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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Ninety One.</h3> <h4>The Night-Camp.</h4> We again rode through the upper cañon of the Huerfano, keeping along the bank of the stream. Farther on we came to the forking of two trails—the more southern one leading up to the Cuchada, to the pass of Sangre de Cristo. By it had the gold-seekers gone in company with the dragoons—the latter en route for the new military post of Port Massachusetts—the former, no doubt, intending to take the line of the Gila or Mohave to their still distant destination—the gold-bearing placers of California? Above its upper cañon the Huerfano bends suddenly to the north; and up its bank lies the route to Robideau’s Pass—the same taken by the Mormon train. We had no difficulty in following their trail. The wheel and hoof-tracks had cut out a conspicuous road; and the numbers of both showed that the party was a large one—much larger than our previous information had led us to anticipate. This was of little consequence—since in any case, we could not have used force in the accomplishment of our design. I regarded it rather as a favourable circumstance. The greater the multitude, the less likelihood of an individual being closely observed, or speedily missed. We reached Robideau’s Pass as the sun was sinking over the great plain of San Luis. Within the pass we lighted upon the ground of the Mormon encampment. It had been their halting-place of the night before. The wolves were prowling among the smouldering fires—whose half-burnt faggots still sent up their wreaths of filmy smoke. We now knew the history of the captured waggon and slain teamsters. Our guide had learnt it from the Utah messenger. The vehicle had belonged to the Mormons; who, at the time the Arapahoes made their attack, were only a short distance in the advance. Instead of returning to the rescue of their unfortunate comrades, their dread of the Indians had caused them to yield ready obedience to the Napoleonic motto, sauve qui peut: and they had hurried onward without making stop, till night overtook them in the Robideau Pass. This version enabled me to explain what had appeared very strange conduct on the part of the escort. The character of the victims to the Arapaho attack would in some measure have accounted for the indifference of the dragoons. With the safety of the Mormons they had no concern; and would be likely enough to leave them to their fate. But the guide had ascertained that both gold-diggers and dragoons—disgusted with their saintly compagnons du voyage—had separated from them; and, having gone far ahead, in all probability knew nothing of the sanguinary scene that had been enacted in the valley of the Huerfano! We resolved to pass the night on the ground of the deserted encampment. By our guide’s information—received from the runner—the Mormons were about thirty miles in advance of us. They were encamped on the banks of the Rio del Norte, there awaiting the answer of the Utah chief. That answer we should ourselves deliver on the following day. Having given the coyotes their congé, we proceeded to pitch our buffalo-tents. A brace of these, borrowed from the friendly Utahs, formed part of the packing of our mules. One was intended for the use of the huntress-maiden—the other to give lodgment to the rest of our party. Not but that all of us—even Marian herself—could have dispensed with such a shelter. We had another object in thus providing ourselves. It might be necessary to travel some days in the company of the Saints. In that case, the tents would serve not only for shelter, but as a place of concealment. The opaque covering of skins would protect us from the too scrutinising gaze of our fellow-travellers; and in all likelihood we—the hunters of the party—should stand in need of such privacy to readjust our disguises—disarranged in the chase. Under cover of the tents, we could renew our toilet without the danger of being intruded upon. Chiefly for this reason, then, had we encumbered ourselves with the skin lodges. Thus far had we come without interruption. Though the trail was a route frequently travelled, both by Indians and whites, no one of either race had been encountered upon the way. We had seen neither man nor horse, excepting our own. For all that, we had not advanced without a certain circumspection. There was still a possibility of peril, of which we were aware; and we omitted no precautions that might enable us to avoid it. The danger I allude to was a probable encounter with some of our late enemies—the Arapahoes. Not those who had just been discomfited; but a party of my own pursuers of the preceding night. Some of these had returned to the butte as already stated, but had all gone back? Might not others—stimulated by a more eager spirit of vengeance, or the ambition of striking a glorious coup by my capture—have continued the pursuit? If so we might expect to encounter them on their return; or, if first perceived, we might fall into an ambuscade. In either case should they chance to outnumber us—to any great extent—a collision would be inevitable and dangerous. If such a party was ahead of us—and it was still a question—we knew that they could not possibly be aware of the defeat sustained by their comrades under Red-Hand; and, having no knowledge of their own predicament, would fight without that dread, which such a circumstance might otherwise have inspired. It was scarcely probable either, that their party would be a very small one—by no means as small as our own. It was not likely that less than a dozen of their warriors would venture over ground, where, at every moment, they would risk meeting with a more powerful band of their Utah enemies—to say nothing of an encounter with a retaliating party from the Mormon train? Weighing the probabilities that Arapahoes were ahead of us, we had taken due precaution to avoid the contingency of meeting them. We had looked for “sign” to contradict our suspicions, or confirm them. We had not found any—either tracks of their horses, or any other trace of their passage along the trail. In the cañon, yes. There we had seen the hoof-prints of their horses: but not beyond it, nor at the entrance of Robideau’s Pass. If they had gone forward, it must have been by some parallel route, and not upon the trail of the emigrant waggons? Nor yet upon the area of the encampment had we been able to meet with any indications of their presence: though we had spent the last minutes of daylight in a careful scrutiny of the ground. As for myself I looked for indications of a very different kind; but equally without success. The absence of all Lilian sign satisfied us that we had no enemy to fear. Even the wary trapper saw no imprudence in our making a fire, and one was made—a large pile, for which the half-burnt faggots scattered over the camp afforded the ready material. The fire was not called for by the cold—for the night was a mild one—but simply to serve the purposes of our cuisine; and, hungered by the long ride, we all did full justice to our supper of dried deer-meat, eaten alfresco. After the meal the men of us sat around the fire, indulging in that luxury—esteemed sweet by the prairie traveller—the fumes of the Nicotian weed. Marian had retired to her tent; and, for a few minutes, was lost to our sight. After a short time she came forth again; but, instead of joining us by the cheerful hearth, she was seen sauntering down in the direction of the stream. This caused a defection in our party. The young backwoodsman rose to his feet; and silently, but with rather an awkward grace, walked towards the tent—not Marian’s. He might as well have spared himself the trouble of taking up some of his accoutrements, and pretending to examine them. The feint was perfectly transparent to the rest of us—especially when the action ended, by his strolling off almost on the identical track taken by the huntress-maiden! “Amantes?” (lovers), whispered Archilete, half-interrogatively, as with a smile of quiet significance he followed the receding form of the hunter. “Yes; lovers who have been long separated.” “Carrambo! Do you say so? This then should be the rival of the false husband?” I nodded assent. “Por Dios, Señor; it is not to be wondered at that the canting heretico stood no chance in that game—had it been played fairly. Your camarado is a magnificent fellow. I can understand now why the wild huntress had no eyes for our mountain-men here. No wonder she sighed for her far forest-home. Ay de mi, cavallero! Love is a powerful thought, even the desert will not drive it out of one’s heart. No, no; valga me dios! no!” The tone in which the Mexican repeated the last words had a tinge of sadness in it—while his eyes turned upon the fire with an expression that betrayed melancholy. It was easy to tell that he too—odd, and even ludicrous as was his personal appearance—either was, or had been, one of love’s victims. I fancied he might have a story to tell—a love story? and at that moment my mind was attuned to listen to such a tale. Sure-shot had also left us—our animals picketed a few paces off requiring his attention—and the two of us were left alone by the fire. If the trapper’s tale should prove a sentimental romance—and such are not uncommon in the Mexican border land—the moment was opportune. Seeing that my new acquaintance was in the communicative mood, I essayed to draw him forth. “You speak truly,” I said. “Love is a powerful passion, and defies even the desert to destroy it. You yourself have proved it so, I presume? You have souvenirs?” “Ay, señor, that have I; and painful ones.” “Painful?” “As poison—Carrai-i-i!” “Your sweetheart has been unfaithful?” “No.” “Her parents have interfered, I suppose, as is often the case? She has been forced against her will to marry another?” “Ah! señor, no. She was never married.” “Not married? what then?” “She was murdered!” Regret at having initiated a conversation—that had stirred up such a melancholy memory—hindered me from making rejoinder; and I remained silent. My silence, however, did not stay the tale. Perhaps my companion longed to unburden himself; or, with some vague hope of sympathy, felt relief in having a listener. After a pause he proceeded to narrate the story of his love, and the sad incidents that led to its fatal termination. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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