The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Sixty Eight
The Track of the Mocassin

The blue dawn of morning was glinting among the rocks when I awoke. On the crest of the cliff was a streak of amber-coloured light, that betokened the rising of the sun and warned me that it was time to be stirring. I had no toilet to make – no breakfast to eat: nothing to do but mount my horse and move onward. I continued up the lateral ravine – since there was no path leading out from it; and to return to the Huerfano, would have been to ride back into the teeth of danger. I still felt faint. Though less than twenty-four hours since I had eaten, I hungered acutely. Was there nothing I could eat? I looked inquiringly around. It was a scene of sterility and starvation. Not a symptom of life – scarcely a sign of vegetation! Rocks, bare and forbidding, formed two parallel façades grinning at each other across the gorge – their rugged features but little relieved by the mottling of dark junipers that clung from their clefts. There appeared neither root nor fruit that might be eaten. Only a chameleon could maintain existence in such a spot!

I had scarcely made this reflection, when, as if to contradict it, the form of a noble animal became outlined before my eyes. Its colour, size, and proportions, were those of a stag of the red deer species; but its spiral horns proclaimed it of a different genus. These enabled me to identify it as the rare mountain-ram – the magnificent ammon, of the Northern Andes. It was standing upon a salient point of the cliff – its form boldly projected against the purple sky, in an attitude fixed and statuesque. One might have fancied it placed there for embellishment – a characteristic feature of that wild landscape. The scene would have been incomplete without it. From my point of observation it was five hundred yards distant. It would have been equally safe at five: since I had no means of destroying it. I might easily have crept within shot-range – since a grove of cotton-woods, just commencing where I had halted, extended up the bottom of the ravine. Under these I could have stalked, to the base of the cliff on which the animal stood – a sort of angular promontory projecting into the gorge. This advantage only rendered the sight more tantalising: my gun was empty, and I had no means of reloading it. Was it certain the piece was empty? Why should the Indian have believed it to be loaded? Up to this moment, I had not thought of examining it. I drew the ramrod, and inverted it into the barrel. The head struck upon a soft substance. The screw stood four fingers above the muzzle: the gun was charged! There was no cap upon the nipple. There had been none! This accounted for the piece having missed fire. In all likelihood, I owed my life to the circumstance of the savage being ignorant of the percussion principle!

I was now indebted to another circumstance for a supply of caps. The locker near the heel of the stock had escaped the attention of the Indians. Its brass cover had passed for a thing of ornament. On springing it open the little caps of corrugated copper gleamed before my eyes – an abundance of them. I tapped the powder into the nipple; adjusted a cap; and, dismounting, set forth upon the stalk. The spreading tops of the cotton-woods concealed me; and, crouching under them, I made my approaches as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit. It grew damper as I advanced; and, presently, I passed pools of water and patches of smooth mud – where water had recently lain. It was the bed of an intermittent stream – a hydrographic phenomenon of frequent occurrence in the central regions of North America. The presence of water accounted for that of the cotton-wood trees – a sure indication of moisture in the soil.

The water was a welcome sight. I was suffering from thirst even more than from hunger; and, notwithstanding the risk of losing my chance of a shot, I determined to stop and drink. I was creeping forward to the edge of one of the ponds, when a sight came under my eyes that astonished me; and to such a degree, as to drive both thirst and hunger out of my thoughts – at least for the moment. In the margin of sandy mud extending along the edge of the water, appeared a line of tracks – the tracks of human feet! On crawling nearer, I perceived that they were mocassin-tracks, but of such tiny dimensions, as to leave no doubt as to the sex of the individual who had made them. Clearly, they were the imprints of a woman’s feet! A woman must have passed that way! An Indian woman of course!

This was my first reflection; and almost simultaneous with it arose another half-interrogative conjecture: was it Su-wa-nee? No. The foot was too small for that of the forest maiden. I had a remembrance of the dimensions of hers. The tracks before my eyes were not over eight inches in length: and could only have been made by a foot slender, and of elegant shape. The imprint was perfect; and its clear outline denoted the light elastic tread of youth. It was a young woman who had made those footmarks.

At first, I saw no reason to doubt that the tracks were those of some Indian girl. Their size would not have contradicted the supposition. Among the aboriginal belles of America, a little foot is the rule – a large one the exception. I had tracked many a pair much smaller than those; but never had I seen the footprints of an Indian with the toes turned out; and such was the peculiarity of those now before me. This observation – which I did not make till after some time had elapsed – filled me with astonishment, and something more. It was suggestive of many and varied emotions. The girl or woman who had made these tracks could never have been strapped to an Indian cradle. She must be white!

Chapter Sixty Nine
A Rival Stalker

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.

Chapter Seventy
The Wild Huntress

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.