Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 218 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

10 which I observed without being able to interprét. I had my conjectures however. __ “Can I not go with you?” I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. ‘‘ The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to ataying here alone. If it is not some business of a private nature ’’— “Thar’s nothin’ partic’larly private about it, stranger; but it’s a bizness I don’t want you to be mixed up in. I guess ye’ve got y’ur own troubles now; ‘ithout takin’ share 0’ myen.”’ “If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you’re going?” ‘**Welcome to know it, stranger. kill Josh Stebbins!” ** Kill Josh Stebbins?” “Eyther that, or he shal! kill me.” ‘Oh! nonsense!'’ I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention—which I had already half divined— noid the cool determined tone in which it was de- clared. ‘I’ve said it, stranger! I've sworn it over an’ ever, an’ it shell be done. "Tain’t no new notion I’ve tuk. I’d detarmined on makin’ him fight long ago: for I'd an old score to'settle wi’ him, afore that *un you know o’; but I niver ked get the skunk to stan’up. He allers tuk care to keep out o’ my way. Now I’ve made up my mind he don’t dodge me any longer; an’, by the Eternal! if that black-hearted snake's to be foun’ in the settlement—”’ ‘* He is not to be found in the settlement.”’ “Not to be foun’ in the settlement!’’ echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation—‘‘ not to be foun’ in the settlement? Surely you ain’t in earnest, stranger? You see’d him the day afore yesterday?” **True—but I have reason to think he is gone.” “God forbid! But you ain’t sure o’ it? What makes you think he air gone?” “Too sure of it; it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin.” I detailed the events of the morning, which Win- grove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the had I’m a goin’ to Indian maiden—her figurative prophecy that yroved but too truthful. I described the de- serted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of Lilian—read it from beginning to end. He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. Once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression, ‘‘ Poor little Lil!’ ** Poor little Lil!’’ repeated he when I had finished. “She too gone wi’ him!—just as Marian went six months ago! No, no!” he exclaimed, correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. ‘‘No! it war different—altogether differ- ent; rian went willin'ly.”’ “How know you that?’ I said, with a half-con- ceived hope of consoling him. “Know it? Oh, stranger! I'm sure o’ it; Su-wa- nee sayed so.”’ . “That signifles nothing. It is not the truer of her having said so. A jealous and spiteful rival. Per- haps the very contrary is the truth? Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this man? Her father may have influenced her; and it is not at all un- likely, since he appears to be himseif under some si r influence, as if in dread of his saintly son- in-law. I noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this conclusion.” “Thank ye, stranger, for them words!” cried the young hunter, rushing forward and grasping me eagerly by the hand. ‘It’s the first bit o’ comfort I've had since Marian war tuk away! I’ve heerd myself that Holt war afeerd o’ Stebbins; an’ maybe that snake in the grass had a coil about him some- how. I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian’s takin’ it so to heart, an’ all about a bit o’ a kiss, which I w’u’dn’t ‘a’ tuk if the Indian hadn’t poked her lips clost up to myen. Lord o’ mercy! I'd give all I’ve got in the world to think it war true as you've sayed.”’ “T have very little doubt of its being true. Ihave now seen your rival; and I thinkit altogether im- robable she would, of her own free will, have pre- erred him to you.” “Thank ye, stranger! it’s kind in you to say so. She’s now married an’ gone; but if I thort thar had been force used, I'd ’a’ done long ago what Il mean to do now.” ** What is that?’ I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. “Foller him, if’t be to the furrest eend o’ the world! Yes, stranger! I meanit. [ll go arter him, an’ track him out. Ill find himin the bottom o’ a Californey gold mine. or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an’, by the Etarnal! I'll wipe out the score—both the old’un and the new ‘un—in_ the skunk’s blood, or I'll never set fut ag’in in the State o’ Tennessee. I’ve made up my mind to it.” “You are determined to follow him?” ** Firmly detarmined?”’ **Enough! Our roads lie together!”’ CHAPTER XXUL THE PROMISED EPISTLE. - Unper any circumstances, a return to Swampville would have been necessary; ce pecuniary re- quirements called me back to that interesting vil- journey, even across the desert, cannot be made without money; and the hundred dollars I had paid to Holt, with hotel and other incidental outlays, had Yeft me with avery light purse. It would have taken three times as much as I was master of to provide us with the scantiest equipment required for a prai- rie journey; and toward this the young hunter, to give his all, was able to contribute noth- e would cheerfully have parted with his patri- mony—as I with my purchase—for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the Californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and neither his clea nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had wd ge ig -o been required incash. A credit sale co not have served us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our de- preciated ane i pte which not a single cent could be borrowed, Never stood I in more need of my Nashville friend; and my ap already made, was promptly re- to—as l expected it would be. | On the third day after my dispatch the answer ar- A ee ee St - ~~ oe The Wild Huntress. ee ee — rived—with a handsome inclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if need be. We were now ready for the road. We waited only for that other letter, that was to be the index to our destination. How we passed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth ayn F We enjoyed the hospitality of the Jackson hotel; and contrived to escape the espieylerie of its husband-hunting deni- zens, by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest. During the whole time we went not near our re- spective ** plantations ” on Mud Creek, Wingrove had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and I had no inclination to trust myself toits souvenirs. More- over, the hours of the mail-rider vere neither fixed nor regular; and on this accourt I avoided a long absence from the post-office. Six daysof this expectancy I endured—six days of alternate hope and doubt—the latter at times ‘so distressing that even in the excitement of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts! More than once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean—trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. On the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. The seventh proved the day of joy. Our doubts were dispelled. The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away by the arrival of the expected epistle! My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. He must have observed my emotion—though I did not open the letter in his presence. The superscription was enough to tell me from whomit came. Ihad studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognize it ata glance. Idid not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. The post- mark, *“‘Van Buren, Arkansas," sufficiently indi- cated the direction we were to take; and not till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were en route for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of pe- rusal. The address was simply as before: “To EDWARD WARFTELD.”’ Thus ran the letter: “STRANGER !—I hope you got my other letter, and that you were able read it, for Il had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better—only a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother’s, and a leaf which father said you tore out of a book. But I think I could have wrote it better, only I was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and I wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the canoe. I thought no one would come to the house before you, and I hoped all the morning you might come before we were gone. I would have givena prose deal to have been able to see youagain; andI think father would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay longer, but hurried us away. But I hope you got the letter, and that you will not be offended at me for writing this one I send you, without your leave. “I promised that if you would allow me, I would write from some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but I forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as ve would not see me, nor yet know where to write ome, **| now know what country it is, for evérybody we have seen is talking about it, and saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big as hickory nuts; and I hearthe name a many a time, over and overagain. Father calls it ‘ Californey, and some ‘ California,’ and this, I suppose, is the right way of cee it. It is near a great sea, or ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at Philadelphia and New York, but far reater and bigger than the Mississippi and the bion, and all the rivers put together. It must bea very large sea to be bigger than the Mississippi! But [Tam sure you must know all about it, for l have heard them say you have traveled in these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army and had been fighting there with the Mexicans. i am glad you were not killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been killed, | should never have seen you; but nowit is just as bad, if [ am never to see you again, Oh, sir! I would write to you from that country when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then, and will not care to hear anything more about us. “TI shall never forget our dear Tennessee. I am very sorry at leaving it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold—for what good can gold be to me? I should so like to hear sometimes from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the only one we knew is gone away like ourselves. ‘ Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us— only a very short letter, to tell us how you get on with the rennnp and whether you have made it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father say you intended to do. I shall always like to hear that you are in good health, and that you are happy. “I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened tous. At the mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time—for we traveled all that night—we heard some one meray | to us, and oh, sir! it was so like your voice that trembled when L heard it, for it appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. It was a thick mist, and we could see no one; but for all that I would have cried out, but father would not let me speak. Ita goatee to be right above our heads, and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into atree. I suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made me wonder all the more. ‘‘ We arrived at this place yesterday. Itis + large town on the Arkansas river, and we came to it in a steamboat. From here we are to travel in a wagon wlth a great many other people in what they a ‘caravan,’ and they say we shall be many months in etting to the end of the B sgere, lt is a long time o wait before I can write again, for there are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a ’ letter. But though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute. ‘*In one of my mother’s books which I brought with me I have read a des piece. It is in poetry; and itis so like what I have been thinking of you that I have learned it off by heart. It is so true-like and so pretty a — that I thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you, 1 write it at the end of my letter, which I fear J have already made too long; but I hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read the poetry: **T think of thee when Morning springs Krom sleep with plumage bathed in dew, And like a young bird lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue. And when at noon the breath of love O’er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove— I think of thee—I think of thee! “IT think of thee when soft and wide The Evening spreads her robe of light, And like a young and timid bride Sits blushing in the arms of Night. And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs In light or heaven’s deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things— I think of thee—I think of thee! ‘* Oh, sir! itis very, very true! Ido think of you, and I am sure I shall do so as long asI live! * * Lintan Hort.” Ah, Lilian! I, too, think of thee and thy sweet song! Simple but suggestive words! Knew I but where to address thee, you should know how re- sponsive to them are the echoes of my heart! CHAPTER XXIV. THE CARAVAN, WE rode on to Memphis as rapidly as our hersrs could travel—far too slow for our desires. Thence u steamboat carried us to Little Rock and another to Van Buren. Many days had been consumed while waiting for each boat—so many that on arriving at Van Buren we found that the caravan had the start of us by full two weeks! Its probable route we ascertained without any hg along the Arkansas to the Rocky Mountains, through the valley of the Huer- fano and the passes Robideau and Coochetopa; thence across the head-waters of the Colorado, and by the old Spanish trail to California. It was principally a caravan of gold-seekers—ad- venturers of all nations. Even Indians had gone with it—of the half-civilized tribes of the frontier— red and white equally tempted by the yellow attrac- tions spread out for them in California. Though large, it was what, is termed a light train —having more paieetgmnne than wagons. On this account, it would make way all the faster, and un- less delayed by some accident, we might be a long time in coming up with it. It was not without a large measure of vexation that we learned how far it had got the start of us. It would be idle to detail the incidents of a journey across the prairies. Ours differed in no way from hundreds of others that have been made and de- scribed—except, perhaps, that after reaching the buffalo renge we traveled more by night than by day. s We adopted this precaution ate 8 to save our scalps—and along with them our lives—since the buffalo range—especially upon the Arkansas—is pe- culiarly the stamping-ground of the hostile savage. Here may be encountered the Pawnee and Coman- che, the Kiowa and Cheyenne, the Waco and fierce Arapaho. Though continually engaged in internecine strife among themselves, all six tribes are equally enemies to the pale-faced intruders on their domain, At this time they were said -to be especially hostile~—having been irritated by some late encounters with parties of ill-behaved emigrants. It was not without great peril, therefore, that we were passing through their territory ; and what we had heard, before leaving Van Buren, had made us fully conscious of the risk we were running. To meet with one of the hunting or war-parties of these Indians might not be certain death; but cer- tain they would be to disarm and dismount us, and that, in the midst of the great prairie ocean, is a danger that often conducts to the same denou-+ment. It was not preference, then, but precaution, that led pe ee adopt the “secret system” of traveling by ght. Our usual plan was to lie by during the day, or for the greater part of it, concealed in some selected cover either among rocks or copsewood. By stealing to a conspicuous eminence we were enabled to view the route ahead of us, and map out our journey for the night. Upon this we would enter an hour or two before sundown; for then the Indian hunter has returned to his encampment, which can be easily avoided by seeing its smoke from afar. We often saw their smokes, and more than once the Indians themselves; but were never seen by them, so cautiously did we carry out our measures. In this fashion we groped our way with consider- able rapidity. Guided by the aia eaty perp gs oe! when there was a moon—we could travel ost as fast as by daylight. Only upon dark nights was our Prog: ress retarded; but, notwithstanding every impedi- ment, we were enabled to travel faster than the caravan, and we knew that we were rapidly gaining upon it. We could tell this by the constantly freshening trail; but we had a more accurate criterion in the count of the camps. By the number of these, we knew to a certainty that we were appreaching the caravan. We were in high ho of being able to come u with it before it should entat the mountain asses more dangerous to the traveler than even the plains themselves: because at that season more beset by bands of marauding sav Under the influence of these hopes we were press- ing forward, with all the haste it was in our power to make, when our journey was varied by an inci- dent of a somewhat unexpected character, JOO (E “S - com —- o (E(@)