Esther

CHAPTER IV. CLAUDE AND ELLEN.

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 36entered 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 37been 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, 38does 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 39will 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 40stood 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, 42whose 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 43keep 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 44goes 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 45forward 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.”

46“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 47reckless 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.”

48“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 49fevered 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.

50An 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.

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 57done 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.”

58“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.”

59“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 60his 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?”

61“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?”

62“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, 63snatching 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 65air, 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:

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 66his 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 67have 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 68fools! 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 69eyes, 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?”

70“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.

71The 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.

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.”

80The 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 81though 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.”

82“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?”

83“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. 84Hark! 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 85the 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.

87Alone 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?

88A 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 89she 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.

90“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.”

91“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 92good 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 94him, 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 95horse 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 96that 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 97dressed 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 98be 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 99growled 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 100the 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.

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.