The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Eighty
Spiritual Wives

I joined not in the merriment of my companions. I took no share in their mirth. The trapper’s story had intensified the anguish of my thoughts; and now, that I found time to dwell upon its purport, my reflections were bitter beyond expression. I could have no doubt as to who was the heroine of that strange history. She who had been so shamefully deceived – she who had so nobly risked her life to save her honour – she the wild huntress, by the Utahs called Ma-ra-nee– could be no other than that Marian, of whom I had heard so much – Marian Holt!

The circumstances detailed by the trapper were perfectly conformable to this belief – they concurred in establishing it. The time – the place – the route taken – the Mormon train all agreed with what we had ascertained regarding Stebbins’s first expedition across the prairies. The Mexican had mentioned no names. It was likely he knew them not; or if so, it was scarcely probable he could have pronounced them. But it needed not names to confirm me in the belief that “Josh Stebbins” was the sham-husband, and that she whom he would have betrayed – this huntress-maiden, was the lost love of my comrade Wingrove – the sister of my own Lilian. This would account for the resemblance that had struck me. It no longer seemed vague, in my memory: I could now trace it palpably and clearly.

And this was the grand beauty upon which the young backwoodsman had so enthusiastically descanted. Often had he described it to my incredulous ear. I had attributed his praises to the partiality of a lover’s eye – having not the slightest suspicion that their object was possessed of such merits. No more should I question the justice of his admiration, nor wonder at its warmth. The rude hyperbole that had occasionally escaped him, when speaking of the “girl” – as he called her – no longer appeared extravagant. In truth, the charms of this magnificent maiden were worthy of metaphoric phrase. Perhaps, had I seen her first – before looking upon Lilian – that is, had I not seen Lilian at all – my own heart might have yielded to this half-Indian damsel? Not so now. The gaudy tulip may attract the eye, but the incense of the perfumed violet is sweeter to the soul. Even had both been presented together, I could not have hesitated in my choice. All the same should I have chosen the gold and the rose; and my heart’s preference was now fixed, fondly and for ever.

My love for Lilian Holt was a passion too profound to be otherwise than perpetual. It was in my bosom – in its innermost recesses, all-pervading – all-absorbing. There would it cling till death. Even in those dread hours when death seemed hovering above my head, the thought of Lilian was uppermost – even then did my mind dwell upon the perils that encompassed her path. And now that I was myself delivered from danger, had I reason to regard the future of my beloved with apprehensions less acute? No. The horrid scheme which the trapper’s story had disclosed in respect to her sister – might not she, too, be the victim of a similar procuration? O heaven! it was too painfully probable. The more I dwelt upon it, the more probable appeared this appalling hypothesis.

I have already spoken of my experience of Mormon life, and the insight I had incidentally obtained into its hideous characteristics. I have said that the spiritual-wife doctrine was long since exploded – repudiated even by the apostles themselves – and in its place the many-wife system had been adopted. There was no change in reality, only in profession. The practice of the Mormon leaders had been the same from the beginning; only that then polygamy had been carried on sub rosa. Publicity being no longer dreaded, it was now practised “openly and above board.” We term it polygamy – adopting an oriental phrase. It is nothing of the kind. Polygamy presupposes some species of marriage, according to the laws of the land; but for Mormon matrimony – at least that indulged in by the dignitaries of the church – there were no statutes, except such as they had chosen to set up for themselves. The ceremony is simply a farce; and consists in the sprinkling of a little water by some brother apostle, with a few mock-mesmeric passes – jocosely termed the “laying on of hands!” The cheat is usually a secret performance: having no other object than to overcome those natural scruples – not very strong among women of Mormon training – but which sometimes, in the case of young girls of Christian education, had opposed themselves to the designs of these impudent impostors. Something resembling matrimony may be the condition of a Mormon wife – that is, the wife of an ordinary “Saint,” whose means will not allow him to indulge in the gross joys of polygamy. But it is different with the score or two of well-to-do gentlemen who finger the finances of the church – the tenths and other tributes which they contrive to extract from the common herd. Among these, the so-called “wife” is regarded in no other light than that of une femme entretenue.

I knew that one of the duties specially enjoined upon those emissaries termed “apostles,” is to gather young girls from all parts of the world. The purpose is proclaimed with all the affectation of sanctified phraseology: – that they should become “mothers in the church,” and by this means lead to the more rapid increase of the followers of the true faith! This is the public declaration, intended for the common ear. But the leaders are actuated by motives still more infamous. Their emissaries have instructions to select the fairer forms of creation; and it is well-known that to making converts of this class, have their energies been more especially devoted.

It was this species of proselytising – alas! too often successful – that more than aught else had roused the indignation of the backwoodsmen of Missouri and Illinois, and caused the expulsion of the Saints from their grand temple-city of Nauvoo. In the ranks of their assailants were many outraged men – fathers who looked for a lost child – angry brothers, seeking revenge for a sister lured from her home – lovers, who lamented a sweetheart beguiled by that fatal faith – and no doubt the blood of the pseudo-Saint’s, there and then shed, was balm to many a chafed and sorrowing spirit.

In the category of this uxorious infamy, no name was more distinguished than that of him, on whose shoulders the mantle of the prophet had descended – the chief who now held ascendancy among these self-styled saints; and who, with an iron hand, controlled the destinies of their church. A man cunning and unscrupulous; a thorough plebeian in thought, but possessed of a certain portentous polish, well suited to deceive the stupid herd that follows him, and sufficient for the character he is called upon to play; a debauchee boldly declared, and scarcely caring for the hypocrisy of concealment; above all, an irresponsible despot, whose will is law to all around him; and, when needing enforcement, can at any hour pretend to the sanction of authority from heaven: such is the head of the Mormon Church! With both the temporal and spiritual power in his hands; legislative, executive, and judicial united – the fiscal too, for the prophet is sole treasurer of the tenths– this monster of imposition wields a power equalled only by the barbaric chiefs of Africa, or the rajahs of Ind. It might truly be said, that both the souls and bodies of his subjects are his, and not their own. The former he can control, and shape to his designs at will. As for the latter, though he may not take life openly, it is well-known that his sacred edict issued to the “destroying angels,” is equally efficacious to kill. Woe betide the Latter-day Saint, who dares to dream of dissent or apostasy! Woe to him who expresses disaffection, or even discontent! Too surely may he dread a mysterious punishment – too certainly expect the midnight visitation of the Danites!

Exercising such influence over Mormon men, it is almost superfluous to add, that his control over Mormon women is yet more complete. Virtue, assailed under the mask of a spiritual hypocrisy, is apt to give way – alas! too easily – in all parts of the world; but in a state of society, where such slips are rather a fashion than a disgrace, it is needless to say that they are of continual occurrence. The practice of the pseudo-prophet in wife-taking has very little limit, beyond that fixed by his own desires. It is true he may not outrage certain formalities, by openly appropriating the wives of his followers; but should he fancy to become the husband of their daughters, not only is there no opposition offered on the part of the parent, but the base proposal is regarded in the light of an honour! So esteemed it the women from whom Marian Holt had run away – the brave girl preferring the perils of starvation and savage life to such gentle companionship! Thus contemplating the character of the vulgar Alcibiades, for whose harem she had been designed – in full knowledge of the circumstances which now surrounded her sister – how could I deem the situation of Lilian otherwise than similar – her destiny the same? With such a tyrant to betray, such a father to protect, no wonder that I trembled for her fate! No wonder that the sweat – forced from me my by soul’s agony – broke out in bead-drops upon my brow!

Chapter Eighty One
The Death-Song

Prostrated in spirit, I sunk down among the rocks, covering my face with my hands. So occupied was I with wild imaginings, that I saw not the Utah women as they passed down the valley. They did not approach the butte, nor make halt near, but hastened directly onward to the scene of conflict. I had for the moment forgotten them; and was only reminded of their proximity on hearing the death-wail, as it came pealing up the valley. It soon swelled into a prolonged and plaintive chorus – interrupted only by an occasional shriek – that denoted the discovery of some relative among the slain – father, brother, husband – or perhaps still nearer and dearer, some worshipped lover – who had fallen under the spears of the Arapahoes.

Was Maranee among them? – the wailing women? The thought roused me from my reverie of wretchedness. A gleam of joy shot suddenly across my mind. It was the wild huntress that had given origin to the thought. On her I had founded a new hope. She must be seen! No time should be lost in communicating with her? Had she accompanied the women of the tribe? Was she upon the ground?

I rose to my feet, and was going for my horse. I saw Wingrove advancing towards me. The old shadow had returned to his brow. I might exult in the knowledge of being able to dispel it – once and for ever? Fortunate fellow! little suspected he at that moment how I held his happiness in my hand – how, with one word, I could raise from off his heart the load, that for six long months had weighed heavily upon it! Yes – a pleasant task was before me. Though my own heart bled, I could stop the bleeding of his – of hers, both in a breath. Now, or not yet? I hesitated. I can scarcely tell why. Perhaps it was that I might enjoy a double delight – by making the disclosure to both of them at once? I had a sweet surprise for them. To both, no doubt, it would be a revelation that would yield the most rapturous joy. Should I bring them face to face, and leave them to mutual explanations? This was the question that had offered itself, and caused me to hesitate and reflect. No. I could not thus sport with hearts that loved. I could not procrastinate that exquisite happiness, now so near. At once let them enter upon its enjoyment! But both could not be made happy exactly at the same instant? One or other must be first told the glad truth that was in store for them? Apart they must be told it; and to which was I to give the preference? I resolved to follow that rule of polite society, which extends priority to the softer sex. Wingrove must wait!

It was only with an effort, I could restrain myself from giving him a hint of his proximate bliss. I was sustained in the effort, however, by observing the manner in which he approached me. Evidently he had some communication to make that concerned our future movements? Up to that moment, there had been no time to talk – even to think of the future.

“I’ve got somethin’ to say to you, capt’n,” said he, drawing near, and speaking in a serious tone; “it’s better, may be, ye shed know it afore we go furrer. The girl’s been givin’ me some partickalers o’ the caravan that I hain’t told you.”

“What girl?”

“The Chicasaw – Su-wa-nee.”

“Oh – true. What says she? Some pleasant news I may anticipate, since she has been the bearer of them?” It was not any lightness of heart that caused me to give an ironical form to the interrogative. Far from that.

“Well, capt’n,” replied my comrade, “it is rayther ugly news the red-skinned devil’s told me; but I don’ know how much truth thar’s in it; for I’ve foun’ her out in more ’n one lie about this bizness. She’s been wi’ the carryvan, however, an’ shed know all about it.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Well – Su-wa-nee says that the carryvan’s broke up into two.”

“Ha!”

“One helf o’ it, wi’ the dragoons, hes turned south, torst Santa Fé; the other, which air all Mormons, hev struck off northardly, by a different pass, an’ on a trail thet makes for thar new settlements on Salt Lake.”

“There’s not much news in that. We had anticipated something of the kind?”

“But thar’s worse, capt’n.”

“Worse! – what is it, Wingrove?” I put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety.

“Holt’s gone wi’ the Mormons.”

“That too I had expected. It does not surprise me in the least.”

“Ah! capt’n,” continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, “thar’s uglier news still.”

“Ha!” I involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind. “News of her? Quick! tell me! has aught happened to her?”

“The worst that kud happen, I reck’n —she’s dead.”

I started as if a shot had passed through my heart. Its convulsive throbbing stifled my speech. I could not get breath to utter a word; but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony.

“Arter all,” continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, “I don’t know if it air the worst. I sayed afore, an’ I say so still, thet I’d ruther she war dead that in the arms o’ thet ere stinkin’ Mormon. Poor Marian! she’s hed but a short life, o’ ’t, an’ not a very merry one eyether.”

“What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?”

“Why, sartin, capt’n. Who else shed it be?”

“Marian dead?”

“Yes – poor girl, she never lived to see that Salt Lake city – whar the cussed varmint war takin’ her. She died on the way out, an’ war berryed som’rs on the paraireys. I wish I knew whar – I’d go to see her grave.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?”

My companion looked at me in amazement. The laugh, at such a time, must have sounded strange to his ears.

“The Injun heerd it from Lil,” replied Wingrove, still puzzled at my behaviour. “Stebbins had told it to Holt, an’ to her likeways. Poor young creetur! I reck’n he’ll be a wantin’ her too – now thet he’s lost the other. Poor little Lil!”

“Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied – belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive the girl’s father – the Indian to do the same with you. The story is false, Marian Holt is not dead.”

“Marian ain’t dead?”

“No, she lives – she has been true to you. Listen.”

I could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. The reaction – consequent on the bitter pang I had just experienced, while under the momentary belief that it was Lilian who was dead – had stirred my spirit, filling it with a wild joy. I longed to impart the same emotions to my suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, I ran over the events that had occurred since our parting. To the revelations which the Mexican had made, Wingrove listened with frantic delight – only interrupting me with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. When I had finished, he cried out:

“She war forced to go! I thort so! I knew it! Whar is she, capt’n! Oh, take me to her! I’ll fall on my knees. I’ll axe her a thousand times to pardon me. ’Twar the Injun’s fault. I’ll swar it war the Chicasaw. She’s been the cuss o’ us both. Oh! whar is Marian? I love her more than iver! Whar is she?”

“Patience!” I said; “you shall see her presently. She must be down the valley, among the Indian women. Mount your horse, and follow me!”

Chapter Eighty Two
Maranee

We had ridden around the butte, and were in sight of the crowd of wailing women, when one on horseback was seen emerging from their midst, and turning head towards us. The habiliments of the rider told that she was a woman. I recognised the Navajo scarf, and plumed circlet, as those worn by the wild huntress. It was she who had separated from the crowd! Had I needed other evidence to identify her, I saw it in the wolf-like animal that was bounding after her, keeping pace with the gallop of her horse.

“Behold!” I said. “Yonder is Marian – your own Marian!”

“It air, as I’m a livin’ man! I mightn’t a know’d her in that queer dress; but yon’s her dog. It’s Wolf: I kud tell him, any whar.”

“On second thoughts,” suggested I, “perhaps, I had better see her first, and prepare her for meeting you! What say you?”

“Jest as you like, capt’n. P’raps it mout be the better way.”

“Bide behind the waggon, then! Stay there till I give you a signal to come forth.”

Obedient to the injunction, my companion trotted back, and disappeared behind the white tilt. I saw the huntress was coming towards the mound; and, instead of going forth to meet her, I remained upon the spot where we had halted. A few minutes sufficed to bring her near; and I was impressed more than ever with the grand beauty of this singular maiden. She was mounted in the Indian fashion, with a white goatskin for a saddle, and a simple thong for a stirrup; while the bold style in which she managed her horse, told that, whatever had been her early training, she of late must have had sufficient practice in equestrian manoeuvres.

The steed she bestrode was a large chestnut-coloured mustang; and as the fiery creature reared and bounded over the turf, the magnificent form of its rider was displayed to advantage. She still carried her rifle; and was equipped just as I had seen her in the morning; but now, sharing the spirit of her steed – and further animated by the exciting incidents, still in the act of occurrence – her countenance exhibited a style of beauty, not the less charming from the wildness and braverie that characterised it. Truly had she merited the praises which the young backwoodsman had oft lavished upon her. To all that he had said the most critical connoisseur would have given his accord. No wonder that Wingrove had been able to resist the fascinations of the simpering syrens of Swampville – no wonder that Su-wa-nee had solicited in vain! Truly was this wild huntress an attractive object – in charms far excelling the goddess of the Ephesians. Never was there such mate for a hunter! Well might Wingrove rejoice at the prospect before him!

“Ho, stranger!” said she, reining up by my side, “you are safe, I see! All has gone well?”

“I was in no danger: I had no opportunity of entering into the fight.”

“So much the better – there were enough of them without you. But your fellow-travellers? Do they still survive? I have come to inquire after them.”

“Thanks to you and good fortune, they are still alive – even he who was scalped, and whom we had believed to be dead.”

“Ah! is the scalped man living?”

“Yes; he has been badly wounded, and otherwise ill-used; but we have hopes of his recovery.”

“Take me to him! I have learnt a little surgery from my Indian friends. Let me see your comrade! Perhaps I may be of some service to him?”

“We have already dressed his wounds; and I believe nothing more can be done for him, except what time may accomplish. But I have another comrade who suffers from wounds of a different nature, which you alone can cure.”

“Wounds of a different nature?” repeated she, evidently puzzled by my ambiguous speech; “of what nature, may I ask?” I paused before making reply.

Whether she had any suspicion of a double meaning to my words, I could not tell. If so, it was not openly evinced, but most artfully concealed by the speech that followed. “During my stay among the Utahs,” said she, “I have had an opportunity of seeing wounds of many kinds, and have observed their mode of treating them. Perhaps I may know how to do something for those of your comrade? But you say that I alone can cure them?”

“You, and you only.”

“How is that, stranger? I do not understand you!”

“The wounds I speak of are not in the body.”

“Where, then?”

“In the heart.”

“Oh! stranger, you are speaking in riddles. If your comrade is wounded in the heart, either by a bullet or an arrow – ”

“It is an arrow.”

“Then he must die: it will be impossible for any one to save him.”

“Not impossible for you. You can extract the arrow – you can save him!”

Mystified by the metaphor, for some moments she remained gazing at me in silence – her large antelope eyes interrogating me in the midst of her astonishment. So lovely were those eyes, that had their irides been blue instead of brown, I might have fancied they were Lilian’s! In all but colour, they looked exactly like hers – as I had once seen them. Spell-bound by the resemblance, I gazed back into them without speaking – so earnestly and so long, that she might easily have mistaken my meaning. Perhaps she did so: for her glance fell; and the circle of crimson suffusion upon her cheeks seemed slightly to extend its circumference, at the same time that it turned deeper in hue.

“Pardon me!” said I, “for what may appear unmannerly. I was gazing at a resemblance.”

“A resemblance?”

“Yes! one that recalls the sweetest hour of my life.”

“I remind you of some one, then?”

“Ay – truly.”

“Some one who has been dear to you?”

“Has been, and is.”

“Ah! and who, sir, may I have the fortune to resemble?”

“One dear also to you —your sister!”

“My sister!”

“Lilian.”