Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 218 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

“ ‘tress, in answer to my cag ge a ’ all be 20 — ca ee rtist had left untouched. “ To-day, I am as you ee ” “Oh heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly chang- ing her manner, ‘“‘this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? ere is your wound?” “*In several places I am wounded; but not dan- gerously. They are only scratches; I have no fear ef them.” ‘Who gave you these wounds?” “Indians, I have just escaped from them.” ns! What Indians?” ** Arapahoes.”’ **Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?” The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone t betrayed excitement. *On the Huerfano,” I replied—‘ b butte. It was the band of a chief Red-Hand.”’ “Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger, are you sure of this?" 1@ earnest voice in which the interrogatory was ty ge put somewhat surprised me. answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of eur capture, and subsequent treatment—without mentioning the names of my traveling companions or stating the objeet of our expedition. Indeed, i was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener—who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited man- mer: ‘*Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!" @ pause she hastily inquired: “How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?” “ Nearly two hundred.” ‘** Not more than two hundred?” ‘*No—rather less, I should say.”’ “Itiswell— You say you have a horse?” ** My horse is at hand.” “Bring him up, then, and come along with me.”’ ** But my comrades? I must follow the train that I may be able to return and rescue them.”’ “You need not forsuch a purpose. There is one not far off who can aid you in that—-better than the escert you speak of. If too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. You say the caravan passed yesterday?” ‘Yesterday about noon.” “You could not overtake it and return in time. The Red-Hand would be gone. Besides you cannot get from this place to the trail taken by the caravan, without going back by the canyon; and there you might meet those from whom you have escaped. You cannot cross that way; the ridge is impassable.”’ As she said this she pointed to the left, the direc- tion which I had intended to take. I could see through a break in the bluff a precipi- tous mountain spur running north and south, par- allel with the ravine I had been threading. It cer- tainly appeared impassable, trending along the sk like the a of some gigantic fortress. If this was true, there would be but little chance of my evertaking the escort in time. I had no longer a hope of being able to effect the rescue of my comrades. The verre, no doubt would be fatal. Inall likelibood, both Wingrove anc Sure-shot had ere this been sacrificed to the ven- geance of the Arapahoes, freshly excited by my es- cape. Only from asense of duty did I propose re- turning — rather with the idea of being able to avenge their deaths. hat meant this mysterious maiden? Who nash sessed the power to rescue my comrades from two hundred savages—the most warlike upon the plains? Who was he that could aid mein avenging them? ** Follow me and you shall see!’’ replied the hun- **Your horse! our horse! Hasten, or we too late. The Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! Wa-ka-ra will rejoice at the news. Your horse! your horse!”’ Lhastened back for my Arab, and hurriedly led him up to the spot. wh utiful creature !"’ exclaimed she, on seein the horse; ‘‘no wonder you were able to ride o from your captors. Mount!” “And you?” "e go afoot. But stay! time is precious. Can your steed carry us both?’’ “Undoubtedly he can.” “Then itis better we should both ride. Half an hour is everything; and if the Red-Hand should es- ea You mount first—be quick!"’ twas not the time to be squeamish, even under the glance of the loveliest eyes. Taking the robe from my shoulders, I spread it over the back of my horse, and employing a a of the lariat as a sur- cingle, I bound it fast. Into the improvised saddle I moun the girl, from a rock, leaping upon the eroup behind me. “You, Wolf!” cried she, apostrophizing the dog, “vou a by the game and guard it from the #oyotes. member, rascal! not a mouthful till I re- turn. “ Now, stranger,’’ she continued, shifting closer to me, and clasping mé round the waist, “‘I am ready. Give your steed to the road and spare him not, as = value the lives of your comrades. Up the ravine our way. Ho! onward!” The brave horse needed no spur. He seemed to understand that speed was required of ‘him; and, stretching at once into a gallop, carried us gayly up the gorge. 8 the Orphan cnown as the CHAPTER XLIX, A QUEER CONVERSATION. My captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. Her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. How? and by whom? Whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from - which help was to come? I would have asked, but eur rapid movement precluded all chance of conver- sation. I could only form conjectures. These point- ed to white men—to some rendezvous of Saypers that might be near. I knew there were such. How in such a place, could her presence be accounted for. Even that would scarce explain an apparition so iar as that of this huntress maiden. er circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. , There could be no band of trappers ee enough to attack the dark host of Red-Hand—at least with the chance of de- The Wild Huntress. i —— — — — — es stroying it. She knew the strength of the Arapa- hoes. I had told her their number, as I had myself estimated it—nearly two hundred warriors. It was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. Moreover, she had mentioned a name—twice mentioned it—‘* Wa-ka-ra.”” No white was likely to bear such an appellation. The word was undoubtedly Indian—especially as the huntress had pronounced it. I waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. It offered at length—where the path ran _ circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace. I was about initiating a dialogue, when I was fore- stalled in my intention, ‘You are an officer in the army?” said my com- panion, half CF pete salen’ 6 “How should you have known that?” answered I in some surprise, perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. “Oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me.” **My uniform?” “Yes. Have you not still a portion of it left?” inquired she, with a striking simplicity. ‘I see a mark here where lace stripes have been. That de- notes an officer, does it not? The Arapahoes have stri them off, I suppose?” ‘There was lace—true— you have guessed correct- ly. Ihave been in the army.”’ ‘* And what was bringing you out here? On your way to the gold count eS, I dare say?”’ ** No, indeed; not that.’ ‘* What, then, may I ask?’’ “Only af h freak. It wasa mere tour without much purpose. I intended soon to return to the States.” ‘*Ah! youintend returning? But you say you were following the caravan—you and your three fellow- travelers? Why were you not with it? Wouldit not have been safer?”’ I hesitated to make reply. tinued: “It is not usual for so small a party to pass. over the prairies alone. There is always danger from the Indians; sometimes from whites, too! Ah me! there are white savages--worse savages than red—far worse—far worse!”’ These strange speeches, with the sigh that accom- panied them, caused me to turn my head and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion, It was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. She, too, suffering from the past? In this glance T again remarked what had already attracted my notice—a resemblance to Lilian Holt! t was of the slightest, and so vague that I could not tellin what itlay. Certainly not in the features —which were signally unlike those of Lilian; and oy, dissimilar was the complexion. Were I to place the resemblance, I should say that Isaw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. The similitude of tone was striking. Like Lilian’s, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beauti- ful women are gifted-—-those having the full round mee so proudly possessed by the damsels of Anda- usia, Of course, reflected I, the likeness must be acci- dental. There was no teen on of its being other- wise; and I had not a thought that it was so. I was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recallthem. The souvenirs so excited hin- dered me from making an immediate a “Your observations are somewhat singular,”’ I * Surely you have not verified ? ’ My interrogator con- remarked at length. them by your own experience ‘*T have—yes, and too sadly ever to think them otherwise than just. I have had little reason to love those of my own color—that is, if 1 am to consider myself a white.” ‘But you are so, are you not?” *“*Not altogether. I have Indian blood in my veins.”’ ** Not much, I should east, “Enough to Bive me Indian inclinings—and, I ro also a dislike to those of my own complex- on,” ** Indeed?” “Perhaps less from instinct than experience. Ah! stranger, Ihave reason. Is it not enough that all have proved false—father, lover, husband?” “a oe You are married then?” ‘ oO ” “You have been?” 7) No ” “Why did you say husband?” **A husband on y in name. I heve been married, but never a wife.’ The speaker paused. I could feel her arm ing around my waist. She was under the of some terrible emotion. “Yours must be a strange story?" I remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. ** You have greatly excited my curiosity; but 1 know that [have no Claim to your confidence.”’ “You may yet win it.”’ “Tell me how.” ‘You say you intend returning to the States. I may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. It is not much. Only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless—her father untrue to his paternal trust—her husband a cheat, a perjured villain.” " ‘Your relatiouships have been singularly unfor- tunate: but your words only mystify me the more. I should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither.” / “Not now—time presses. Your comrades, if still alive, are in peril. That is your affair; but mine is that the Red-Hand may not escape. one will grieve at it—one to whom I protection.” ‘Of whom do you speak?”’ ‘*Of the mortal enemy of Red-Hand and his Arap- ahoes—of Wa-ka-ra.”’ ‘* Wa-ka-ra?”’ ‘* Head chief of the Utahs—you shall see him pres- ently. Put your horsé to his speed! We are close to thecamp. Yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! On, stranger—on!” : As directed, I once more urged my_ Arab into a gallop. It was not for long. After the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the canyon sud- denly opened into a small but beautiful ccl/on, treeless and turfed with grass. The white coues, appearing in serried rows near uiver- uence owe life and ee a ee ee oe ee ee ee CL LG LAL ALLL LLL LLL LLL CL tt eC LLL LLL LLL LLL LLL LL LLL LLL LLL LLL LLL LL LL LL CC LL LL Littman ta a ' : ' If hedo, there’s | ee ae ee — ee ee ee ee oe ee its upper end, were easily identified as an encamp- ment of Indians. ** Behold!” exclaimed my companion, “* the tents of the Utahs!” CHAPTER L. WA-KA-RA. THE lodges were aligned in double row, with a wide avenue between them. At its head stood one of superior dimensions—the wigwam of the chief, They were all of conical shape; a circle of poles converging at their tops, and covered with skins of the buffalo, ¢ ed and bleached to the whiteness of wash-leather. A slit in the front of each tent formed the entrance, closed by a list of the -hide that hung loosely over it. Near the top of each appeared a triangular piece of skin, Srpeecting out- ward from the slope of the side, and braced, so as to resemble an inverted sail of the kind known as lateen. It was a wind-guard to aid the smoke in its ascent. On the outer surface of each tent was ex- hibited the biography of iis owner—expressed in picture-writing. More especially were his deeds of prowess thus recorded—encounters with the cou- rar and grizzly bear— with Crows, Cheyennes, awnees, and Arapahoes—each under its suitable symbol. The at marquee of the chief was par- uoulariy distinguished with this kind of embiemati- cal emblazonment — being literally covered with signs and figures, lire the poe upon a carpet. No doubt, one skilled in the interpretation of these Transatlantic hieroglyphics might have read from that copious cipher many a tale of terrible interest. In front of the tents stood tall spears, with shields of porfleche leaning against them; also long bows of Lois a’are, and shorter ones of horn—the horns of the mountain-ram. Skin-quivers filled with arrows hung suspended from the shafts; and I observed that, in almost —— grouping of these weapons, there was a gun—a rifle. This did not much astonish me. I knew that, to the Utah, the medicine weapon is no longer a miys- tery. Here and there, hides freshly flayed were pegged out upon the grass, with squaws kneeling around them, engaged in the operation of graining. Girls, with water-tight baskets, poised upon the crown of the head, were coming from or going toward th« stream. Men stood in groups, idly chatting, or squatted upon the turf, playing at games of chance. Boys were busy at their bow-practice; and still younger children rolled their naked bodies over the grass, hug ping half-grown re companions of their infan B img f Troops of dogs trotted among the tents; while a mixed herd of horses, mules, sheep, goats, and asses browsed the plain at a little distance from the camp. Such was the covp a’ei/ that presented itself to my gaze, as we rode up to the Utah encampment. As might be expected, our arrival caused a change in the occupation of everybody. The dicers leaped to their feet—the squaws dis- continued their work, and flung their scrapers upop the skins. “ Ti-ya!’’ was the exclamation of astonishment that burst from hundreds of lips. Children screamed, and ran hiding behind their dusky mothers; dogs wled and barked; horses neighed; mules hinnied; asses brayed; while the sheep and goats joined their bleating to the uni- versal chorus, ““On to the chief's tent!’ counseled my compan- ion, gliding to the und, and preceding me on foot, *‘ Yonder! the chief himself—Wa-ka-ra!” An Indian of medium size and rfect form, habited in a tunic of embroidered buckskin, leg- gings of scarlet cloth, head-dress of colored plumes, with crest that swept backward and drooped down to his heels, A yly-stri serape, suspendect scarf-like over the left shoulder, with a sash of red China crape wound loosely around the waist, com- pleted a costume more pi ue than savage. A face of noble type, with an eye mat glancing, like that of an eagle; an expression of features in the more gettle than no way fierce, but, like ““' OS 0 savage; a countenance, in repose mild—alm meekness. Such saw L Had I known the man who stood before me, I might have remarked how little this latter expression cor- responded with his real character. I was face to face with the most noted war-chief of America, whose name, though new to me, was at that moment dreaded from Oregon to Arispe, from the banks of the Rio Bravo to the sierras of Alta California. It was Walker—the war-chief of the Utahs—the friend of the celebrated trapper, whose name be head adopted; and which, hy e modification of Utah orthoepy, had become -ka-ra. An odd individual—a very odd one—was standing beside the chief as I rode oP. He ap to be a Mexican, to judge by his er. tume and the color of his skin. e former cor. sisted of jague‘a and calzoneros of dark-colored \: ! veteen, surmounted by a broad-brimmed «& ml) ¢. 0 of black glaze; while the complexion, although swarthy, was several shades lighter than that of the Indian. He was a man of diminutive stature, and with a countenance of a serio-comical cast. An expression of this kind pervaded his whole person— features and figure included—and was hightened by the presence of a singular accoutermert that huny suspended from his leathern waist-belt. It was a pete of timber some eighteen inches in length, and ooking like the section of a boot-tree, or the halt of wooden milk-yoke. At the thick end was a con- cavity or socket, with straps, by which it was at- tached to the belt; and this 9 pyc apparatus, hanging down over his thigh, added to the grotesque appearance of its owner. “The little Mexican had all the cut cf a “char acter;’’ and he was one, as I afterward ascertained, He was no other than the famous Pedro Ar- chilete—or “ Peg-leg,"’ as his comrades called him— a (rapper of Taos, and one of the most expert and fearless of that fearless fraternity. The odd accouterment which had pe me was nothing more than an artificial leg! It was an im- plement, however, he. only used upon occasions— whenever the natural one—the ankle of which had been damaged by some accident—gave out through the fatigue of a march. At other times he earried payice Sj 900 (E(o) (E(@)