Майн Рид
The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness
Chapter Thirty Four
A Departure in a “Dug-Out.”
We were in perfect accord as to our course of action, as in our thoughts. If our motives were not similar, our enemy was the same. Only was there a difference in our prospective designs. Love was the lure that beckoned me on; Wingrove was led by revenge. To follow him, and punish guilt, was the métier of my companion; to follow her, and rescue innocence, was the rôle cast for me. Though guided by two such different passions, both were of the strongest of our nature – either sufficient to stimulate to the most earnest action; and without loss of time, we entered upon it in full determination to succeed. I had already formed the design of pursuit; and perhaps it was with the hope of obtaining an associate and companion, that I had sought an interview with the hunter. At all events, this had been my leading idea. His expressed determination, therefore, was but the echo of my wish. It only remained for us to mould our design into a proper and practicable form.
Though not much older than my new comrade, there were some things in which I had the advantage of him. I was his superior in experience. He acknowledged it with all deference, and permitted my counsels to take the lead. The exercise of partisan warfare – especially that practised on the Mexican and Indian frontiers – is a school scarcely equalled for training the mind to coolness and self-reliance. An experience thus obtained, had given mine such a cast; and taught me, by many a well-remembered lesson, the truthfulness of that wise saw; “The more haste the less speed.” Instead, therefore of rushing at once in medias res, and starting forth, without knowing whither to go, my counsel was that we should act with caution; and adopt some definite plan of pursuit. It was not the suggestion of my heart, but rather of my head. Had I obeyed the promptings of the former, I should have been in the saddle, hours before, and galloping somewhere in a westerly direction – perhaps to find, at the end of a long journey only disappointment, and the infallibility of the adage.
Taking counsel from my reason, I advised a different course of action; and my comrade – whose head for his age was a cool one – agreed to follow my advice. Indeed, he had far less motive for haste than I. Revenge would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a quiet heart was out of the question. She whom I loved was not only in danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the victim of a dastard coquin– diabolic as dastard! Suffering under the sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the self-restraining power of which I was possessed. Had I but known where to go, I should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant. Not knowing, I was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to restrain myself from the idle attempt.
That Holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the Mormon, we knew: the letter told that. That they had left the cabin was equally known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be accomplished. If still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance of overtaking them. But what after that? Ah! beyond that I did not trust myself to speculate. I dared not discuss the future. I refrained from casting even a glance into its horoscope – so dark did it appear. I had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach. That phrase of fatal prophecy, “You will be too late – too late!” still rang in my ears. It had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty interpretation of it. Had not it also a figurative application? and did it not signify I should be too late in every sense?
At what time had they taken their departure? By what route? and upon what road? These were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure itself – the deserted dwelling. Thither we hied in all haste – prepared, if need be, for a more distant expedition. On entering the enclosure, we dismounted, and at once set about examining the “sign.” My companion passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge. I had hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind. Even the hoof-prints of my own horse – made but an hour before – were washed full of mud, and scarcely traceable.
Had they gone upon horseback? It was not probable: the house-utensils could hardly have been transported that way? Nor yet could they have removed them in a wagon? No road for wheels ran within miles of the clearing – that to Swampville, as already stated, being no more than a bridle-path; while the other “traces,” leading up and down the creek, were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle.
There was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe. It was clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it. Wingrove well knew the craft. It was known as Holt’s “dug-out;” and was occasionally used as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as passed that way. It was sufficiently large to carry several at once – large enough for the purpose of a removal. The mode of their departure was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already suspecting it, we had still some doubts. Had they gone off in any other way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them. But a congé in a canoe was a very different affair: man’s presence leaves no token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element – an emblem of his own vain nothingness!
Chapter Thirty Five
A dangerous Sweetheart
Our conjectures as to the mode of their departure were at an end. On this point, we had arrived at a definite knowledge. It was clear they had gone off in the canoe; and with the current, of course: since that would carry them in the direction they intended to travel. The settling of this question, produced a climax – a momentary pause in our action. We stood upon the bank of the stream, bending our eyes upon its course, and for a time giving way to the most gloomy reflections. Like our thoughts were the waters troubled. Swollen by the recent rain-storm, the stream no longer preserved its crystal purity; but in the hue of its waters justified the name it bore. Brown and turbid, they rolled past – no longer a stream, but a rushing torrent – that spumed against the banks, as it surged impetuously onward. Trees torn up by the roots were carried on by the current – their huge trunks and half-riven branches twisting and wriggling in the stream, like drowning giants in their death-struggle. In the “sough” of the torrent, we heard their sighs – in its roar, the groans of their departing spirits!
The scene was in unison with our thoughts; and equally so with the laughter that at that moment sounded in our ears – for it was laughter wild and maniac. It was heard in the forest behind us; ringing among the trees, and mingling its shrill unearthly echo with the roaring of the torrent. Both of us were startled at the sound. Though the voice was a woman’s, I could see that it had produced on Wingrove a certain impression of fear. On hearing it, he trembled and turned pale. I needed no explanation. A glance towards the forest revealed the cause. A female form moving among the trees told me whence had come that unexpected and ill-timed cachinnation.
“Lord o’ mercy!” exclaimed my companion, “that Injun again! She’s been arter me since that night, an’ threatens to have a fresh try at takin’ my life. Look out stranger! I know she’s got pistols.”
“Oh! I fancy there’s not much danger. She appears to be in the laughing mood.”
“It’s jest that ere larf I don’t like: she’s allers wust when she’s in that way.”
By this time the Indian had reached the edge of the clearing very near the rear of the cabin. Without pausing she sprang up on the fence – as if to enter the enclosure. This, however, proved not to be her intention; for, on climbing to the topmost rail, she stood erect upon it, with one hand clutching the limb of a tree, to keep her in position. As soon as she had attained the upright attitude, another peal of laughter came ringing from her lips, as wild as that with which she had announced her approach; but there was also in its tones a certain modulation that betokened scorn! Neither of us uttered a syllable; but, observing a profound silence, stood waiting to hear what she had to say. Another scornful laugh, and her words broke forth:
“White Eagle! and proud slayer of red panthers! your hearts are troubled as the stream on which your eyes are gazing! Su-wa-nee knows your sorrows. She comes to you with words of comfort.”
“Ah! speak them then!” said I, suddenly conceiving a hope. “Hear you that sound in the forest?”
We heard no sound, save that of the water grumbling and surging at our feet. We answered in the negative. “You hear it not? Ha, ha, ha! where are your ears? It is ringing in mine. All day I have heard it. Listen! there it is again!”
“She’s a mockin’ us,” muttered my companion; “thar ain’t no soun’ in partickler.”
“No? we cannot hear it; you are mocking us,” I rejoined, addressing myself to the brown-skinned, sibyl. “Ha! ha! ha! It is it that is mocking you. It mocks you, and yet it is not the mocking-bird. It is not the dove cooing gently to his mate, nor the screaming of the owl. It is the cuckoo that mocks you! ha! ha! the cuckoo! Now, do you hear it, White Eagle? Do you hear it, proud slayer of red panthers? Ha! it mocks you both!”
“Oh! bother, girl!” exclaimed. Wingrove in a vexed tone; “ye’re a talkin’ nonsense.”
“Truth, White Eagle – truth! the black snake has been in your nest; and yours too, slayer of panthers! He has wound himself around your pretty birds, and borne them away in his coils – away over the great desert plains – away to the Big Lake! Ha, ha, ha! In the desert, he will defile them. In the waters of the lake, he will drown them – ha, ha, ha!”
“Them’s yur words o’ comfort, air they?” cried Wingrove, exasperated to a pitch of fury. “Durned if I’ll bar sech talk! I won’t stan’ it any longer. Clar out now! We want no croakin’ raven hyar. Clar out! or – ”
He was not permitted to finish the threat. I saw the girl suddenly drop down from her position on the fence, and glide behind the trunk of a tree. Almost at the same instant a light gleamed along the bank – which might have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, had it not been followed instantaneously by a quick crack – easily recognisable as the report of a pistol! I waited not to witness the effect; but rushed towards the tree – with the design of intercepting the Indian. The blue smoke lingering in the damp air, hindered me from seeing the movements of the girl; but, hurrying onward, I clambered over the fence. Once on the other side, I was beyond the cloud, and could command a view for a score of yards or so around me; but, in that circuit, no human form was to be seen! Beyond it, however, I heard the vengeful, scornful, laugh, pealing its unearthly echoes through the columned aisles of the forest!
Chapter Thirty Six
The Horologe of the Dead Horse
With inquiring eye and anxious heart, I turned towards the spot where I had left my companion. To my joy, he was still upon his feet, and coming towards me. I could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at rest. He was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound? It proved so in effect. The bullet had passed through the muscular part of the left forearm – only tearing the flesh. The wound did not even require a surgeon. The haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few days it would be certain to heal.
Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. The allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. It affected me equally with my comrade – perhaps more. The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand. – California, of course. There was no allusion to the Salt Lake – not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the Mormons. Su-wa-nee’s speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter’s journey! How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. The mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. For this reason gave I weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl – though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service.
The incident altered our design – only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. The first point to be ascertained was the time of their departure.
“If it wan’t for the rain,” said the hunter, “I ked a told it by thar tracks. They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin’ thar things to the dug-out. The durned rain’s washed ’em out – every footmark o’ ’em.”
“But the horses? what of them? They could not have gone off in the canoe?”
“I war just thinkin’ o’ them. The one you seed with Stebbins must a been hired, I reck’n; an’ from Kipp’s stables. Belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin ’ithout him; or Kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?”
“But Holt’s own horse – the old ‘critter,’ as you call him?”
“That diz need explainin’. He must a left him ahind. He culdn’t a tuk him in the dug-out; besides, he wan’t worth takin’ along. The old thing war clean wore out, an’ wuldn’t a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. Now, what ked they a done wi’ him?”
The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. “Heigh!” he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. “Yonder we’ll find him! See the buzzarts! The old hoss’s past prayin’ for, I’ll be boun’.”
It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal’s throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!
“He’s killed the crittur!” musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; “jest like what he’d do! He might a left the old thing to some o’ his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn’t a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan’t partickler friendly wi’ any o’ us, an’ least o’ all wi’ myself – tho’ I niver knew the adzact reezun o’t, ’ceptin’ that I beat him once shootin’, at a barbecue. He war mighty proud a’ his shootin’, an’ that riled him, I reck’n: he’s been ugly wi’ me iver since.”
I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying – my attention being occupied with a process of analytical reasoning. In the dead horse, I had found a key to the time of Holt’s departure. The ground for some distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. Thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating “pool,” had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards – the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal. All these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. At the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning.
“How long think you since he was killed?” I asked, pointing to the dead horse. “Ha! ye’re right, stranger!” said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. “I war slack not to think o’ that. We kin easy find out, I reck’n.”
The hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. In this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. Only for a few seconds did he remain in this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect:
“Good, by thunder! The old horse hain’t been dead ’bove a kupple o’ hours. Look thar, stranger! the blood ain’t froze? I kin a’most fancy thar’s heat in his old karkiss yet!”
“You are sure he has been killed this morning?”
“Quite sure o’t; an’ at most three, or may be four hour agone. See thar!” he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; “limber as a eel! Ef he’d a been dead last night, the leg’d been stiff long afore this.”
“Quite true,” replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning.
This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. It told the day. The hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. Holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. As far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing. Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. There was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt’s career in his clearing upon Mud Creek. Only one doubt remained. Was it he who had killed the animal? I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee – but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the act.
“No, no!” replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: “’twar Holt hisself, sartin. He culdn’t take the old hoss along wi’ him, an’ he didn’t want anybody else to git him. Besides, the girl hedn’t no reezun to a did it. She’d a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp – seein’ he war left behind wi’ nobody to own him. Tho’ he wan’t worth more’n what the skin ’ud fetch, he’d adone for them ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin’ thar traps an’ things. No, ’twan’t her, nor anybody else ’ceptin’ Holt hisself – he did it?”
“If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. They cannot have more than four hours the start. You say the creek has a winding course?”
“Crooked as a coon’s hind leg.”
“And the Obion?”
“Most part the same. It curls through the bottom like the tail o’ a cur-dog; an’ nigher the Massissippy, it don’t move faster than a snail ’ud crawl. I reck’n the run o’ the river ’ll not help ’em much. The’ll hev a good spell o’ paddlin’ afore they git down to Massissippy; an’ I hope that durned Mormon ’ll blister his ugly claws at it!”
“With all my heart!” I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the Obion.
