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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Seventy.</h3> <h4>The Wild Huntress.</h4> No longer was it from fear that I held back; but a hesitancy springing from surprise mingled with admiration. The sight of so much beauty—grand as unexpected—was enough to unnerve one, especially in such a place—and one to whose eye the female form had so long been a stranger. Su-wa-nee’s I had seen only at a distance; and hers, to my sight, was no longer beautiful. I hesitated to show myself—lest the sight of me should alarm this lovely apparition, and cause her to take flight. The thought was not unnatural—since the tricoloured pigments of black, red, and white were still upon my skin; and I must have presented the picture of a chimney-sweep with a dining-plate glued upon his breast. In such a guise I knew that I must cut a ludicrous figure, and would have slipped back to the pool, and washed myself; but I dreaded to take my eyes from that beautiful vision, lest I might never look upon it again! In my absence, she would be gone? I feared even then, that on seeing me she might take flight: and I was too faint to follow her. For this reason, I stood silently gazing through my leafy covert, like one who watches the movements of some shy and beautiful bird. I almost dreaded to breathe lest the sound might alarm her. I was planning, at the same time, how I should initiate an interview. Her voice again reached me, as she recommenced scolding the dog: even its chiding tones were sweet. She had approached, and stooped for a moment over the bighorn, as if to satisfy herself that the animal was dead. Her canine companion did not appear to be quite sure of the fact: for he continued to spring repeatedly upon the carcass with open mouth, as if eager to devour it. “Off, off!” cried she, threatening the dog with the butt of her rifle. “You wicked Wolf! what has got into you? Have I not told you that the thing is dead—what more do you want? Mind, sirrah!” continued she, shaking her finger significantly at the dog—“mind, my good fellow! you had no part in the killing of it; and if you spoil the skin, you shall have no share in the flesh. You hear me? Not a morsel!” Wolf appeared to understand the hint and retired. Impelled by hunger, I accepted the cue: “You will not refuse a morsel to one who is starving?” “Aha! who speaks?” cried the huntress, turning round with a glance rather of inquiry than alarm. “Down, Wolf!” commanded she, as the dog bounded forward with a growl. “Down, you savage brute! Don’t you hear that some one is starving? Ha! a negro! Poor devil! where can he have come from, I wonder?” Only my head was visible—a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. The coat of char upon my face was deceiving her. “No, not a negro,” said I, stepping out and discovering my person—“not a negro, though I have been submitted to the treatment of one.” “Ho! white, red, and black! Mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin! Ha, ha, ha!” “My toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? I might apologise for it—since I can assure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than—” “You are a white man, then?” said she, interrupting me—at the same time stepping nearer to examine me. “I was, yesterday,” I replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the Indian artist had left untouched. “To-day, I am as you see.” “O heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, “this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? Where is your wound?” “In several places I am wounded; but not dangerously. They are only scratches: I have no fear of them.” “Who gave you these wounds?” “Indians. I have just escaped from them.” “Indians! What Indians?” “Arapahoes.” “Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?” The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement. “On the Huerfano,” I replied—“by the Orphan butte. It was the band of a chief known as the Red-Hand.” “Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger! are you sure of this?” The earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. I answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment—without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. Indeed, I was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener—who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner: “Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!” After a pause she hastily inquired: “How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?” “Nearly two hundred.” “Not more than two hundred?” “No—rather less, I should say.” “It is well—You say you have a horse?” “My horse is at hand.” “Bring him up, then, and come along with me!” “But my comrades? I must follow the train, that I may be able to return and rescue them?” “You need not, for such a purpose. There is one not far off who can aid you in that—better than the escort you speak of. If too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. You say the caravan passed yesterday?” “Yesterday about noon.” “You could not overtake it, and return in time. The Red-Hand would be gone. Besides, you cannot get from this place to the trail taken by the caravan, without going back by the cañon; and there you might meet those from whom you have escaped. You cannot cross that way: the ridge is impassable.” As she said this, she pointed to the left—the direction which I had intended to take. I could see through a break in the bluff a precipitous mountain spur running north and south—parallel with the ravine I had been threading. It certainly appeared impassable—trending along the sky like the escarpment of some gigantic fortress. If this was true, there would be but little chance of my overtaking the escort in time. I had no longer a hope of being able to effect the rescue of my comrades. The delay, no doubt, would be fatal. In all likelihood, both Wingrove and Sure-shot had ere this been sacrificed to the vengeance of the Arapahoes, freshly excited by my escape. Only from a sense of duty did I purpose returning: rather with the idea of being able to avenge their deaths. What meant this mysterious maiden? Who possessed the power to rescue my comrades from two hundred savages—the most warlike upon the plains? Who was he that could aid me in avenging them? “Follow me, and you shall see!” replied the huntress, in answer to my interrogatory. “Your horse! your horse! Hasten, or we shall be too late. The Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! Wa-ka-ra will rejoice at the news. Your horse! your horse!” I hastened back for my Arab, and hurriedly led him up to the spot. “A beautiful creature!” exclaimed she, on seeing the horse; “no wonder you were able to ride off from your captors. Mount!” “And you?” “I shall go afoot. But stay! time is precious. Can your steed carry us both?” “Undoubtedly he can.” “Then it is better we should both ride. Half an hour is everything; and if the Red-Hand should escape—You mount first—be quick!” It was not the time to be squeamish—even under the glance of the loveliest eyes. Taking the robe from my shoulders, I spread it over the back of my horse; and employing a piece of the laryette as a surcingle, I bound it fast. Into the improvised saddle I mounted—the girl, from a rock, leaping upon the croup behind me. “You, Wolf!” cried she, apostrophising the dog; “you stay here by the game, and guard it from the coyotes. Remember! rascal! not a mouthful till I return. Now, stranger!” she continued, shifting closer to me, and clasping me round the waist, “I am ready. Give your steed to the road; and spare him not, as you value the lives of your comrades. Up the ravine lies our way. Ho! onward!” The brave horse needed no spur. He seemed to understand that speed was required of him; and, stretching at once into a gallop, carried us gaily up the gorge. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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