Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 218 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

— | ————.- - “ We—ell, thet's the very idee thet kem inter my mind at the time.”’ . : “ Arrah, now, is it? An’ fwhat did yez do wid the then ?”’ “* Jest sharpened the other eends 0’ ’em an’ sold °em for oats.”’ : The puzzled, half-incredulous stare on the counte- nance of the Hibernian, was ridiculous in the ex- treme. The allegation of the Yankee had deprived him of and for some moments he g at the latter, evidently in doubt whether to give credence to the pares! or reject it as a little bit of a “‘sell"’ upon the part of his comrade—with whose eccentricity of character he was well uainted. Equally ludicrous was the look of gravity on the ether—which he continued to preserve under the continued gaze of his comrade, with all the solem- nity of a judge upon the bench. It was as much as my companion and I could do to restrain our laughter; but we were desirous of witnessing the finale of the affair, and, by an effort, succeeded in holding in. “Och, now, Misthur Shure-shot!"’ gasped the Trishman at length, “ an’ it’s only jokin’ ye arr?” “Truth I ye, Petrick—every word o’ ’t. Ye see the oats weer jest then sellin’ at fifty cents the bushel, an’ thet paid us. We made a lettle suthin’, too, by the speekolashun.”’ “But how did yez get the other inds pointed at at * “Oh, thet weer eezy meow I invented a machine for thet, an’ run 'em through in less'n no time. When they kim out at t’otber eend o’ the machine, 1 kedn’t meself ’a’ told ‘em from oats.” “Och! now I comprehend, Arrah! an’ wasn't it a ‘quare thrick? Be me sowl, it bates Bannagher all ic vaces! Ha! ha! haw!” _ Wingrove and I could hold in no longer, but joining in the loud cachinnation—as if we had been its echoes—sprung forward to the front. Infantry and rifleman bounded to their feet, with a simultaneous shout of “ Indians!” and dropping their spirits and half-eaten appolas of meat, dashed mto the bushes like a pair of frightened rabbits. Inan instant, both were out of sight; and their whereabouts was alone indicated by the rattling of the branches a3 they passed through them. I was apprehensive of losing them altogether; and regretted not having used more caution in approach- ing them. At that crisis an idea came to my aid; and giving out an old signal, well remembered by ei-devont rangers, I had the gratification of receiv- jing a double response. The utterance of the signal had brought them to an instantaneous halt; and I could hear them exchanging surmises and exclama- tions of astonishment, as they retraced their sters toward the fire. Presently, a pair of short, stub-nosed faces were seen peering through the leaves, while from the lips ef their owners burst simultaneously, ‘‘The cyap- tin!” “The capting!"’ with various other phrases in their respective pa/sois, expressive of surprise and recognition, A few words sufficed to explain all. As we had surmised, the men were deserters. Neither of the men attempted to deny what, in time of peace is not considered a very henious crime; and for which just then, the “ Californian fever’? was considered an ample justification. It was no affair of ours. I was only too rejoiced to join ee 5, 4 with the runaways, of whose loyalty tc myself I had proofs ef old. Their guns—more especially the rifle of ‘Sure-shot—would be a valuable addition to our strength; and, instead of crawling along under the cover of the night we might now advance with more freedom and rapidit ‘ It was determined therefore, to share our means -ef transport with our new comrades—an offer by them eagerly and readily accepted. The partial ‘consumption of our stores had lightened the upon our mules; and the contents of the wheel- row, — divided between them, would give to each only its ordin load The barrow itself was abandoned—left among the Big Timbers—to puzzle at a future period some red- sk nned archswologist—Cheyenne or Arapaho! CHAPTER XXX. THE ABANDONED BOUQUET. Havine passed Bent’s Fort—of wide celebrity. in trapper lore, whilom the scene of many a wild revel | of the mountain men, but now abandoned and in ruins—we arrived at the confluence of the Huerfano. As we expected, the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream, thus deciding the route taken by the caravan, We rode on through a forest of grand cottonwoods and willows, and at about seven miles distant from the mouth of the Huerfano river, reached a point where the carayan had crossed over to its left bank. | “On the other side we could see the und of their encampment of the night before. e could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and wagons, deris of = Oana re ett marae £ ots of the res ooked it, still sending u uds ef oozing smoke. Ah The stream at this point was fordable, and cross- ing over, we stood upon the deserted camp-ground. With singular emotions I walked amid the smolder- ing fires, forming conjectures as to which of them might have been graced by that fair presence. Where had she passed the night, and what had oc- cupied her thoughts? Were those gentle words still lingering inher memory? Were they upon her lips? It was pleasant fur me to repeat them. I did not need to draw the writing forth. Long since were the lines fixed in my remembrance—oft through my heart had vibrated the burden of that sweet song: “T think of thee—I think of thee!”’ 1 sought around for some souvenir. The remains of a fire, a little apart from the rest, near the edge of a piece of copse wood, drew my _attention. It looked as if it had been a spot on which some family group had encamped. I was led to this conjecture by observing some flowers scat- tered near—for the gzvassy sward showed no other sign. The flowers betokened the presence of wo- mankind. Fair faces—or one at least—had beamed in the light of that fire. I felt morally certain of it, I approached the spot. he shrubbery around was interlaced with wild roses, while blue lupins and scarlet pelargoniums a The Wild Huntress. sparkled over the glade, under the shelterin one tection of the trees. By the eof the shrubbery | lay a bouquet, that had evidently been put together | with some care! CPE TR I took it up. My fingers trembled as | examin it, for even in this slight object I read indications of design. The flowers were of the rarest and prettiest—of many kinds that grew not near. They had been plucked elsewhere. Some one had given both time and attention to their collection and arrangement. Who? It would have been idle to shape even a | conjecture, but for a circumstance that appeared.to offer a certain clew; and not without bitter thoughts did I try to unwind it. The thread which was w around the flower-stalks was of yellow silk. e strands were finely twisted, and I easily re the bullion from the tassel of a sash. That —_ have been taken from the sash of a dragoon officer! Had the bouquet been a gift? To whom, and by ' whom? Here all conjecture should have ended; but | not without a feeling of painful suspicion did I ex- amine those trivial signs; and the feeling continued to annoy me long a ter I had flung the flowers at | my feet. A reflection came to my relief, which went far to- ward resto my spirit’s equanimity. If a gift, and to Lilian Holt, she had scarcely honored it, else how could the flowers have been there? Had they been forgotten, or left unregarded?% There was consolation in either hypothesis; and, in the trust that one or the other was true, I sprung back into my saddle, and with a more cheerful heart rode away from the spot. CHAPTER XXXII. AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE, Tare finding of the flowers, or ratber the reflec- tions to which they gave rise, rendered me more anxious than ever to come up with the caravan. The little incident had made me aware of a new ' danger hitherto unthought of. Upto that hour my chief anxiety with regard to Lilian Holt had been the companionship of the Mor- mon. This had been hightened by some informa- tion incidentally imparted by the deserters—chiefly by Sure-shot. It related to the destination of a number of the emigrants who accompanied the caravan, and with whom the rifleman had held in- tercourse, previous to their departure from Van Buren. These were not prospective gold-diggers, but persons migrating westward from motives more - tual; they were Saints bound for the Salt Lake, there intending to stay and settle. There was a large party of these Latter-day con- verts, under the conduct of an apostolic agent. | This much had Sure-shot ascertained. He had not | seen their leader, nor heard his name. Joshua Steb- bins might be the very man? Even as a conjecture, this was bitter enough. Up to the time of joining with the deserters, I had consoled myself with the belief that California was the destination of this saint and his So mete protege, though at times I was troubled with the remembrance of Su-wa-nee’s words. Their truth was almost confirmed by the report of the ex-riflaeman. I could not now think otherwise than that Stebbins was bound for the | Mormon city; and that he was the fox in charge of the flock of geese that accompanied the emigrant train. It was more than probable. While waiting in Swampville for the letter of Lilian, I had learned something of the history of the ci-derant schoolmaster—not much of the od sub- sequent to his departure from that place—little more than the fact that he had joined the Mormons, and had risen to high office in their church—in short, that he was one of their ‘‘a les."’ This fact, however, was one of primary significance. Had the squatter also submitted to the hideous delusion? Was he also on his way to the shrine of the faith? The answer tothe former question was ef slight importance, so long as that tothe latter might be conceived in the affirmative. If Holt was bound to the Salt Lake, then was the fate of his daughter to be dreaded. Suffering under such i Semon I scarcely _ needed the additional stimulus of jealousy to u me onward; and yet, strange as it may appear, the | finding of the bouquet had produced this effect. I | would have ridden on, without halt, but our animals | required rest. We had been traveling nearly all night, and throughout the morning, under the friendly shelter of the cottonwood forest. We all | needed an hour or two of repose; and, seeking a | Secure place near the ground of the deserted camp, | we ik to obtain it, The train could not be far | ahead of us. . | While seated in silence around the fire we had | kindled, we could hear at intervals the reports of ee. They came from up the valley, and from a | far distance. The sounds reached us but faintly, | how single shots, and then two or three together, or | following in quick succession. We were at no loss to account for the reports. They were caused b the hunters of the caravan, in pursuit of game. ‘We had now entered that os ate region where elk and antelope abounded. On our morning march we had seen herds of both trooping over the sward, almost within range of our rifles. Even as we sat, a band of beautiful antelopes appeared in the open und near our bivouac fire; and, after satisfying heir curiosity by gazing at us fora moment, they trotted off into the covert. It was a tempting sicht rite tempting for the young backwoods hunter to resist. Seizing his rifle, he took after them, promising us as he went off a more savory breakfast than the dry buffalo-meat we were broiling. Soon after, we heard the os a of his piece; and, presently, he reappeared th a dead prong-born upon his shoul- ers. As Wingrove came up to the fire, I noticed a sin- | — expression upon his countenance. Instead of | being rejoiced at his success, his looks betrayed ' anxiety! I questioned him as to the cause. He did | not answer directly; but, drawing me to one side, inquired in a whisper, if I had seen any one in his absence. “* No. Why do you ask?”’ l SS ee eed “If it wa'’n't altogether unpossible, I'd sw’ar I see’d that af ‘What girl?’ I trembled as I put the question: “ That darnationed devil of a Chicasaw.”’ - SSS ND censeeeenneennnerer a <4 — ey ee 13 — oe ee ‘What? Su-wa-nee?” “Yes, Su-wa-nee.”" “*Oh, that cannot be? It could not be her?” “So I'd ‘a’ thort myself; but darn me, cap’n! if I | kin b’lieve it wa’n’t her. What I see'd war as like | her as two eggs.” “What did you see?"’ “Why, jest arter I'd killed the goat, an’ war heist- | ing it on my shoulders, I spied a Injun glidin’ into the bushes. I see’d it war a squaw; an’ jest the en ter o’ the Chicasaw. She *peared as ef she hed ki right from hyar, an’I thort you must ’a’ see’d her.” “Did you get sight of her face?” **No, her back war torst me, an’ she kep’ on *ithout turnin’ or stoppin’ a minnit. *Twar the very duds that girl used to wear, an’ her bulk to an inch. It kudn’t ’a’ been liker her. Darn me, ef 'twa'n’t eyther her or her ghost!” win is very improbable that it could have been ther?” I did not for a moment entertain the idea that it was the Chicasaw he had seen; and — my comrade was fully impressed with the belief, and reiterated the assertion that he had either seen Su-wa-nee or her ‘‘shadder.”’ Though the — was improbable, it was not beyond ibility. e knew that there were Indians traveling with the train; we had heard so before starting out. But what likelihood was there of Su-wa-nee being among them? Certainly not much. That there were prairie Indians around us, was probable enough. We had already ob- | served their traces upon the ground of the deserted — The squaw seen by Wingrove might be one of these. . Whether or not, her presence proved the proxim- ity of red-skins; and the knowledge of having such dangerous neighbors, summoned us to a fresh exer- cise of vigilance and caution. Our fire was instantly extinguished: and, content- ing ourselves! with a morsel of the half-broiled buf- falo-beef, we moved to some distance from the spot, before ng to cook the antelope. A dark covert in the thick woods offered us a more secure kitchen. There we rekindled our fire— and roasting the ribs of the prong-horn, refreshed ourselves with an ample meal. After an hour's repose, we resumed our journey— in confident expectation, that before sunset we should get within sight of the caravan. CHAPTER XXXII. UP THE CANYON. We had not ridden far from our halting-place when we arrived at the end of the great cottonwood forest. Beyond that the trace led over open und here and there dotted by groves and “islands” of timber. Through these we threaded our way, keep- ing as much as possible among the trees. Further on we came om a 2g Serer of the noted canyons through which the Huerfano runs. Here the river sweeps down a narrow channel, with rocky banks that rise on each side into precipitous cliffs of stupendous hight. To avoid this gorge—impassable for wheeled vehicles—the wagon-trace, below its entrance, turns off to the right; and we perceived that the caravan had taken that direction. To get round the heads of © the transverse ravines that run into the canyon, a detour must be made of not less than ten miles in length. — the canyon, the trace once more returns to the stream. The notes of a military reconnoissance had fore- warned me of this deviation; and, furthermore, that the trace passes over a ridge altogether destitute of LL A ee To follow it, therefore, in the broad light of day, would our little party to view. If hostile Indians should be hanging after the caravan they would be sure to see us, and equally certain to make an attack upon us; and from the traces we had no- ticed at the night-camp—to say nothing of what Wingrove had seen—we knew there were in the valley. They might not be hostile; but the chances were ten to one that they were; and, under this sup sition, it would be imprudent in us to risk roasting the ridge before nightfall. There were two alternatives: to remain under the timber till after sunset, and then proceed by night; or to push on into the canyon, and endeavor to make our way along the bed of the stream. as we knew, the path was an untried one; but it might be practicable for horses. We were now on the most dangerous ground we had yet trodden— the spt of several hostile tribes, and their fa- vorite tenting-place, when going to, or returning from, their forays against the half-civilized settle- ments of New Mexico, The proximity of the caravan—which we calcu- lated to be about ten miles ahead of us—only in- creased our risk. There was but little danger of the Indians attacking that: the train was too strong, even without the escort. But the probability was, that a band of Indian horse-thieves would be skulk- ing on its skirts—not to male an attack upon the caravan itself, but as wolves after a gang of buffalo, to sacrifice the stragglers. Unless when irritated by some hostile demonstra- tion, these robbers confine themselves to plundering; but in the case of some, murder is the usual con- comitant of plunder. The delay of another night was disheartening to all of us—but especially so to myself, for reasons already known. If we should succeed in passing through the can- yon, perhaps on the other side we might come in sight of the caravan. eered on by this prospect, we hesitated no longer; but hastening forward, entered between the jaws of the defile. A fearful chasm it was—the rocky walls risin rpendic arly to the hight of many hundreds o | eet—presenting a grim facade on each side of us. | The sky above appeared a mere strip of blue, and we were surrounded by a gloom oe than that of twilight. The torrent roared and foamed at our on and the trail at times traversed through the wa iT. : There was a trail, as we soon perceived; and what was more significant, one that had recently been - traveled! Horses had been over it; and in several laces the rocky pebbles that should otherwise have en dry, were wet by the water that had dripped from their fetlocks. A large troop of horses must MIELOOOKS (E@) timber : 2 af — oe — + Bee com - ee SS ET SS a aS eS ; aed i ee a gees « eS