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<SPAN name="chap97"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Ninety Seven.</h3> <h4>The Corralled Camp.</h4> <p>As soon as our quality was known, the Saints came crowding around us. The corral poured forth its contents—until nine-tenths of the whole caravan, men, women and children, stood gazing upon us, with that stare of idiotic wonder peculiar to the humbler classes of countries called civilised. We managed to withstand the ordeal of their scrutiny with an assumed air of true savage indifference. Not without an effort, however: since it was difficult to resist laughing at the grotesque exclamations and speeches, which our appearance and movements elicited from these wondering yokels. We were cautious not to notice their remarks—appearing as if we understood them not. Peg-leg, by the aid of his Anglo-American jargon—picked up among the mountain-men—was able to satisfy them with an occasional reply. The rest of us said nothing; but, to all appearance earnestly occupied with our own affairs, only by stealth turned our eyes on the spectators. I could perceive that the huntress was the chief attraction; and for a moment my apprehensions were sufficiently keen. The girl had done nothing to disguise her sex—the mask extending no farther than to her face and features. Her neck, hands, and wrists—all of her skin that might be exposed—were stained Indian of course; and there would have been little likelihood of their detecting the false epidermis under a casual observation. Had it been a mere ordinary person—painted as she was—she might have passed for an Indian without difficulty. As it was, however, her voluptuous beauty had tempted a closer scrutiny; and, spite of her disfigured features, I saw glances directed upon her expressive of secret but passionate observation. Some of the bystanders took no pains to conceal their predilection.</p> <p>“Darnationed likely squaw!” remarked one. “Who air she, old timber-toes?” inquired he, addressing himself to the guide. “Squaw—Utah gal,” replied the Mexican in his trapper patois. Pointing to me, he continued: “She sister to hunter-chief—she hunter too—kill bighorn, buffalo, deer. <i>Carrambo! si</i>! She grand <i>cazadora</i>!”</p> <p>“Oh! durn yer kezedora. I don’ know, what that ere means; but I do know, an’ rayther calculate, if that ere squaw had the scrubbin’-brush an’ a leetle soft soap over that face o’ hern, she’d look some punkins, I guess.”</p> <p>The fellow who had thus eloquently delivered himself was one of the six who had saluted us on our arrival. Two or three of his <i>confrères</i> were standing beside him—gazing with lynx, or rather wolf-like glances upon the girl. Stebbins himself, before parting, had cast upon her a look of singular expression. It was not significant of recognition; but rather of some thought of viler origin. The others continued to give utterance to their mock admiration; and I was glad—as the girl herself appeared to be—when the tent was pitched, and she was able to retire out of reach of their rude ribaldry.</p> <p>We had now an opportunity of studying the Mormons <i>chez eux mêmes</i>: for not one of them had the slightest idea that their talk was understood by us. Most of them appeared to be of the humbler class of emigrants—farm-people or those of mechanical calling—artisans of the common trades—shoemakers, blacksmiths, joiners, and the like. In the countenances of these there was no cast that betrayed a character, either of particular saintliness or sin. In most of them, the expression was simply stolid and bovine; and it was evident that these were the mere cattle of the herd. Among them could be observed a sprinkling of a different sort of Saints—men of more seeming intelligence, but with less moral inclinings—men of corrupt thoughts and corrupt lives—perhaps once gentle, but now fallen—who had, no doubt, adopted this pseudo-religion in the expectation of bettering their temporal rather than spiritual condition. The influence of these last over the others was quite apparent. They were evidently chiefs—bishops or deacons—“tenths” or “seventies.” It was singular enough to see <i>dandies</i> among them; and yet, however ludicrous the exhibition, dandyism was there displayed! More than one “swell” strutted through the crowd in patent-leather boots, Parisian silk hat, and coat of shining broad-cloth! The temporary halt had offered an opportunity for this display of personal adornment; and these butterflies had availed themselves of the advantage, to cast for a few hours the chrysalis of their travelling gear.</p> <p>The women were of all ages; and, it might be added, of all nations. Several European tongues mingled in the mêlée of sounds; but the one which predominated was that language without vowels—the jargon of the Welsh Principality. The continual clacking of this unspeakable tongue told that the sons and daughters of the Cymri mustered strongest in the migration. Many of the latter wore their picturesque native costume—the red-hooded cloak and kirtle; and some were unspeakably fair, with the fine white teeth, fair complexion, and ruddy cheeks, common to other branches of the Celtic race, but nowhere so characteristic as among the fair maidens of Cambria. It was, no doubt, those sweet shining faces, wreathed with free artless smiles, that had caused the lady-killers to unpack their portmanteaus.</p> <p>My own eyes dwelt not upon these. Ever since our arrival upon the ground, I had been watching with keen glances the opening that led into the corral. Every one who came forth—man or woman—had been the object of my scrutiny. But my glances had been given in vain; and were not rewarded by the recognition of a single individual. The entrance was about two hundred yards from the place where our tents were being pitched; but even at that distance I should have recognised the colossal squatter. As for Lilian, my heart’s instinct would have declared her identity at the most casual glance. Neither father nor daughter had yet made their appearance outside the enclosure: though all the world beside had come freely forth, and many were going back again. It was odd, to say the least, they should act so differently from the others. She, I knew, was very different from the “ruck” that surrounded her; and yet one would have thought that curiosity would have tempted her forth—that simple childlike inclination, natural in one so young, to witness our wild attire—to gaze on our plumes and our paint? I could less wonder at Holt himself being insensible to such attraction; but in her it seemed strange. My astonishment increased, as form after form passed out from the opening, but not that for which my eyes were searching. It ceased to be astonishment: it grew into chagrin; and after that assumed the character of an apprehension. This apprehension I had already entertained, but in a less definite form. It now shaped itself into a cruel doubt—the doubt of <i>her being there</i>—either inside the corral, or anywhere in the Mormon camp!</p> <p>After all, had we taken the wrong track? Might not Holt have kept on with the gold-diggers? The story of the Chicasa signified nothing. Might not Lilian, under the protection of that gallant dragoon, with the torn tassel—might not she? “It is quite probable,” I muttered to myself, “highly probable that they are not here! The squatter may have resisted the will of his Apostolic companion; and, separating himself from the Mormon party, have gone on with the diggers? No! yonder! Holt himself, as I live!”</p> <p>The exclamatory phrases were called forth by the appearance of a tall man in the opening between the waggons. It was Holt. He was standing still; and must have reached the spot he occupied but the moment before—when my eyes for an instant had been turned away. The Herculean frame, and great rufous beard hanging over his breast, proclaimed to my eyes the identity of the Tennessean squatter; and the costume confirmed it. It was precisely the same worn by him on that eventful morning—when standing before me with his long rifle raised against my life. The ample surtout of greenish blanket-cloth, a little further faded—the red skirt underneath—the coarse horse-skin boots rising to his thighs—the crimson kerchief turbaned around his head, its loose flap falling down over his shaggy eyebrows—were all identical with the portrait remaining in my memory. I watched him with eager eye. Was it his intention to step nearer and examine us? Or had he come forth upon some other business? He was looking grave, and sad, I thought; but in the distance I could scarce note the expression upon his countenance. It did not appear to betoken curiosity. Once only he glanced towards us, and then turned his eyes in an opposite direction. This did not shew that he cared much for our presence, or was in anywise interested in it. In all likelihood, he shared not the childish curiosity of his travelling companions—to whom he in other respects bore but little resemblance. As he stood in their midst, he looked like some grim but majestic lion, surrounded by jackals. His behaviour suggested a further similitude to the great forest monarch. He seemed to hold no converse with those around him; but stood apart and for the moment motionless as a statue. Once only I noticed that he yawned—stretching out his colossal arms, as if to aid in the involuntary action. For this purpose, and this alone, did he appear to have come forth: since, shortly after its accomplishment, he turned back into the avenue, and disappeared behind the barricade of the waggons!</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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