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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Sixty Nine.</h3> <h4>A Rival Stalker.</h4> It was not by any conjuncture that I arrived at this conclusion. I was quite confident that the footsteps were not those of a squaw—all inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. I observed that they were very recent—of less than an hour’s age. As I rose from regarding them, a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand—the footmarks of a wolf! No—I was deceived by resemblance. On nearer examination, they were not wolf-tracks I saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. These were also fresh like the woman’s tracks—made doubtless at the same time. The dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his track was uppermost. There were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: a white woman in such a place, and wearing moccasins! But for the style of the chaussure, I might have fancied that the tracks were those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. I might have connected them with her—ever uppermost in my thoughts. But—no. Small though they were, they were yet too large for those mignon feet, well-remembered. After all, I might be mistaken? Some dusky maiden might have passed that way, followed by her dog? This hypothesis would have removed all mystery, had I yielded to it. I could not: it was contrary to my tracking experience. Even the dog was not Indian: the prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race. My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was paramount; and after assuaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The noble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even changed his attitude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge! When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by the ovis ammon in descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body? I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun—that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs—told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot? If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game. Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, a free trapper. I knew that upon several head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these singular men. From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears—“Off there, Wolf! off, villain dog! Don’t you see that the creature is killed—no thanks to you, sirrah?” Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman! While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes—a girl majestically beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown—cheeks of purplish red—a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve—eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope—a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes—such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view—equally striking and picturesque. I need not say that it was of perfect shape—bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself—hence the perfect correspondence of its parts. And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation. The costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. About both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself—for those sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw the snowy cone of Pike’s Peak rising over the crest of the cliff, I might have fancied myself in the Sierra Asturias, with a beautiful gitana standing before me. The soft fawn-skin tilma, with its gaudy broidering of beads and stained quills—the fringed skirt and buskined ankles—the striped Navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders—all presented a true gipsy appearance. The plumed circlet upon the head was more typical of Transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a female hand was still another idiosyncracy of America. It was from that rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low the bighorn! It was not a hunter then who had killed the game; but she who stood before me—a huntress—the Wild Huntress. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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