves upon her breast,
and stung it into despair. The full wealth of her wifely affection had
been crushed and flung wantonly aside, trampled ruthlessly under foot,
ground down in the dust, annihilated while yet in the spring-time of its
bloom and fragrance. What was left for her but death? She had not been
nurtured in the schools of civilized life, which train the lip and eye
into smiles, give false roses for the cheeks and lying words of
happiness for the tongue, when the only music of the heart is a funeral
wail. Poor, uneducated eaglet of the wilderness! Thy pinion had been
broken even when soaring most proudly! The shaft of the hunter has found
thee! Broken-winged and brokenhearted, what was left for thee but to
creep into some lone cavern and die?

The sleep of the party of Black Eagle was long and sound, but their
leader was the first astir. Short time was devoted to the preparation of
food, and shorter still for council. Night and storm had passed. The
glorious morning sun swept away their somber foot-prints, and those
savage hearts buoyantly lifted themselves out of their fear, and,
forgetful of the stern resolves and penitential promises they had made,
clothed anew with daring, went defiantly forth to battle and to sin.

Most craftily Black Eagle worked upon the minds of his followers,
painting what sweet revenge it would be upon the white men to repossess
themselves of their wandering prisoner, for wandering, unless dead, she
must be. The luring bait of gold he also held out to them, and was
eloquent on the pleasures of its possession, until, with one accord, his
warriors consented to accompany him, and the march of the rescue began.

Rescue? When the fowler takes the bird or the fisherman the spotted
trout from the net, is it for rescue? When the strong-willed and
strong-armed man beats back the angry waves, bears the drowning victim
ashore on the rocky heights of Patagonia, is it for rescue? See! poised
on its light wings, a very spot in the ether, sails the hawk. His
slender form is mirrored in the placid tide below, and his keen eye is
watching for his scaly prey. There is a sudden dart, a plashing of the
water, and a writhing body is torn from its native element, and borne
aloft in the talons of the victor. But see, again! like an avalanche an
eagle rushes through the startled air, from its lookout on the dry old
pine. In mid-air he strikes the conqueror down. Is not he intent upon
rescuing the feeble fish? Truly, yes, but for what? Earth is everywhere
filled with the answer, and it needs no written words to blazon the
burning shame so often hidden in the single word.

Off they go, that dark band of Indian warriors—black wolves, following
on the trail of a wounded doe. Better for the poor girl they hunted to
have perished in the glare of the lightning, amid the rolling music of
the thunder, than meet them in the hour of their wrath.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                         WALTERMYER—A CHAMPION.


“Waal,” exclaimed Kirk Waltermyer, as his good horse floundered along in
the darkness, “of all the rides I ever had this is the beat. I’ve hearn
tell of storms in the mountings, and thought I had seen them, but they
were nowhar compared to this. Whew! how the wind tussles with the
tree-tops and whistles in the gulches. I tell you, this is some! I’ve
half a mind to camp, and would, only—poor little Est! I wonder if the
rain falls as heavily, and the wind soughs as mournfully around your
grave, my poor gal?”

The recollection of his little dead sister, now ever kept in memory by
the name of the young creature he was seeking to save, humanized and
softened his usual rough speech. Still he continued, as if addressing a
companion who could reply, and not his faithful horse, with whom his
one-sided conversation was held. And yet, if the doctrine of the
transmigration of souls were true, might not this matchless steed have
been gifted with the keen perception of some great man whose death the
world still mourns? We know the foolish falsehood of the story, and yet
there exist examples in the brute creation, that, weighed in the scale
of worth, would make many a man shrink into littleness.

“I know some horses, Star,” he continued, “that I wouldn’t ride across
this mountain in a dark night—nary a time. No, not for all the gold in
Shasta. Hello! what kind of a caper is that?”

The horse had come to a sudden stop—so sudden as to shake even his
perfect rider, and stood with braced feet, snorting nostrils, and eyes
flashing fire, immovable in limb as if sculptured from the very rock on
which he stood, and yet his whole body trembling with fear. His keen
sight—far more keen than mortal eye in the darkness—had discovered
something unusual in the path before him.

“By heaven!” exclaimed the startled frontiersman, as his ready rifle was
braced against his shoulder, “if it hain’t an Indian. No, it’s a
creepin’, snarlin’ wolf. No, ’tis a b’ar. No, it hain’t none of them.
It’s—by thunder, I don’t know what it is;” and he swung himself from his
horse, and, bending down, closely watched.

That it was something endowed with life he readily perceived, but what
it was he could not make out. Wolf nor bear ever made those stealthy
motions, or crept thus slowly along. It was very indistinct, and again
he raised his rifle.

“If you be a human, speak,” he shouted; “but if a b’ar or a cowardly
cayote, then I’m arter your scalp, and no mistake. But no, no; I don’t
need it, and such a night is enough to make beast and man brothers. No,
no, I’ll not shoot. Go your way, and if—as I live by bread and buffalo
meat, it’s gone! I’ve traveled many a long mile in my day, and this
bangs all the other doin’s I ever saw. I do think it was a human,
or”—and he raised his hand to his head, as if to be certain that his
hair would not lift his cap off in terror of the thought, and his voice
dropped to a whisper—“or it mought have been a ghost!”

“Yes, it was a speerit,” he whispered, under his breath; “a poor,
wanderin’ speerit, that can not rest quietly in the grave. Poor soul—who
knows but that it mought come back again;” and, for the first time
during the night, his spurs touched his horse’s flank, and with a great
leap the generous brute bounded forward.

But he could not shake the fear from his mind, and he who,
single-handed, would have dauntlessly rode into the face of death, now
looked anxiously around in the quest of something that his better
judgment told him could not exist.

With a feeling of vague terror, Waltermyer still urged his horse on. He
had but one object in view, that was to reach the topmost cliff, and
there, when morning’s dawn transfigured earth, he could command a
boundless view. But the frontiersman had not a heart or mind to linger
on imaginary danger.

Soon the cool breeze swept downward, and wantoned with his wet hair, and
made merry with his draggled garments, and in its freshness his
hardihood returned; even the strain of an old hunting-song hung upon his
lips and struggled for utterance as he rode along.

Clearly above him, through the sharp-cut walls of the cañon, he soon
began to see the stars shine brightly, and, as the golden light came
shimmering down through the leaves, his way became clear, and he urged
his good steed more rapidly forward. Then came the gray of morning, the
hour when the cloudy waves of night are at full ebb, and stand
transfixed, as it were, with golden arrows for a moment, before the
flood of day comes surging from the eastern ocean. In the weird
semi-light he rode blithely on. A foaming rivulet that a few hours
before had held no drop of moisture rolled before him. The whole earth
was refreshed, and he felt the glorious influence.

“Come, Star!” he lifted his horse with hand and rein, and rode boldly
in.

To the very saddle-bow sunk the horse, as he plunged in the stream, and
the foam-beads danced among his tawny mane as his feet failed to reach
the bottom.

“Come, Star! Come, good horse!” and his manly voice rang above even the
roar of the swollen waters.

But spur, and rein, and voice were all needed now, and when the noble
steed reached the opposite bank, it required all his strength and
agility to mount it. His fore-feet rest upon the shelving, rocky
brink—he rears for the leap—he rises light as a bird on the wing—his
hindermost hoofs strike upon the bank, but the insecure footing gives
way—he trembles like a strong man, struggling against a giant in the
wrestling ring.

“Come, Star! Once more, my boy!”

A giant effort, and a giant leap, and he stands trembling on secure
ground, with the water dripping from his glossy hide, and the snowy spot
in his forehead gleaming from amid its blackness—a very blazing star,
looking out from a storm.

A moment given only to rest, to the recuperation of the vast energy he
has just exhibited, and again that tireless horse takes the upward
trail, without a word or sign from his master. But his steps are
checked. Not that he needed rest—not that Waltermyer, kind-hearted as he
was, and even more than tender of his favorite steed, had become
doubtful of his strength; but another vision had crossed his track—a
ghost appeared before him.

“By—!” but he strangled the oath, and beat back the impious word, before
it could find utterance. “Ef it’s not the same thing I saw down below!
And it is—hold! don’t jump, for your life! Stop, I say! don’t do it
here!” and his horse sprung, as if gifted with wings, beneath the sharp
rowel.

Even in the uncertain light, his well-trained eye had discovered that it
was a human being, standing on a rocky shelf full a hundred feet above
him, and preparing to spring from the fearful height. Who it was he did
not pause to think. Enough for him to know that some fellow-being was in
trouble, and bent on self-destruction. In as many seconds the swift
horse stood on the shelf of rock, and Waltermyer leaped from its back
while in full career.

It was an Indian woman, intent on leaping down that fearful height. Her
form was bent, and her arms thrown wildly upward for the terrible leap,
when the frontiersman interposed.

“By—!” once more the oath was unuttered.

“Yes, it’s a woman!” he continued, as the form became limp, and hung
heavily in his arms. “A woman, as I live! May be it’s—” he could not
speak the name, but, turning up the face tenderly, saw in the dim light,
not the white girl he was searching for, but the features of Waupee, the
poor heart-broken wife.

“Pshaw!” he muttered, in disappointment. “It is only a squaw;” and then,
as if ashamed of himself, he smoothed the long, black hair from the
bronzed face, and after laying the poor creature carefully on the
ground, hastened to the stream he had so lately passed, and filled his
cap with water. Returning hurriedly, he bathed the upturned face. He was
a rude nurse, but kind-hearted, and there was something in the utter
helplessness of the wretched Indian woman that took a strong hold upon
his rough nature, and exercised an influence over him a thousand women
under other circumstances would have failed in producing.

“Waal, she’s real pooty, too,” he muttered, between his teeth. “The
pootyest squaw I ever sot eyes on. Who would have thought a red-skinned
gal could look so much like a human? But she’s waking up now;” and he
seated himself by her side, looking at her with eyes full of wonder and
pity.

Like a frightened fawn, the Indian woman started from the rock and gazed
about her. She had been so suddenly snatched from the jaws of death, had
swooned so deeply, that, for a time, she was lost to all surroundings,
and when she opened her eyes, it was like one coming out of total
darkness into the glaring light of day. Anxiously, afraid almost, she
gazed about her—at the coal-black steed—the strong form and face of the
frontiersman, and at the cliff beyond. Then, in all its fearful reality
the scene came back to her, and burying her face in her lap, she sat for
a long time speechless, after the fashion of her people.

“My good woman,” began Waltermyer, anxious to break the silence, and yet
doubtful how or where to commence, “you came mighty near a-fallin’ off
the cliff. And now,” continued Waltermyer, “as soon as you have rested a
little you must git on my horse thar—he’s a good and true one and a
sure-footed—and I will take you to a place of safety, if not home.”

“Waupee has no home,” was the sad response.

“No home? Waal, I might say the same of myself. But I s’pose your home
is like mine—that is, your tribe’s is—any whar, whar the night overtakes
you. But cheer up; I will take you to your tribe.”

“Waupee must not go to her tribe.”

“Not go to your people? Waal, this beats natur’.”

“A moon ago there was light in her wigwam—now all is darkness. Waupee
would have given herself to the dark angels of death. The pale-face
saved her and she thanks him. Once before, when the night was dark, she
saw him.”

“Saw me?”

“Like a serpent she crawled across his path.”

“You did! Waal, I must have took you for a ghost.”

“The red fiends of murder were in her heart. She was seeking her
husband—who turned her out to die, and—”

“The infernal brute!”

“She found him far up in the hills. The sharp knife was in her hand—her
arm was raised—”

“But you could not strike him?”

“She had loved him once.”

“Thank God for that!” In the hour of strife, when the hot blood was
rioting through the heart, the frontiersman could well and willingly
fight his way; but to murder a sleeping man in cold, calculating blood,
was a thought that made him, iron-nerved as he was, shudder and grow
faint.

“The poor wife he had spurned from his wigwam—the bride of but little
more than one small moon—kissed him as he slept, and then turned away
forever.”

“That was right—the varmint.”

“She had nothing to live for. Husband, tribe—all was gone. What could
she do but die?”

“And so he turned you out—a pooty woman like you, did he?”

For a moment, the black eyes of the Indian woman flashed upon his, as if
to learn the meaning of the flattering words he had used, but reading
sincerity and not unmeaning compliment in every feature of his face, she
replied:

“He had seen a girl of snowy skin—and carried her away from her friends
to fill his wigwam, and—”

“Hold your horses, thar. A white gal?”

“Fair as the flowers of spring, with hair like the silk of the maize in
the autumn time—eyes like the blue summer sky—cheeks like the climbing
rose of the prairie, and lips red as the sumac berries, and voice sweet
as the music of spring-waters in the desert.”

“Whar is she now?”

By degrees, he learned the entire history of Esther’s capture—the
wandering—the battle and the escape—all except the death of Osse ’o, for
of that the woman was ignorant—then his fiery heart burst forth in no
measured words. Fierce were the passions that shook his frame, and
bitter would have been his revenge if the abductors had stood before
him. But even in his wildest torrent of words, there came a controlling,
soul-subduing influence. He murmured, “poor little Est,” and restraining
himself, continued:

“I ought to know most of the chiefs at Spirit Lake. Did I ever meet this
Indian?”

“He is known among the Dacotahs as the Black Eagle.”

“Black devil! Yes, I know him, and a blacker-hearted fiend never stole
horses or murdered peaceful emigrants. Waal, waal, his time will come.
But he’s but an Indian arter all, and it’s his natur’, I s’pose; but, as
for that rascally Elder, if ever I catch him, I’ll make him think that
he’s tied to a drove of buffaloes, and they are all kicking him at
once.”

“The tongue of Waupee has traveled the trail of truth.”

“I believe you, gal. Thar hain’t no lyin’ hid in your looks, like a
serpent in the tall sloo-grass. Yes, I believe you.”

“The pale warrior knows all the poor squaw can tell him. He will follow
the trail and the great Manitou will smile upon him. He was very kind to
the poor Indian woman, and she will never forget him. Now she will go.”

“Go? Whar in thunder are you goin’ to?”

“The Manitou will guide her moccasins.”

“But you said you had neither home or tribe.”

“She will make for herself a home in the caves of the mountains, and
wait patiently until the death-angel shall drive away the white-winged
spirit of life.”

“If you do, may I be—! Oh, poor little Est!”

“Where then shall she go?”

“Go? Why with me.”

“The chiefs of the pale-face will laugh at their brother for being kind
to a woman of the Dacotahs.”

“That hain’t the safest kind of business, I can tell you, but I don’t
care for their laughin’. My shoulders are broad, and can carry a pretty
big load.”

“But they will look black on Waupee—will laugh at her wrongs, and
trample her heart in the ashes.”

“Let them do it ef they dare! Let any one, even if he war my brother,
that is, ef I had one, try to crush or hurt the feelin’s of a poor
creature who has been so trampled upon, and Kirk Waltermyer will teach
them a lesson they will remember longer than any thing they ever larned
at school.”

“The pale-face has been very kind, and the daughter of the Dacotahs will
not see him insulted for her sake.”

“Now, you just a-hear. I honor you for your feelin’s, and like you for
your speerit, but I don’t go one step without you. So thar! Ef you have
made up your mind to camp here until doomsday, why, I’ll pitch my tent
too, and Star with me.”

“Has the pale-face thought of what his tribe will say?”

“Tribe be—blessed. Don’t frown, little Est, for that’s no swearin’. I
hain’t any more of a tribe than you have, so just make up your mind to
come along quietly like a good girl, and I’ll soon show you that Kirk
Waltermyer has a heart that beats like a trip-hammer, and always in the
right place. He hain’t any more given to braggin’ than one of your
warriors; but if anybody even dares to question about you, they’ll find
you have got one friend that hain’t to be easily handled.”

“Waupee will go with the pale-face for a time.”

“Waal, I reckon it will be a long time onless you find some better place
to camp in than these desolate mountings. Here, Star,” and he whistled
his faithful horse to his side.

Star came up ready for action. When Waltermyer had drawn the girths
tighter and arranged both bridle and saddle to his liking, he lifted the
light form of Waupee from the earth before she had the slightest
intimation of his intention, and swung her upon the back of the horse
with as little difficulty as if she had been but a feather’s weight. The
hot blood welled up into cheek, brow, and neck of the woman, and shone
ruddy even through her bronzed skin at the action. But the calm face of
Waltermyer satisfied her that all with him was perfect kindness and good
faith, before even his words had reached her ear.

“Thar now, you’ll ride like a princess—though I don’t well know what
they may be. Onyhow, you’re not a-goin’ to walk, while I own a horse. I
know the braves, as they call themselves in your tribe, make you go on
foot while they strut off on thar horses all fiery-fired to death. But I
don’t and won’t! Thar’s no use a-talkin’, it’s just what Kirk Waltermyer
would do for any woman.”

“When the pale-face tires, Waupee will walk.”

“Tires? Waal, ef that isn’t about the richest thing I ever heard. When I
tire!”

“But the horse will grow weary. The trail has been a long one and the
night stormy.”

“My horse grow a-weary? Waal, that’s equil to the other! When he gits
tired I’ll take you in my arms, for not a single step shall a woman walk
on such a trail as this, while Kirk Waltermyer draws breath;” and he
laid his strong hand on the rein and led the way down the mountain.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                   REVOLT—ALONE ON THE HEIGHTS—TRIAL.


Bitter crimination followed the Mormon leader after his engagement with
the Indians, but fortunately for him, no lives had been lost, else, in
the passion of the hour, even his supposed sacred character would
scarcely have preserved him from punishment at the hands of his
followers.

“It ain’t no use, Thomas,” (he had dropped the “Elder,”) “in talking any
more about it. I shan’t for one go poking about in these hills after a
girl that none of us care about.”

“But hear me, brother,” interposed the Elder.

“I heard more’n enough, now. The fact is I don’t believe more’n half you
say, anyhow, and if you was to divide that half by about ten I think it
might be better still. Anyhow, I am not a-going with you, and that’s
flat.”

“But think of the poor girl.”

“Think of my wife and little children.”

“They will be well taken care of. Upon the head of those who disobey and
make light of the prophets of the Lord shall fall grievous curses.”

“Well, now, fire away with them. I don’t think the curses of a man that
goes around stealing other folks’ children can hurt a man much, anyhow.
Come, boys, who’s a-going with me?”

A large portion, the greater part in fact, drew away from the Elder and
gathered round their champion.

The horse of the self-appointed leader of the dissenting party was
turned with his last word, and he started down the mountain path. A few
only remained behind, but they, one by one, departed also.

Thomas turned his horse’s head toward the scene of the late affray, and,
after passing the night crouched low among the rocks where the awful
majesty of God was written on the sky in the blazing lightning and
spoken in the bellowing thunder, he safely reached it just as morning
was shaking roseate light from its glorious wings.

Morning, in all its splendor, was abroad. The mist cleared away, and the
dense fog disappeared from the valley. A boundless prospect was opened
to the searching eye of this bad man. In the far-off prairie, he could
see the train of his people winding slowly along—miniature men and
cattle and wagons. Wondering at his absence, they journeyed on. He could
see the pine-trees bowing their lofty crests, and whispering to the wind
a thousand feet below. But vainly he sought for a trace of the red-man.
A tiny smoke, a single curling ribbon of thin, blue vapor rose before
his vision—a slender spiral coil of azure floated softly from the earth,
and soon lost itself in the clouds. The dry wood, always used by the
red-man, gave forth these delicate traces of smoke, and he followed its
guidance. But what if he should encounter Black Eagle and his troop of
savage warriors when angry with defeat? He still carried more gold about
his person, and that would buy their favor; but might it not, also, be a
tempting bait for his own murder? Strangely woven, indeed, was the web
of his thoughts, and he was half tempted to sacrifice every thing and
return to his followers. He looked after them with this purpose firmly
planted in his heart; but the long train of white-covered wagons had
disappeared in the distance, and, almost sadly, he again pressed
forward.

A huge black timber wolf, the most savage of all the monsters of the
mountain, crossed his path—stopped for a moment, and gazed upon him with
bloodshot, fiery eyes and snapping jaws. The Elder raised his pistol and
fired. The swift-winged ball cut a shallow furrow, and the beast
bounded, howling, away, while up the crags and into the caverns leaped
the report. There was more than one wolf traveling that path—more than
one searcher after innocent kids. The many were the wolves of nature—the
one that of unbridled passion.

The wounded beast sought its bone-strewed lair to brood in darkness over
its pain. The pistol had been truly aimed, but its effects had proved
far more fatal upon the man who fired it than on its intended victim.
His horse sprung at the report, reared high, bounded upward with a
desperate plunge, and threw the careless rider among the bushes that
lined the narrow trail. Then, freed of his burden, and exempt from all
controlling influences, he darted wildly down the mountain, his
iron-armed hoofs ringing upon the flinty rocks, from which they sent
forth a stream of flashing sparks.

The Mormon arose uninjured, and gazed wildly around him. Now he felt
utterly alone!

Shaken in every limb—the victim of a double accident by his reckless
horsemanship, and with his garments still wet and stiffened from the
storm, he was forced to clamber up the rocks as best he might, with the
dark shadows of coming evil gathering thickly around him. Weapon, save
the one now partially discharged, he had none—the other was in the
holsters; of food he had not a single mouthful, for the scanty remnant
of his stores was also tied to his saddle. If he could not find the
Indians—if his strength should fail him, he must abide that most
horrible of all deaths—starvation!

The smoke that had lured him onward—where was it now? No trace of it was
upon the air, as far as the eye could reach.

Still on he toils. The sun rises hot and blinding. Its fiery rays,
concentrated in the prison-like opening of the cañon, fall with intense
fury upon his head. The very rocks appear molten beneath his feet; and
as he struggles on, almost bewildered, a burning thirst seizes him—a
living flame is kindled in his vitals. Faint—fainter—yet still on! Is
death coming on him now? Will the black buzzards feast upon him, and
wild wolves wrangle for his bones? Like the miraculous outgush of water
which leaped forth from the cleft rock smitten by the prophet, a crystal
fountain came leaping from the hollows of a cliff just before
him—leaping joyously over its shelf of mossy rock, and sending up its
spray, shimmering in the sunshine like a network of golden lace.

The Elder crept to the base of the rock, over which this current leaped,
and kneeling down, drank of its cool tide as it rushed off to a
neighboring ravine, and lost itself among tangles of fern and
forest-shrubs. The cool draught appeased his raging thirst, and he
looked about more hopefully. He stood upon one side of a rocky hollow,
into which the torrent dashed its waters, troubling them with flashing
beauty. A little way off, on the broken edges of the basin opposite, a
serpent, glittering in all its native splendor of burnished green, and
red and gold, raises its crest, and looks on him with its glittering
eyes. Man and reptile alike had tasted the waters. The one steals slowly
away, rustling on its winding trail—a thing of fear, but innocent in its
desires; while the other starts back in terror, and slowly resumes his
uncertain, dangerous way.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
             THE HOMEWARD TRAIL—THE STRANGE MEETING—FOEMEN.


Esther Morse slept long and refreshingly. When she awoke, a single
glance at the form seated still at the entrance of the cavern brought
all the circumstances of the present back to her mind, and she arose,
flinging aside the heavy hunting-shirt with which the Indian had
protected her from the chill.

“The daughter of the pale-face has slumbered well,” said the Indian,
rising and coming toward her.

“Yes, oh! how much I have to thank you for—and you?”

“When the maiden slumbers the warriors keep watch.”

“But you robbed yourself of your garments to protect me. How very, very
kind.”

“The red-man is accustomed to the cold breath of the mountains and does
not feel it,” said the Indian, turning away.

Hunger is a rare luxury after all. The researches of Ude or Soyer have
never found any thing to rival it. No _epicurean_ dainties can match the
exquisite pleasure found in its gratification. A night in the mountains,
drinking in the very breath of life—the pure, clear, bracing air—a
breakfast hot from the glowing embers and a draught of water from the
icy brook, are worth more than all the exquisite dishes that ever man
invented. It needed no urging, therefore, for the girl to satisfy the
cravings of her keen appetite. In after years she might feast from
silver and crystal spoons on tables groaning with costly luxuries, but
that delicious breakfast from the rude brick plate—the smoking venison,
and the ruddy flakes of the spotted trout—the mountain bivouac and the
mountain appetite—was never to be equaled in her life again.

When Esther had completed her repast, Osse ’o stood leaning against the
entrance of the cave—the rocky pilaster that upheld the giant but
irregular rustic arch above, and listened to the story of her captivity.
Briefly, at his request, she gave the painful particulars, for it was
necessary that he should know them in detail in order to form his future
plans. A lightning flash of the eye—a stern compression of lips—a sudden
swelling of the thin nostril, and a heaving of the breast, alone
betrayed the indignation that was passing within. His figure remained as
motionless as the rock against which he leaned.

“The sun is well up and the streams have run themselves low—the leaves
are dry and the moss no longer slippery,” was his response, when she had
concluded, without in the slightest manner alluding to what he had just
heard. “Osse ’o knows well what trail the white man will travel.”

“But my father—my dear, dear, father!” exclaimed the girl. “He could not
have followed me.”

“The trail of the daughter must be straight as the crow flies to the
moving wigwams of her people. When she is in safety, Osse ’o will find
her father—or die.”

“Die? oh! not that. You have been so kind—so like a brother to me.
Surely there is no danger to you.”

“The way may be long and the trail winding. When the girl of the
pale-faces is ready, we will go.”

“Ready? Now, this instant. Come, I have no fear.” She placed her hand in
his as she spoke, and smiled as he clasped it in his hard palm.

For a single moment only the Indian held it in his tight grasp, then he
uplifted it slightly as if he would have raised it to his lips, but with
a grave sadness in his eyes he checked the impulse, slowly releasing his
grasp, and turned toward his horse that stood ready prepared for the
march. He offered her his foot as a step from which she could mount the
horse.

What a game of living cross-purposes was playing then in the mountains?
Waltermyer, a white man, had become the protector and guide of an Indian
woman. Osse ’o, a Dacotah, was performing the some services for a white
girl. Black Eagle and his followers were hunting for Esther, and the
Mormon seeking for them. All traveling, in reality, blind paths—pursuing
the end of a trail that was shifting every hour—seeking each other as a
baffled man might search for a name written in sand on the sea-shore.

With his hand upon the bridle-rein, the Indian walked almost by Esther’s
side, cheering and guiding the horse. When the narrow trail caused her
to shrink back from the dizzy brink on one side until she brushed the
perpendicular wall of rocks on the other—when the descent became
steep—when the path was cumbered with loose stones—when an overhanging
branch threatened to sweep her from the saddle—when the rocky bed of the
_arroya_ was deep and the current strong—when more than usual danger
lurked around her in any form, he pressed still nearer, warned her of
the danger in deep, earnest whispers—whispers whose undertone was more
like the lower notes of a flute than a human voice—and held her firmly
with his strong arm.

All that is beautiful in human tenderness was concentrated in these
guarding cares. In her gratitude and her admiration, Esther forgot every
thing which might have revolted her at another time.

“See!” said Osse ’o, as he paused to breathe his steed for a moment.
“Far off toward the setting sun are your father’s wagons—the pale-man’s
traveling home. Like little rifts of snow they lie whitely in the
distance.”

“So near? Let us hurry on. Each moment seems a lifetime till I reach my
father.”

“The trail winds round the mountains like a serpent, and even this good
horse must rest. Within an arrow’s shot below, though it takes miles to
reach it, is a huge rock level at the top. A thousand warriors could
camp upon it, and yet find room for more. There I will build a fire and
rest. Then Osse ’o will guide the girl of the pale-faces to her father.”

Without giving her an opportunity to reply, he led the horse rapidly
forward until they reached the plateau he had briefly described.

To the very center of this camping-ground, where it abutted against an
abrupt precipice of immense height, he led the horse and assisted her to
dismount. The wide table-rock lay stretched before them in every
direction; he had chosen this position because he could not be suddenly
attacked while occupying it, nor could an enemy approach undiscovered.
There was no danger of an ambush or surprise there. After freeing his
horse from his equipments, that he might browse freely, he commenced
preparation for the noonday repast.

Hardly however had he gathered the light wood, a task in which Esther,
glad of exercise after her tedious ride, blithely assisted, when the
sound of a horse coming down the path on the opposite side from which
they had entered upon the rocky plain startled them, and while the girl
fled to the concealment of the bushes, Osse ’o hastily snatched his arms
and prepared to defend her. A cheerful, ringing voice followed the
hoof-tramp they had heard.

“Come, old feller, don’t be going to sleep. A half-a-dozen rods further,
and you can roll in clover. Whew! it has been an orful long trail
though. Come on and—” here the speaker came in full sight of the plateau
as he spoke. Instantly changing both his manner and his voice, he
continued:

“Ef thar hain’t one of them blasted red-skins! I only hope it’s that
cus—blessed Black Eagle! Maybe thar won’t be a scrimmage then,” and his
rifle was at his shoulder. “By thunder, I know that are horse; it’s the
only one I ever saw that could range with my black. Hullo! Show your
hand, stranger—friend or foe?”

The Indian dropped his rifle, and holding out his hand, palm foremost,
in token of amity, slowly advanced.

“Ef you’re the rightful owner of that horse, you must be Osse ’o.”

“And you Waltermyer!”

“Just as true as shootin’. Give me your hand, old chap. Here, Waupee,
jump down, it’s all friendly. I didn’t know at first but that there
mought be a chance of a fight, but it’s all right now. But I say, Osse
’o, what in the name of goodness brought you here?”

“Let my brother wait and look,” and proceeding to the bushes, after a
very brief explanation to Esther, Osse ’o led her forward.

Waltermyer dashed forward and grasping the hand of the white girl, shook
it with enthusiastic warmth, exclaiming in his deep, trumpet-like voice:

“Just speak one word, beauty. Just say that your name is Esther and I’ll
be happy as you please.”

“That certainly is my name. But why do you want to know?”

“Come here, Waupee;” and he lifted the Indian from his horse’s back and
placed her by the side of the white girl. “There you are; now get
acquainted.” The two females greeted each other kindly, while the happy
frontiersman was stripping his good steed and shouting:

“Three cheers for you—and you—and all of us. I know the hull story, Osse
’o, and so do you, I suppose, only I can’t surmise how you came to be
here, any more than you can how I got to the shelf. Come, gals, stir
about and let’s have a little somethin’ to eat. I am as ravenous as a
b’ar in the spring-time; more’n that, I want to git down on the perarer
where it’s smooth sailin’ before sun-down.”

Ready hands make quick work; and it was not long before that
strangely-arranged quartette were seated upon the low rock, satisfying
their hunger. Not much time did it require either for them to be fully
conversant with the history of each other’s wanderings and meetings.

The tramp of a horse startled the whole party at last.

“What in thunder is up now?” shouted Waltermyer, snatching his rifle and
springing to his feet.

“The Mormon!” replied Osse ’o.

“Black Eagle!” whispered the Indian woman; and seizing Esther by the
hand she almost dragged her into the concealment of the bushes.

“Twin devils!” exclaimed Waltermyer, loosening his pistols in his belt
ready for instant service, and whistling to his horse he drove him back
toward the perpendicular rocks.

No further words issued from the already compressed lips of the Indian;
but after he had, also, placed his horse by the side of black Star, he
took his position near Waltermyer and awaited the issue that was forced
upon them.

There was silence long enough for the heart to throb scarce a score of
times, and then, at the same instant, Black Eagle rode upon the plateau
from one side, and the Mormon entered on foot from the other.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
            A DUEL IN THE WILDERNESS—A STARTLING REVELATION.


Thus the savage and the Elder met, man to man, on equal terms, the
Indian only having an advantage in the possession of his horse.
Waltermyer and Osse ’o had succeeded in securing their horses, and
retreating behind an abutment of the rocks, waited for the stormy
interview which was sure to follow the contact of these fiery spirits.

Black Eagle rode close to the Elder with a reckless dash, that
threatened to trample him under the hoofs of the half-wild steed.

“Where is the young pale-face?” he questioned, stooping his plumed head,
and hissing forth the words in a half-whisper.

“That is the very question I wish to ask you,” replied the Elder.

“When your white-faced warriors crept like serpents among our braves and
fired on them, she escaped,” answered the chief, sullenly.

“Well, that is, so far, your loss—no, not yours, for I have paid you
well, and you know where the girl is. Take me to her hiding-place, or
give back my gold.”

“Does the pale-face think the Black Eagle a fool?” answered the chief,
with a cold sneer.

“I know that I was one, to trust an Indian with money,” was the reply.

“There was no trust. You gave the Dacotah gold, and he carried off the
daughter of the pale-face from her father’s tent. He brought her, under
a guard of warriors, to the mountain. Black Eagle had snared the bird;
why did you not take her while she was fluttering in the net?”

“A pretty question, on my soul! Take her, when your men fought like so
many devils.”

“Will the pale-face pay the Dacotah his gold?”

“What gold, you cormorant?”

“Did not he promise him plenty of yellow-dirt, when the white squaw
should be given up?”

“Yes; but you lied. You concealed her.”

“Whose tongue is it that speaks of treachery? The pale-face was false
alike to his own tribe and that of Black Eagle. Go up on the mountain
and look. The warriors speak angrily, their wounds are fresh. Had the
tongue but traveled the trail of truth, there would have been no
mourning and blackened faces in the wigwams of the Dacotahs.”

“That is nothing to the purpose. Will you either give me back my gold,
or produce the girl?”

“The gold that the white man asks for is hidden where no eye but that of
the Black Eagle can ever find it. If the false medicine of the tribe at
Salt Lake wants the maiden of the snowy skin, let him find her.”

The passions of these bad men were rapidly getting the better of their
judgment. Each knew, by this time, that the other was playing a
desperate game, and watching for some advantage. The Indian was resolved
upon revenge, and securing the gold he knew the other had about him, and
the Mormon felt that he was in a position of terrible peril.

While these two treacherous men stood glaring at each other, Esther
Morse cowered in the undergrowth, panic-stricken by the sight of her
mortal enemies. Waupee stood by her, pale, stern, and with glittering
eyes, like a statue of bronze.

Waltermyer and Osse ’o stood behind a sheltering cliff that jutted,
tower-like, on the plateau lapping over the face of the rocky wall,
watching the scene with great indifference; both these men were too
brave for any thought of peril to the woman they protected.

Esther Morse grew frightened as the two angry men moved nearer the place
of her concealment, and starting up suddenly, placed her foot on a
fragment of rock, in order to flee back into a more secure concealment.
Her foot slipped, and she fell forward with a low cry.

Black Eagle know the voice, for he had heard its shrieks of pain before.

“Traitor! Out of my way.”

“Let the pale-face beware! The blood of the warriors of the Dacotahs
cries aloud for vengeance. The thirsty earth is drunk with it.”

It required all the strength and influence of Waltermyer, to keep Osse
’o from interfering.

“It’s a fair fight,” said the frontiersman; “they are nothing but
infernal reptyles anyhow. No, no; let them fight it out, for brutes as
they are. It’s b’ar and wolf-hound; who cares which whips?”

The Mormon still advanced, intent only on seizing his prey; but the
Indian spurred his horse between him and the thicket where Esther was
concealed.

Black Eagle strung his bow, and placing the feathered shaft upon the
well-strained string, drew it deliberately.

“Die, fool!” was the sneering response, and the report of the revolver
awoke the echoes of the rocks.

“By heaven!” exclaimed the excited Waltermyer, forgetting his usual
caution, as the horse of the Indian fell backward in his death
struggles, for the bullet had missed the human form, and buried itself
in the heart of the beast. “By heavens—forgive me, poor little Est, I
couldn’t help it; but, the noblest brute of the party has fallen before
the coward shot.”

It was the work of a moment for the active red-man to free himself from
his steed, for even while he was falling, he had swung himself clear,
and sent an arrow in return for the shot. For a moment the revolver
pealed and the bow-string snapped, but without fatal effects, though
both combatants were wounded. At length the pistol charges were
exhausted, and the frayed, overstrained string of the bow broken, and
the combatants mutually paused, glaring at each other.

The lull in the storm of battle was only for a moment, for the Indian
hurled his keen hatchet full at the head of the Mormon. Fortunately, the
aim had been hurried and uncertain, for it missed its intended mark, and
shivered to pieces on the rocky floor of their battle-ground. The
discharged pistol was still in the hands of the white man, and the
Indian had his knife. In physical strength they were about evenly
matched, but the Black Eagle had much the advantage in the training of
his wild life.

“Now the fun is comin’,” whispered Waltermyer. “Thar they go like
Kilkenny cats.”

“But think of their lives,” replied Esther, for the first time speaking.

“Think what would become of you, if either of them got thar hands on
you.”

“But it’s horrible!”

“Pshaw! Thar lives ain’t of any more ’count than a sneakin’ cayote.”

The Indian woman sat with bowed head. She knew well that the man she had
loved so passionately was engaged in a desperate encounter, but though
there might have been something of that former love yet lingering around
her heart, the education of a lifetime rendered it a duty to restrain
her feelings. It was not for a woman to take part in the strife of
warriors.

Hand to hand the fight was renewed. It was a series of rapidly executed
movements. To strike and guard—to advance and retreat. But few were the
injuries inflicted, and when, at length, the blade of the knife was
broken upon the barrel of the pistol, and that weapon fell from the hand
of which it was the sole defense, they stood with only the arms that
nature had given them, bloody and fatigued.

From a long-protracted struggle the Indian rose, reeling with the loss
of blood, and, staggering forward, he snatched his bow from the rocky
floor, restrung it with his trembling fingers, and then groped, half
blindly, around until he had secured the broken knife. Enough apparently
remained for his purpose, for, kneeling, he attempted to sharpen it, and
a smile of terrible meaning fitted athwart his dark face, as he felt of
the edge. He regained his feet, and staggered up to the fallen white
man. He twined his fingers in the long hair, wet already with the damps
of death, and raised his arm on high. Esther Morse turned her head away
with horror. Osse ’o involuntarily raised his shield, but Waltermyer
burst through all restraint, and dashed forward, exclaiming:

“By the light of heaven, you shall not scalp him! A cussed, treacherous
reptyle as he was, he was yet a white man, and shall not be butchered.”

Yet, quick as Waltermyer’s movements had been, Osse ’o glided in before
him, and Waupee, breaking through all bonds, followed, leaving the white
girl alone.

Black Eagle heard them coming. He turned upon them, and met the man,
whose intended murder lay on his soul, face to face. With a fierce cry
he loosened his hold upon the Mormon, and tottered toward the verge of
the cliff. Then, a true woman still, the discarded wife dashed forward
to save him with an outcry of passionate despair. She was too late.

For a moment, long enough to fix his arrow on the string, he retained
his footing, sent the shaft, even in his death agonies, flying through
the air, and, with the death-song of the Dacotahs ringing from his lips,
fell backward into the dark valley.

Waltermyer, busy in examining the body of the Mormon, to see if any
thing of life remained, had not seen the action. He was intent only on
the dead man before him, for the spirit had passed to its final
accountability.

“Waal, waal,” he said, almost pitifully, for, with death, all his
feelings changed, “I never knew any good of you, and, for a white man,
you were most onacountably undesarvin’. But I reckon you must have had a
soft spot in your heart, somewhar, and I’m sorry now that I didn’t
kinder take care of you. It was onnatural, that’s a fact. But I saved
your scalp, anyhow, and that’s some comfort. More ’an that, it shan’t be
said that I left you without a grave. No, no, I’ll take good care that
you don’t lie here, for the wolves to snarl over. Osse ’o, Osse ’o, I
say; whar are you, man?”

Waltermyer started to his feet, in sudden terror, for the usually
musical voice was changed into a hoarse whisper.

“What’s the matter with you, man?” he questioned, as he saw that the
lithe steps of the red-man had grown slow and unsteady. That the
flashing eye was dim, and that both hands were pressed upon his side, as
if to still some great pain.

“Nothing, nothing. Don’t tell the daughter of the pale-face,” was the
whispered reply, and Osse ’o fell into the outstretched arms of
Waltermyer.

“By heaven! if there is not an arrow stickin’ in his side.”

A shriek rung from the bushes, and Esther Morse sprung to his side and
knelt down by the wounded man, while Waupee, with the nimble and soft
fingers of an Indian, used to such occurrences, was busy unfastening the
garments.

“Don’t! don’t!” came struggling from the ashy lips of the sufferer. “Let
me die.”

“If I do, may I be shot,” exclaimed the frontiersman, and his strong
hands quickly tore away the fastenings.

“By heaven! It’s a white man!” he shouted. “No red-skin, but just as
white as your’s, gal. Look and see!”

Waupee carefully drew out the arrow-head and stanched the blood.

“It is a hunting-arrow, not a poisoned one for war,” he continued, as
she held it up to Waltermyer.

Esther saw the white shoulder glowing from under the torn hunting-shirt,
and knew, with a thrill of joy, that the man whom she had so long taken
for a Dacotah was of the same complexion as herself. Even then she
remembered the situation in which she had been placed with him, and her
cheek, neck and brow burned again. Ah! how well she remembered many an
act and word, thought but lightly of at the time, that now identified
his claim to birth and education; but she had no time for these
thronging fancies. Would he live? A fervent prayer went forth from her
heart, then nerving herself for the task, she strove to assist in
dressing the wound. Gently, but firmly, she was repulsed.

“The children of the Dacotahs,” murmured Waupee, “are learned in the
ways of the medicine. The hand of the pale-face is like the aspen-leaf
in the breath of the storm, and her heart is faint as the dove.”

“But, will he live?”

“Life is the gift of the great Manitou.”

“Yes, yes; don’t trouble your pretty heart about it, beauty, he’ll soon
be around again,” exclaimed Waltermyer, holding the wounded man in his
powerful arms, and bearing him to the shade of the bushes, tenderly as a
mother would have carried her first-born.

Waupee succeeded in stanching the blood, and then, from the neighboring
woods, gathered healing herbs, and carefully bound them on the wound,
while the white girl lifted Osse ’o’s head from the hard rocks, and
pillowed it in her lap. Waltermyer departed for the woods, and after a
long absence, returned, bringing with him pine-branches and curving
strips of bark, sufficient to make a shelter, and these, in the hands of
Waupee, soon were framed into an almost fairy-like bower. When Osse ’o
fell asleep, in his fragrant shelter, Waltermyer sat smoking his pipe at
the door of the lodge, silently at first, but, ere long, his restless
spirit broke forth in words:

“Waal; I did the best I could for the Mormon.”

“You buried him, then?” asked Esther, solemnly.

“Yes, deep and well. I piled the stones up, so as to know the place
again ef I ever should see any of his relations, and they wanted to find
it.”

The Indian woman—the poor, brutally-abused und suddenly widowed
wife—looked steadily at him with her large, black eyes, but said
nothing. Waltermyer fully understood the look, and replied:

“Yes, yes, Waupee, I did the same for the Black Eagle. Perhaps neither
of them would have done it for me; but I can’t help that. I made him a
grave for your sake, and fixed it up, Dacotah fashion, down by the
spring. I knew their customs, and thought every one of the tribe would
like to add a stone to the pile when they passed; so I fixed it in just
as handy a place as I could.”

A look of fervent gratitude passed over the face of the widow; then
arising, solemnly, she covered her face in her hands, and slowly walked
away. Esther would have accompanied her, but Waltermyer laid his hand on
her arm, and whispered:

“Let her go alone. To-night she will watch by the grave. It’s a part of
their religion, I allow. And now you go to sleep, while I watch.”

“No, I! He watched me when I slept last night; why should I not do the
same for him when he so much needs my care?”

“Waal, it’s woman’s business to take care of the sick, I s’pose; but you
don’t look over strong. Thar hain’t many roses a-blossomin’ on your
cheeks, but they will come again in time; and you couldn’t take care of
a braver or a better one, if you war to search the world over.”

“You know him, then?—tell me his history.”

Waltermyer obeyed her, and revealed all that he knew of the wounded man.

The night passed, and with it all apparent danger; for now Osse ’o was
able to sit up and converse.

“Why does Waupee stay so long?” asked Esther, whose true womanly heart
had sorrowed deeply as she thought of the Indian widow sitting by that
lonely grave in the dark hours.

“I will go and see,” replied Waltermyer.

“And I, if our patient can spare us for a moment,” said Esther, with a
smile that would have amply repaid the semi-Indian for a far more
dangerous wound.

“Yes,” was the whispered response. “I have known her well; she was a
very queen for goodness, virtue, and truth among the Dacotahs.”

They found the Indian widow stretched upon the grave of her late lord
and master. They thought that, worn out with suffering and watchfulness,
she had cast herself down to sleep; and so she had. The poor woman had
fallen into that sleep which knows no waking. She had passed from earth
calmly and apparently without a struggle, for no traces of pain lingered
on the pale-face—upturned, as if looking to the blue heaven above. With
a broken heart she had followed her husband to the happy
hunting-grounds, faithful even in death. By his side she was buried; and
as the kind, tender-hearted frontiersman piled the last stone upon the
rude monument that was to mark her grave, his eyes filled with tears,
and he hoarsely whispered:

“Poor woman! May she be happier in heaven than she ever was on earth. I
didn’t think I should ever have cried over a red-skin; but thar’s no use
in denyin’ it now, and if she had lived. Waal, waal, she’s at rest.”

In sorrow and sadness of heart they returned to the plateau. In the
freshness of that dewy morning, with Osse ’o again mounted on the snowy
steed, for Esther would have it so, herself mounted on “Black Star,” and
Waltermyer walking silently forward, they left the mountain and the
lonely graves, never to tread again those rocky and dangerous
fastnesses.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                                 HOME.


A swift ride through the prairies brought Esther Morse with the two
horsemen who had proved a sure escort, into her father’s camp. Two days
and a night they had journeyed on from the mountain where Black Eagle
and his wife lay sleeping. Danger is to love what the hot-house proves
to a delicate plant—its blossoms spring into quick, vivid life, with
little regard to time.

When the little party rode into Morse’s canvas settlement, there was no
Indian in the group; yet the number was exactly the same as when it left
the mountain—three, and no more. Osse ’o was there in his rich, savage
dress, his noble person unchanged, but his complexion had grown fair,
and in his eyes you saw the brooding tenderness with which young La
Clide had regarded the first lady of his love. Never had the grand
passion changed a man as Osse ’o was changed after he knew how near
Esther had been to forgiving the savage character he had assumed. His
disgust of civilized life died a gentle death; his taste for prairie
adventures disappeared. He was the betrothed husband of Esther Morse;
the bereaved father had only recovered his child to give her away again.

It was settled that the party should turn back from the Oregon trail,
and seek the first white settlement where the marriage ceremony could be
performed. Morse sent his followers on their way, made wealthy by the
property with which he had intended to open a new settlement. So with
wagons well crowded with stock and tents, the train moved one way, while
the few persons in whom we are most interested retraced their steps
toward civilization.

At Laramie a quiet marriage service made Esther Morse the wife of young
La Clide. To this point Waltermyer had accompanied his friends. Perhaps
he had intended to leave them there; but if so, his great heart failed
him; and he journeyed on in their company till school-houses and
steeples ceased to be a novelty to him.

They reached the bank of the giant Missouri, where its turbulent tide
rushes grandly into the “father of waters.” The boat that was to bear
them away was already puffing at its wharf, when the father and husband
wrung the hand of Waltermyer, and tendered a home with them in exchange
for his prairie life.

“No, no!” he replied, in a voice husky with emotion; “my place is out on
the perarer thar. I shouldn’t be happy in the settlements; thar may be
more work for me to do. No; but I thank you for your kind offers, and
shall not forget them. Good-by. I didn’t ever think my eyes would be wet
agin,” and he turned as if to depart.

“Waltermyer, my kind friend—”

It was the voice of the young bride, and he turned again:

“Waal, Miss?”

“I am going to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor of me? Waal, you shall have it. Ask me for any thing in natur’,
just my life even, and it’s yours.”

“Will you take care of my horse until I return?”

“Will I?” and a smile brightened his bronze face. “Will I? Would a bee
stop to suck honey from a clover-top? But you don’t mean to part with
him for good? You can’t mean that?”

“We are going on a long journey, you know. Some one must take charge of
him until our return. You will not refuse me?”

A shrill whistle was his only answer. Both horses came, forming a
striking contrast. Snow-Drift, with his snowy skin and silver mane, and
the black, with his banner-like tail, the white spot shining in his
forehead like a crystal star.

Good-by! The steamer, with its living freight, dashed oceanward; and
Waltermyer, accompanied by his tried companion La Moine, hastened again
to the broad prairies and the rocky cañons of the Nevadas.

A year passed rapidly to the voyagers, in, to them, strange lands. Their
eyes rested on the castellated towers of “merrie England”—their feet
wandered among the crags, and they listened to the merry songs of
Switzerland—they roamed amid the vineyards of France—and grew sad among
the ruins of imperial Rome. Then, with hearts and minds filled with the
beauties of past ages, came the thought of their native land.
Home—peerless to the long absent! Home—the sweetest thought and the
dearest word of earth.

The ocean was recrossed. The lithe spars had bent to the snowy canvas,
the rainbow flag floated from the fore, and through the placid waters
the swift-winged keel glided, as if all the good spirits of ocean had
gently pressed it on with watery fingers.

The mansion of Claude La Clide had been refitted more sumptuously than
ever. The grounds had grown more luxuriant—shrub and tree were laden
with June blossoms, and the bright air heavy with perfume. Many a
curiously fastened box had arrived, for La Clide and his wife, both
lovers of the beautiful, had purchased lavishly in their wanderings, and
expectation was on the _qui vive_, in the neighborhood, to learn what
all the signs of preparation could mean.

A wandering group of girls had paused at the gate before the
long-deserted mansion, during an early evening walk, and stood looking
up the tree and flower shaded and walled avenue, commenting upon the
beautiful scene. One young girl of the group, at least, looked upon the
stately dwelling with bitter—bitter feelings. She was thinking of the
time when she had a right to come and go within that mansion, almost as
its mistress. In the foolish pride and evil passions of her reckless
youth, she had crushed the flowers of a manly love into the dust, and so
lost every thing. Oh, how bitter—what wormwood and gall, in such an hour
like that, were the simple words, “It might have been.”

“Miss Worthington—Ellen,” said a gentleman, as he joined the group,
“have you heard the news?”

“I? Assuredly not, if it is news.”

“Well, I am glad to be the first to tell it you.”

“Is it so very interesting?”

“To you I should think it would be.”

There was a marked emphasis on the words, and a hidden meaning in them,
intended for her ear alone. She turned pale, and looked at the speaker
sharply. It was the man who had tempted her to play the coquette with
the owner of that princely establishment, who, in his turn, had trifled
with her, and now stood ready to enjoy her anguish.

“Me? You speak in riddles, sir,” she faltered.

“Well, then, I will be plain. Claude La Clide has married a rich and
beautiful wife, either in England or France, I forget which, and will be
home with her to-night. It is time they were here now, I fancy.”

“Married! married!” gasped the girl. “Well, sir, what is that to me?”

It was bitter—bitter cruel that she should be so humbled by the very man
for whom she had so basely used her once noble lover. Before she could
move away, or recover composure, a cloud of dust announced the approach
of a carriage. On it came, glittering in the slant sunbeams, drawn by
richly caparisoned horses, that fretted against the curb in their
high-blooded vitality. Within were seated a middle-aged man, a younger
one, whom the group recognized at once, and a woman, whose calm, sweet
loveliness struck them with admiration. On they whirled, through the
broad entrance of the chestnut avenue. The dust from the wheels almost
crushed that pale girl, as they whirled by, falling on her as unheeded
as it fell on the crouching stone lions keeping ward at the gate. Like
an angel driven from a second Eden, she turned away. He had not seen
her—never would look upon her again with love lights in his eyes.

The lady moon rose high in the heavens, and the golden stars flung their
braided rays to earth. The flowers breathed fragrance from their
chaliced lips. The trees sung a melodious lyric, and the voice of the
river came stealing to their ears, softened by distance, like the deeper
notes of a wind-swept harp.

On the balcony of La Clide’s dwelling the master and mistress stood,
watching the moonlight shimmering down upon the waves, and drinking in
the entire loveliness of a scene few countries could equal.

“Oh, how beautiful! And this is our home!” whispered the wife, as if her
voice—and a sweet one it was—could disturb the fairy-like panorama
before, above and around her. “How much more beautiful than any thing we
saw even in Italy.”

“Yes, there are few scenes that can match it in any land. To me it has
every charm, dearest.”

“Yes, truly. Every thing is so more than beautiful it could not be
otherwise. No wonder you speak of a charm.”

“Do you not feel it? Does not your heart thrill with it? Is not your
mind full of it? Ah, yes, I see you understand me now. It is—”

“Home, Osse ’o—La Clide—husband, it is HOME!”


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                BEADLE’S

                            AMERICAN LIBRARY


                              _NOW READY_:

                              SETH JONES.
                              ALICE WILDE.
                          THE FRONTIER ANGEL.
                               MALAESKA.
                             UNCLE EZEKIEL.
                         MASSASOIT’S DAUGHTER.
                              BILL BIDDON.
                         THE BACKWOODS’ BRIDE.
                               NAT TODD.
                              SYBIL CHASE.
                               MONOWANO.
                       THE BRETHREN OF THE COAST.
                             KING BARNABY.
                            THE FOREST SPY.
                             THE FAR WEST.
                       THE RIFLEMEN OF THE MIAMI.
                            ALICIA NEWCOMBE.
                          THE HUNTER’S CABIN.
                  THE BLOCK HOUSE; OR, THE WRONG MAN.
                              THE ALLENS.
                     ESTHER; OR, THE OREGON TRAIL.
                 RUTH MARGERIE; OR THE REVOLT OF 1689.
                          OONOMOO, THE HURON.
                           THE GOLD HUNTERS.


                       GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Added table of Contents.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





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