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 Fe; 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."



CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

OLD MEMORIES AWAKENED.

The rein dropped from her fingers—the rifle fell upon the neck of her horse, and she sat gazing at me in speechless surprise. At length, in a low murmur, and as if mechanically, she repeated the words:

"My sister Lilian?"

"Yes, Marian Holt—your sister."

"My name! how can you have become acquainted with it? You know my sister?"

"Know her, and love her—I have given her my whole heart."

"And she—has she returned your love?"

"Would that I could say surely yes! Alas! I am still in doubt."

"Your words are strange. O sir, tell me who you are! I need not question what you have said. I perceive that you know my sister—and who I am. It is true: I am Marian Holt—and you? you are from Tennessee?"

"I have come direct from it."

"From the Obion? perhaps from—"

"From your father's clearing on Mud Creek, Marian."

"Oh! this is unexpected—what fortune to have met you, sir! You have seen my sister then?"

"I have."

"And spoken with her? How long ago?"

"Scarcely a month."

"So lately! And how looks she? She was well!"

"How looks she?—Beautiful, Marian, like yourself. She was well, too, when I last saw her."

"Dear Lilian!—O sir! how glad I am to hear from her! Beautiful I know she is—very, very beautiful. Ah me!—they said I was so too, but my good looks have been lost in the wilderness. A life like that I have been leading soon takes the softness from a girl's cheeks. But, Lilian! O stranger! tell me of her! I long to hear of her—to see her. It is but six months, and yet I think it six years, since I saw her. Oh! how I long to throw my arms around her! to twine her beautiful golden-hair around my fingers, to gaze into her blue innocent eyes!" My heart echoed the longings.

"Sweet little Lilian! Ah—little—perhaps not, sir? She will be grown by this? A woman like myself?"

"Almost a woman."

"Tell me, sir—did she speak of me? Oh, tell me—what said she of her sister Marian?"

The question was put in a tone that betrayed anxiety. I did not leave her to the torture of suspense; but hastily repeated the affectionate expressions which Lilian had uttered in her behalf.

"Good kind Lil! I know she loves me as I love her—we had no other companions—none I may say for years, only father himself. And father— is he well?"

There was a certain reservation in the tone of this interrogatory, that contrasted strangely with that used when speaking of her sister. I well knew why.

"Yes," I replied, "your father was also in good health when I saw him."

There was a pause that promised embarrassment—a short interval of silence. A question occurred to me that ended it. "Is there no one else about whom you would desire to hear?"

I looked into her eyes as I put the question. The colour upon her cheeks went and came, like the changing hues of the chameleon. Her bosom rose and fell in short convulsive breathings; and, despite an evident effort to stifle it, an audible sigh escaped her. The signs were sufficient. I needed no further confirmation of my belief. Within that breast was a souvenir, that in interest far exceeded the memories of either sister or father. The crimson flush upon her cheek, the quick heaving of the chest, the half-hindered sigh, were evidences palpable and pronounced. Upon the heart of Marian Holt was the image of the handsome hunter—Frank Wingrove—graven there, deeply and never to be effaced.

"Why do you ask that question?" at length she inquired, in a voice of assumed calmness. "Know you anything of my history? You appear to know all. Has any one spoken of me?"

"Yes—often—one who thinks only of you."

"And who, may I ask, takes this single interest in a poor outcast maiden?"

"Ask your own heart, Marian! or do you wish me to name him?"

"Name him!"

"Frank Wingrove."

She did not start. She must have expected that name: since there was no other to be mentioned. She did not start, though a sensible change was observable in the expression of her countenance. A slight darkling upon her brow, accompanied by a pallor and compression of the lips, indicated pain.

"Frank Wingrove," I repeated, seeing that she remained silent. "I know not why I should have challenged you to name him," said she, still preserving the austere look. "Now that you have done so, I regret it. I had hoped never to hear his name again. In truth, I had well-nigh forgotten it."

I did not believe in the sincerity of the assertion. There was a slight tincture of pretence in the tone that belied the words. It was the lips alone that were speaking, and not the heart. It was fortunate that Wingrove was not within earshot. The speech would have slain him.

"Ah, Marian!" I said, appealingly, "he has not forgotten yours."

"No—I suppose he mentions it—with boasting!"

"Say rather with bewailing."

"Bewailing? Indeed! And why? That he did not succeed in betraying me?"

"Far otherwise—he has been true to you!"

"It is false, sir. You know not, perhaps, that I was myself witness of his base treachery. I saw him—"

"What you saw was a mere accidental circumstance; nor was it of his seeking. It was the fault of the Chicasaw, I can assure you."

"Ha! ha! ha! An accidental circumstance!" rejoined she, with a contemptuous laugh; "truly a rare accident! It was guilt, sir. I saw him with his arms around her—with my own eyes I saw this. What farther proof needed I of his perfidy?"

"All that you saw, I admit, but—"

"More than saw it: I heard of his faithlessness. Did not she herself declare it—in Swampville? elsewhere!—boasted of it even to my own sister! More still: another was witness to his vile conduct—had often seen him in her company. Ha! little dreamed he, while dallying in the woods with his red-skinned squaw, that the earth has ears and the trees have tongues. The deceiver did not think of that!"

"Fair Marian, they are foul calumnies; and whoever has given utterance to them did so to deceive you. Who, may I ask, was that other witness who has so misled you!"

"Oh! it matters not now—another villain like himself—one who—O God! I cannot tell you the horrid history—it is too black to be believed."

"Nay, you may tell it me. I half know it already; but there are some points I wish explained—for your sake—for Wingrove's—for the sake of your sister—"

"My sister! how can it concern her? Surely it does not? Explain your meaning, sir."

I endeavoured to avoid the look of earnest inquiry that was turned upon me. I was not yet prepared to enter upon the explanation. "Presently," I said, "you shall know all that has transpired since your departure from Tennessee. But first tell me of yourself. You have promised me? I ask it not from motives of idle curiosity. I have freely confessed to you my love for your sister Lilian. It is that which has brought me here—it is that which impels me to question you."

"All this is mystery to me," replied the huntress, with a look of extreme bewilderment. "Indeed, sir, you appear to know all—more than I—but in regard to myself, I believe you are disinterested, and I shall willingly answer any question you may think proper to ask me. Go on! I shall conceal nothing."

"Thanks!" said I. "I think I can promise that you shall have no reason to regret your confidence."



CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.

PLAYING CONFESSOR.

I was not without suspicion as to the motive of her complaisance: in fact, I understood it. Despite the declamatory denial she had given to its truth, my defence of Wingrove, I saw, had made an impression upon her. It had no doubt produced pleasant reflections; and rendered myself indirectly an object of gratitude. It was natural that such kindness should be reciprocated.

My own intent in "confessing" the girl was twofold. First, on Wingrove's account: for, notwithstanding all that had been said and done, her love for him might have passed. If so, instead of that happy reunion of two loving hearts, which I had anticipated bringing about, I should be the witness of a most painful interview.

Without further delay, I entered upon the theme. My interrogatories were answered with candid freedom. The answers proved that what the Mexican had told me was true to the letter.

"And did your father force you to this marriage?"

The reply was given hesitatingly. It was in the affirmative. "He did."

"For what reason did he so?"

"I could never tell. The man had some power over him; but how or in what way, I knew not then, nor do I now. My father told me it was a debt—a large sum which he owed him, and could not pay. I know not whether it was that. I hope it was."

"You think, then, that Stebbins used some such means to force your father's consent?"

"I am sure of it. My father told me as much. He said that by marrying Stebbins I could save him from disgrace, and entreated, rather than forced me to it. You know, sir, I could not ask why: he was my father. I do think that it was not his wish that I should have that man; but something threatened him."

"Did your father know it was a false marriage?"

"No, no; I can never think so. I am sure the villain deceived him in that, as he did me. Oh! father could never have done so! People, I believe, thought him wicked, because he was short with them, and used rough language. But he was not wicked. Something had crossed him; and he drank. He was at times unhappy, and perhaps ill-tempered with the world; but never with us. He was always kind to sister and myself— never scolded us. Ah! no, sir; I can never think he knew that."

"He was aware that Stebbins was a Mormon—was he not?"

"I have tried to believe that he was not—though Stebbins afterwards told me so." I well knew that he was aware of it, but said nothing.

"His saying so," continued she, "proves nothing. If father did know of his being a Mormon, I am sure he was ignorant of the wickedness of these people. There were stories about them; but there were others who contradicted these stories, and said they were all scandal—so little does the world know what is true from what is false. I learnt afterwards that the very worst that was said of them was even less than the truth."

"Of course, you knew nothing of Stebbins being a Mormon?"

"Oh! sir, how could I? There was nothing said of that. He pretended he was emigrating to Oregon, where a good many had gone. Had I known the truth, I should have drowned myself rather than have gone with him!"

"After all, you would not have obeyed your father's will in the matter, had not something else arisen. At his solicitation, you gave your consent; but were you not influenced by the incident that had occurred in the forest-glade?"

"Stranger! I have promised you I would conceal nothing; nor shall I. On discovering the falsehood of him who had told me he loved me, I was more than mad—I was revengeful. I will not deny that I felt spite. I scarcely cared what became of me—else how could I have consented to marry a man for whom I had neither love nor liking? On the contrary, I might almost say that I loathed him."

"And you loved the other? Speak the truth, Marian! you have promised to do so—you loved Frank Wingrove?"

"I did."

A deep-drawn sigh followed the confession.

"Once more speak the truth—you love him still?"

"Oh! if he had been true—if he had been true!"

"If true, you could love him still?"

"Yes, yes!" replied she, with an earnestness not to be mistaken.

"Love him, then, Marian! love him still! Frank Wingrove is true!" I detailed the proofs of his loyalty from beginning to end. I had learnt every circumstance from Wingrove himself, and was able to set them forth with all the circumstantiality of truth itself. I spoke with as much earnestness as if I had been suing in my own cause; but I was listened to with willing ears, and my suit was successful. I even succeeded in explaining that sinister kiss, that had been the cause of so much misfortune.



CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

FURTHER REFLECTIONS.

I might, without blame, have envied them those sweet throbbings of the heart, so different from my own. Widely different, since mine beat with the most painful pulsations. The cloud which had fallen upon it through the revelations of the Mexican, had been further darkened by the details that confirmed them; and now that the excitement, of the conflict was over, and I had an opportunity to reflect upon the future with comparative coolness, the agony of my soul became more concentrated and keen. I scarcely felt joy that my life was saved; I almost wished that I had perished by the hands of the Indians!

The strange story of the trapper, now fully corroborated by its own heroine—with the additional facts obtained from herself—were only partially the cause of the horrid fancies that now shaped themselves in my imagination. I could have but one belief about the intention of Stebbins. That was, that the base wretch was playing procurator to his despot master, doubtless to serve some ends of self-advancement: since I well knew that such were the titles to promotion in the Mormon hierarchy. With the experience of her sister fresh before my eyes, I could have no other belief than that Lilian, too, was being led to a like sacrifice. And how was this sacrifice to be stayed? How was the sad catastrophe to be averted? It was in the endeavour to answer these interrogatories that I felt my feebleness—the utter absence of strength. Had it been a mere question of overtaking the caravan, there would have been no need for the slightest uneasiness. It would still be many days—weeks, indeed—before the north-going train could, arrive at its destination; and if my apprehensions about the designs of Stebbins were well founded, Lilian would be in no danger until after her arrival in the so-called "Mormon city." It was there—within the walls of that modern Gomorrah—upon a shrine consecrated to the mockery of every moral sentiment, that the sacrifice of virtue was to be offered up—there was it that the wolf awaited the lamb for his victim-bride!

I knew, if no obstacle should be encountered—such as that which had just delayed us—that we could easily come up with the Mormon emigrants. We had no longer a similar obstacle to dread. The whole country beyond the mountains was Utah territory; and we could count upon these Indians as friends. From that quarter we had nothing to apprehend; and the caravan might easily be overtaken. But what then? Even though in company with it, for my purpose I should be as powerless as ever. By what right should I interfere with either the squatter or his child? No doubt it was their determination to proceed with the Mormons, and to the Mormon city—at least the father's determination. This was no longer a matter of doubt; and what could I urge to prevent his carrying it out? I had no argument—not the colour of a claim—for interference in any way! Nay, it was more than probable that to the migrating Mormons I should be a most unwelcome apparition—to Stebbins I certainly should, and perhaps to Holt himself. I might expect no very courteous treatment at their hands. With Stebbins for their leader—and that fact was now ascertained—I might find myself in danger from his Danites—of whom no doubt there would be a party "policing" the train.

Such considerations were not to be disregarded. I knew the hostility which, even under ordinary circumstances, these fanatics are accustomed to feel towards outsiders to their faith; but I had also heard of their display of it, when in possession of the power. The "Sectary" who sets foot in the city of Latter-day Saints, or travels with a Mormon train, will be prudent to keep his dissent to himself. Woe to him if he proclaim it too boastingly!

Not only with difficulties then, but with dangers was my purpose beset; though the difficulties caused me far more concern than the actual dangers. Had Holt been upon my side—had I been certain of his consent—I should have cared little for the dangers of an abduction: for this was the plan to which my thoughts now pointed. Even had I been sure that Lilian herself would agree to such a thing, I should have deemed all danger light, and still have entertained a hope of its accomplishment. The contingencies appeared fearfully unfavourable: the father would not consent—the daughter might not? It was this last doubt that gave the darkest hue to my reflections. I continued them— turning the subject over and over—viewing it from every point. Surely Holt would not contribute to the ruin of his daughter—for in no other light did I regard her introduction to the society of the Mormon city? There was manhood in the man—somewhere down near the bottom of his heart—perhaps some remnants of rough virtue. This I had myself proved; and, if filial testimony were to be trusted, he was not so abandoned a character as he appeared. Was it possible he could be aware of the real intentions of the churl who was leading him and his to ruin? After all, he might not. It is true he was aware that Stebbins was a Mormon; but as Marian had suggested—in her efforts to justify him, poor girl—he might be ignorant of the true character of these sanctified forbans.

The story that Marian had died on her way out, showed that Holt was being grossly deceived in relation to that matter. It also gave colour to the idea, that he might be equally the victim of deception about the other. It was in the hope of being able to hold him guiltless I had so closely questioned Marian: for instinct had already whispered me that in his hands, more than in aught else, rested my hope or my ruin. For that reason had I been so eager to ascertain his inclinings.

That he was under some obligation to the pseudo-apostle was perfectly clear. More than a mere obligation; something that produced a condition of awe: as I had myself been a witness. Some dark secret, no doubt, was shared between them. But were it ever so dark even were it black murder—it might not be, on the part of Holt, a voluntary endurance: and Marian had hinted at something of this sort. Here—out in the midst of the wild desert—far from justice and from judges—punishment for an old offence might be less dreaded; and a man of the bold stamp of this Tennesseean squatter might hopefully dream of escaping from the ties of terror by which his spirit had so long been enthralled? Conjectures of this nature were chasing one another through my brain; and not without the effect of once more giving a brighter tinge to the colour of my mental horizon. I naturally turned my eyes upon Marian. In her I beheld an ally of no ordinary kind—one whose motive for aiding me to rescue her sister, could be scarce less powerful than my own.

Poor girl! she was still in the enjoyment of those moments of bliss! She knew not the misery that was yet in store for her. Wingrove had my directions to be silent upon that theme—the more easily obeyed in the fulness of his own happiness. It was no pleasant task to dash from their lips, the cup of sweet joy; but the time was pressing, and as the sacrifice must come, it might as well come at once. I saw that the Utahs had given up the pursuit. Most of them had returned to the scene of their short conflict; while others, singly or in squads, were moving towards the butte. The women, too, were approaching—some with the wounded—some carrying the bodies of the slain warriors—chaunting the dismal death-song as they marched solemnly along. Casting a glance at the wailing multitude, I leaped down from the rock, and rapidly descended to the plain.



CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX.

A TRUE TIGRESS.

I walked out towards the stream. The lovers met me halfway. As I looked in their eyes, illumined and sparkling with the pure light of love, I hesitated in my intent. "After all," thought I, "there will not be time to tell her the whole story. The Indians will soon be on the ground. Our presence will be required in the council; and perhaps it will be better to postpone the revelation till that is over? Let her enjoy her new-found happiness for an hour longer."

I was thus hesitating—at the same time looking the beautiful huntress in the face—when, all of a sudden, I saw her start, and fling from her the hand she had been hitherto holding in her fond clasp! The look of her lover—mine as well—was that of bewildered astonishment. Not so hers. Her cheek turned pale—then red—then paled again; while a glance of proud anger shot forth from her eyes! The glance was directed outwards to the plain, back upon Wingrove, and then once more quick and piercing towards the plain. Equally puzzled by her look and behaviour, I faced round in the direction indicated by her glance. I had the explanation at once.

The chief, Wa-ka-ra, had arrived at the butte; and sat halted upon his war-steed by the side of the waggon. There were three or four other Indians around him, mounted and afoot; but one on horseback was entirely unlike the rest. This one was a woman. She was not bound, yet it was easy to see she was a captive. That could be told by the way she was encircled by the Indians, as well as by their treatment of her. She was on horseback, as already stated, and near to the Utah chief—in front of him. Neither Wingrove nor I had any difficulty in identifying the captive. It was Su-wa-nee, the Chicasaw. The eye of jealousy had found her equally easy of identification: since it was by it she was first recognised. It was upon her that Marian was directing those lightning glances. It was her presence that had caused that convulsive start, and those fearful emotions, that now proclaimed themselves in the countenance of the huntress-maiden.

The storm soon burst. "Perjured hypocrite! this is the love you have sworn—with the oath still burning upon your lips? Once more betrayed! O man! Once more betrayed! O God! would that I had left you to your fate!"

"I declar', Marian—"

"Declare nothing more to me! Enough—yonder is your attraction—yonder! Oh! to think of this outrage! Here—even here to the wild desert has he brought her; she who has been the cause of all, my unhappy—Ha! she is coming up to you! Now, sir, meet her face to face—help her from her horse—wait upon her! Go! villain, go!"

"I swar' Marian, by the livin'—"

His speech was interrupted. At that moment Su-wa-nee, who had shot her horse clear from the entourage, of her guards, came galloping upon the ground. I was myself so surprised at this proceeding, that I could not stir from the spot; and not until the Chicasaw had passed directly in front of us and halted there, could I believe that I was otherwise than dreaming. Wingrove appeared equally the victim of a bewildered surprise. As Su-wa-nee drew up, she gave utterance to a shrill scream; and flinging herself from her horse, rushed onward in the direction of Marian. The latter had turned away at the conclusion of her frantic speech; and was now close to the bank of the stream, with her back towards us. There was no mistaking the intention of the Chicasaw. The hideous expression of her face—the lurid fire burning in her oblique eyes—the white teeth shining and wolf-like—all betrayed her horrid design; which was further made manifest by a long knife seen glittering in her grasp! With all my voice I raised a warning shout! Wingrove did the same—so, too, the Utahs, who were following their captive. The shout was heard, and heeded. Fortunately it was so: else in another instant warning would have been too late, and the vengeful Chicasaw would have launched herself upon her unconscious victim. The huntress faced round on hearing the cry. She saw the approaching danger; and, with the subtle quickness of that Indian nature common to both, she placed herself in an attitude of defence. She had no weapon. Her late love scene needed none. Her rifle had been left by the butte, and she was without arm of any kind; but, quick as thought, she wound the Mexican serape about her wrist, and held it to shield her body from the threatened thrust. The Chicasaw paused, as if to make more certain of her aim; and for a moment the two stood face to face—glaring at each other with that look of concentrated hate which jealousy alone can give. It was the enraged tigress about to spring upon the beautiful panther that has crossed her path.

All this action was well-nigh instantaneous—so quick in its occurrence, that neither I nor Wingrove could get up in time to hinder the assailant. We both hastened forward as fast as it was in our power; but we should have been too late, had the thrust been better aimed, or less skilfully avoided. It was given. With a wild scream the Chicasaw bounded forward and dealt the stroke; but, by a dexterous sleight, the huntress received it on the serape, and the blade glanced harmlessly aside. We hurried onward to get between them; but at that moment a third combatant became mingled in the fray, and the safety of Marian was secured.

It was not the hand of man that had rescued her; but an ally whom, perhaps, she deemed more faithful. It was the dog Wolf! The impetus which the Indian had given to the thrust, and its consequent failure, had carried her past her intended victim. She was turning with the design of renewing the attack, when the dog rushed upon the ground. With a savage growl the animal sprang forward; and, vaulting high into the air, launched himself on the breast of the Chicasaw—at the same instant seizing her by the throat! In this position he clung—holding on by his terrible teeth, and aided by his paws, with which he kept constantly clawing the bosom of the Indian! It was a painful spectacle; and now that Marian was safe, Wingrove and I ran on with the intention of releasing the woman from the grasp of the dog. Before we could get near, both victim and avenger disappeared from our sight! The Indian in her wild terror had been retreating backward. In this way she had reached the bank; and, having lost her footing, had fallen back downward upon the water! As we arrived upon the edge, neither woman nor dog was visible. Both had sunk to the bottom! Almost on the instant they re-appeared on the surface, the dog uppermost; and we saw that his teeth were still fastened upon the throat of his human victim! Half-a-dozen men leaped into the water; and, after a struggle, the savage animal was dragged from his hold. It was too late. The sharp incisors had done their dread work; and, as the body of the wretched woman was raised over the bank, those who lifted it perceived that the last breath had gone out of it. The limbs were supple, and the pulse no longer beat. Su-wa-nee had ceased to live!



CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN.

SUSPICIOUS APPEARANCES.

The Indians came crowding around the corpse—both warriors and women. Their exclamations betokened no sympathy. Even the squaws looked on with unpitying aspect—though the victim was of their own race and sex. They knew she had been allied with their enemies; and had been witnesses of her savage assault upon Maranee, though ignorant of its motive. Some of them who had lost kindred in the strife, already stirred by grief and fury, were proceeding to insult the lifeless and mutilated remains—to mutilate them still more! I turned away from the loathsome scene. Neither the dead nor the living, that composed this ghastly tableau, had further interest for me.

My glance, wandering in search of other forms, first fell upon that of Wingrove. He was standing near, in an attitude that betokened extreme prostration of spirit. His head hung forward over his breast; but his eyes were not directed to the ground: they were turned upward, gazing after a form that was passing away. It was that of the huntress. The girl had regained her horse; and was riding off, followed by the dog. She went slowly—as if irresolute both as to the act and the direction. In both, the horse appeared to have his will: the reins rested loosely upon his withers; while his rider seemed wrapped in a silent abstraction. I was hastening towards my Arab, with the design of joining her, when I saw that I was anticipated. Another had conceived a similar intention. It was Wa-ka-ra.

The young chief, still on horseback, was seen spurring out from the midst of his men, and guiding his war-steed in the direction taken by the huntress. Before I could lay hands upon my bridle, he had galloped up to Marian, and falling into a gentler pace, rode on by her side. I did not attempt to follow them. Somewhat chagrined at having my designs interrupted, I gave up the intention of mounting my horse, and turned back towards Wingrove. As soon as I was near enough to read the expression upon his features, I saw that my chagrin was more than shared by him. An emotion of most rancorous bitterness was burning in the breast of the young backwoodsman. His glance was fixed upon the two forms—slowly receding across the plain. He was regarding every movement of both with that keen concentrated gaze, which jealousy alone can give.

"Nonsense, Wingrove!" said I, reading the thoughts of his heart. "Don't let that trouble you: there's nothing between them, I can assure you."

Certainly the spectacle was enough to excite the suspicions of a less jealous lover—if not to justify them. Both the equestrians had halted at a distant part of the plain. They were not so distant, but that their attitudes could be observed. They still remained on horseback; but the horses were side by side, and so near each other, that the bodies of their riders appeared almost touching. The head of the chief was bent forward and downward; while his hand appeared extended outward, as if holding that of the huntress! It was a fearful tableau for a lover to contemplate—even at a distance; and the white lips, clenched teeth, and quick irregular beating of Wingrove's heart—perfectly audible to me as I stood beside him—told with what terrible emotions the sight was inspiring him. I was myself puzzled at the attitude of the Utah chief—as well as the silent complaisance with which his attentions appeared to be received. It certainly had the seeming of gallantry—though I was loth to believe in its reality. In truth I could not give credence to such a thought. It was not human nature—not even woman's—to play false in such sans facon. The appearance must certainly be a deception?

I was endeavouring to conjecture an explanation, when a moving object attracted my attention. It was a horseman who appeared upon the plain, beyond where the huntress and the chief had halted. To our eyes, he was nearly in a line with them—approaching down the valley from the upper canon—out of which he had evidently issued. He was still at a considerable distance from the other two; but it could be seen that he was coming on at full gallop and straight towards them. In a few moments, he would be up to where they stood. I watched this horseman with interest. I was in hopes he would keep on his course, and interrupt the scene that was annoying myself, and torturing my companion. I was not disappointed in the hope. The hurrying horseman rode straight on; and, having arrived within a few paces of the ground occupied by the others, drew his horse to a halt. At the same instant, the Utah chief was seen to separate from his companion; and riding up to the stranger, appeared to enter into conversation with him.

After some minutes had elapsed, the chief faced round to the huntress; and, apparently giving utterance to some parting speech, headed his horse toward the butte, and along with the stranger, came galloping downward. The huntress kept her place; but I saw her dismount, and stoop down towards the dog, as if caressing him. I resolved to seize the opportunity of speaking with her alone; and, bidding Wingrove wait for my return, I once more hastened to lay hold of my horse. Perhaps I should encounter the chief on the way? Perhaps he might not exactly like the proceeding? But Marian must be communicated with upon something besides matters of love; and my honest intention rendered me less timid about any idle construction the savage might please to put upon my conduct. Thus fortified, I leaped to the back of my steed, and hurried off upon my errand.



CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT.

A FRESH ECLAIRCISSEMENT.

As we rode in counter-directions, I met the chief almost on the instant. I was slightly surprised that he passed, without taking notice of me! He could not fail to guess whither I was going: as I was heading straight for the huntress; and here was no other object to have drawn me in that direction. He did not even appear to see me! As he passed at a rapid pace, his eyes were bent forward upon the butte, or occasionally turned towards the horseman who galloped by his side. The strange horseman was an Indian. From the absence of the war-costume, I could tell he had not been engaged in the late conflict, but had just arrived from some distant journey—no doubt, a messenger who brought news. His jaded horse and dusky garb justified this conjecture. Equally desirous of shunning an encounter, I passed the two riders in silence, and kept on my course. As I drew near to the huntress-maiden, I was speculating on the reception I might expect, and the explanation I ought to give. How would she receive me? Not with much grace, I feared; at all events, not till she should hear what I had to say. The ambiguous and ill-timed appearance of the Chicasaw, combined with the sinister and dramatic incident which followed, must have produced on her mind eccentric and erroneous impressions. The effect would naturally be to falsify, not only the protestations of her lover, but my own testimony borne in his behalf, and indeed all else she had been told. It was not difficult to predict an ungracious reception. As I approached, she gave over caressing the dog; and once more leaped to the back of her horse. I was in fear that she would ride off, and shun me. I knew I could easily overtake her; but a chase of this nature would scarcely have been to my liking.

"Marian Holt!" I said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "your suspicions are unjust; I have come to offer you an explanation—"

"I need none," interrupted she in a quiet voice, but without raising her eyes. A gentle wave of her hand accompanied the words. I fancied both the tone and the gesture were repellant; but soon perceived that I was mistaken. "I need none," she repeated, "all has been explained."

"Explained! How?" I inquired, taken by surprise at the unexpected declaration. "Wa-ka-ra has told me all."

"What!—of Su-wa-nee?" A gesture of assent was the answer. "I am glad of this. But Wa-ka-ra! how knew he the circumstance?"

"Partly from the Mexican to whom your people have communicated them— partly from the captive Arapahoes. Enough—I am satisfied."

"And you forgive Wingrove?"

"Forgiveness now lies upon his side. I have not only wronged him by my suspicions, but I have reviled him. I deserve his contempt, I can scarcely hope to be forgiven."

Light had broken upon me—bright light it was for Wingrove! The suspicious duetto with the Utah chief was explained. Its innocence was made further manifest, by what came under my eyes at the moment. On the arm that was raised in gesture, I observed a strip of cotton wound round it above the wrist. A spot of blood appeared through the rag!

"Ha! you are wounded?" said I, noticing the bandage. "It is nothing— merely a scratch made by the point of the knife. Wa-ka-ra has bound it up. It still bleeds a little, but it is nothing." It was the role of the surgeon, then, the chief had been playing when seen in that ambiguous attitude! More light for Wingrove!

"What a fiend!" I said, my reflection directed towards Su-wa-nee. "She deserved death!"

"Ah—the unfortunate woman! hers has been a terrible fate; and whether she deserved it or not, I cannot help feeling pity for her. I would to God it had been otherwise; but this faithful companion saw the attempt upon my life; and when any one attacks me, nothing can restrain him. It is not the first time he has protected me from an enemy. Ah me! mine has been a life of sad incidents—at least the last six months of it."

I essayed to rescue her from these gloomy reflections. I foresaw the termination of her troubles. Their end was near. Words of cheer were easily spoken. I could promise her the forgiveness of her lover: since I knew how freely and promptly that would be obtained.

"Ah, Marian," I said, "a bright future is before you. Would that I could say as much for myself—for your sister Lilian!"

"Ha!" exclaimed she, suddenly excited to an extreme point of interest, "tell me of my sister! You promised to do so? Surely she is not in danger?"

I proceeded to reveal everything—my own history—my first interview with Lilian—my love for her, and the reasons I had for believing it to be returned—the departure from Tennessee with the Mormon—our pursuit of the train, and capture by the Indians—in short, everything that had occurred, up to the hour of my meeting with herself. I added my suspicions as to the sad destiny for which her sister was designed— which my own fears hindered me from concealing. After giving way to those natural emotions, which such a revelation was calculated to excite, the huntress-maiden suddenly resumed that firmness peculiar to her character; and at once entered with me into the consideration of some plan by which Lilian might be saved from a fate—which her own experience told her could be no other than infamous.

"Yes!" cried she, giving way to a burst of anguish, "too well know I the design of that perjured villain. O father! lost—dishonoured! O sister! bartered—betrayed! Alas! poor Lilian!"

"Nay—do not despair!—there is hope yet. But we must not lose time. We must at once depart hence, and continue the pursuit."

"True—and I shall go with you. You promised to take me to my home! Take me now where you will—anywhere that I may assist in saving my sister. Merciful heaven! She, too, in the power of that monster of wickedness!"

Wingrove, wildly happy—at once forgiving and forgiven—was now called to our council. The faithful Sure-shot was also admitted to the knowledge of everything. We might stand in need of his efficient arm. We found an opportunity of conferring apart from the Indians—for the scalp-dance now engrossed their whole attention. Withdrawing some distance from the noisy ceremony, we proceeded to discuss the possibility of rescuing Lilian Holt from the grasp of that knave into whose power the innocent girl had so unprotectedly fallen.



CHAPTER EIGHTY NINE.

PLANNING AN ABDUCTION.

Our deliberations occupied but a brief time. I had already considered the subject in all its bearings; and arrived at the conviction that there was only one course to be followed, by which Lilian's safety could be secured—that is, by carrying her off from the Mormon train. In this opinion her sister fully agreed. She knew it would be idle to expect that the wolf would willingly yield up his victim; and the painful thought was pressing upon her that even her own father, hoodwinked by the hypocrites that surrounded him, might reject the opportunity of saving his child! He would not be the only parent, who, blinded by this abominable delusion, has similarly sacrificed upon the unhallowed altar of Mormondom. Of this melancholy fact Marian was not ignorant. Her unhappy journey across the great plains had revealed to her many a strange incident—many a wicked phase of the human heart.

All agreed that Lilian must be taken from the Mormons, either by force or by stealth. It must be done, too, before they could reach the Salt Lake city. Once upon the banks of the Transatlantic Jordan, these pseudo-saints would be safe from the interference of their most powerful enemies. There the deed of abduction would be no longer possible; or, if still possible, too late. Was it practicable elsewhere—upon the route? And how was it to be effected? These were the questions that occupied us. There were but three men of us: for the Irishman, now completely hors de combat, must be left behind. True, the huntress-maiden, who had declared her determination to accompany us, might well be counted as a fourth; in all four guns. But what would four guns avail against more than ten times the number? Wingrove had learnt from the wretched Chicasaw that there were a hundred men with the Mormon train. It was idle, therefore, to think of carrying her off by force. That would have been sheer quixotism—only to end fatally for all of us.

And was it not equally idle to dream of an abduction by stealth? Verily, it seemed so. How were we to approach this Mormon host? How enter their camp, guarded as it would be by the jealous vigilance of lynx-eyed villains? By day, it would be impossible; by night, hazardous, and equally impracticable would be our purpose. We could not join company with these clannish emigrants, without offering some excuse. What pretext could be put forward? Had we been strangers to them, we might have availed ourselves of some plausible story; but, unfortunately, it was not so. All of us, except Sure-shot, would be known to their leader. My presence, however unexpected, would at once proclaim my purpose to the keen-witted knave; and as for Marian Holt, hers would be a position of positive danger—even equalling that in which her sister was now placed. Stebbins could claim her—if not by a true husband's right, at least by the laws of Mormon matrimony; and of course by those laws would the case be judged in a Mormon camp—the apostle himself being their interpreter!

The hope which I had built upon the prospect of an alliance with Marian was, that by her intercession Lilian might be induced voluntarily to make her escape—even, if necessary, from her father! I had conceived the hope too hastily—without dwelling upon the danger to Marian herself. This was now evident to all of us. We saw that Marian could not safely enter the Mormon camp. We could not think of submitting her to a danger that might too probably conduct to a double sacrifice—two victims instead of one. Our thoughts turned upon the ex-rifleman. He was the only one of us unknown to the leader of the Mormons, and to Holt himself. To Sure-shot, then, were our hopes next transferred. He might join the train on some pretext, the rest of us remaining at a distance? By this agency, a communication might be effected with Lilian herself; the proximity of her sister made known; the perils of her own situation—of which no doubt the young creature was yet entirely ignorant. Her scruples once overcome by a knowledge of her own danger, she would herself aid in contriving a plan of escape! For such a purpose, Sure-shot was the man—adroit, crafty, courageous. Thus ran our reflections.

It may be wondered why, in this emergency, we had not thought of Wa-ka-ra: surely he could have given us effective aid. With his mounted warriors, he could soon have overtaken the Mormon train, surrounded it, and dealt out the law to its leader? But we had already learnt the improbability of our appeal being acted upon. Marian had interpreted to us the views of the Utah chief in relation to the Mormons. These wily diplomatists had, from their first settlement in the Utah territory, courted the alliance of Wa-ka-ra and his band. They had made much of the warlike chief—had won his confidence and friendship—and at that hour the closest intimacy existed between him and the Mormon prophet. For this reason, Marian believed it would require a stronger motive than mere personal friendship to make him act as their enemy.

In such an important enterprise, no chance should be left untried. I was determined none should be; and therefore incited Marian to make an appeal to the Utah chief. She consented. It was worth the experiment. Should the answer prove favourable, our difficulties would soon disappear, and we might hope for a speedy success. If otherwise, our prospects would still be the same—no worse: for worse they could scarcely be. Marian left us, and proceeded on her errand to the chief. We saw him withdraw from the ceremonies, and, going apart, engage with the girl in what appeared an earnest and animated conversation. With hopeful hearts we looked on. Wingrove was no longer jealous. I had cured him with a hint; and the bandaged arm of his betrothed had explained the delicate attentions, which the Indian had been seen to bestow upon her. The dialogue lasted for ten minutes, the speakers at intervals glancing towards us; but we knew the theme, and patiently awaited the issue. It was soon to be declared to us. We saw the chief wave his hand—as a signal that the conversation was ended; and the speakers parted. Wa-ka-ra walked back among his warriors, while Marian was seen returning to our council. We scrutinised her countenance as she approached, endeavouring to read in it what our wishes dictated—an affirmative to our appeal. Her step was buoyant; and her glance, if not gay, at least not one that betokened disappointment. We were unable to determine, however, until her words declared the answer of the chief. As Marian had anticipated, he could not consent to act openly against the Mormons. But the tale had enlisted his sympathy; and he had even suggested a plan by which we might carry out our design, without the necessity of his interference.

It was this: the horseman that had just arrived, chanced to be a messenger from the Mormons. Unable to find the Coochetopa Pass, they were still encamped in the great valley of San Luis, on the banks of the Rio del Norte. The only one of them who had been across the plains before was their leader—Stebbins, of course—and he, having gone by the Cherokee trail and Bridger's Pass, was entirely unacquainted with the route they were now following. They were in need of a guide; and having encountered the Indian at this crisis, and learnt that he belonged to the band of Wa-ka-ra—not far off, as the man informed them—they had despatched him to the Utah chief, with a request that the latter would furnish them with a guide, and two or three of his best hunters. Before Marian had ended her explanation, I had divined the scheme. We were to personate the guide and hunters. That was the suggestion of the Utah chief!

It was perfectly feasible. Nothing can be easier than to counterfeit the semblance of the American Indian. The colour of the skin is of no consequence. Ochre, charcoal, and vermilion made red man and white man as like as need be; and for the hair, the black tail of a horse, half-covered and confined by the great plumed bonnet, with its crest dropping backward, is a disguise not to be detected. The proud savage doffs his eagle plumes to no living man; and even the most intrusive Mormon would not dare to scrutinise too closely the coiffure of an Indian warrior. The plan was rendered further practicable, by a new and able ally enlisting himself into our ranks. This was the trapper, Archilete, who, from a hint given him by the Utah chief, at once volunteered to act as the guide. The Mexican had already conceived an instinctive antipathy towards the Mormon "hereticos;" and we might rely upon his fidelity to our cause. The scheme exactly suited the eccentric character of this singular man; and he entered upon his duties con amore, and at once. By his assistance we soon procured the required costumes and pigments; but neither were to be "put on" in the presence of the Utahs. It was necessary that Wa-ka-ra should not be compromised by a too conspicuous "intervention."

The friendly chief had hinted a further promise to Marian—even an open interference in our favour—should that become necessary. He would follow close after the Mormon train; and, should our design prove a failure, might then use his influence on our behalf. This would have been the best news of all. With such a prospect, we should have had little to fear for the result; but alas! before leaving the ground, an incident occurred that threatened to prevent our generous ally from fulfilling that promise, however formally he might have made it.



CHAPTER NINETY.

PROTECTOR AND PROTEGEE.

The incident referred to was the arrival of a scout, who, after the conflict, had followed upon the trail of the Arapahoes. This man brought the intelligence that the scattered enemy had again collected— that, while fleeing from the rout, they had met with a large war-party of their own tribe—accompanied by another of their allies, the Cheyennes; that both together formed a band of several hundred warriors; and that they were now marching back towards the valley of the Huerfano—to take revenge for the death of Red-Hand, and the defeat which his party had sustained! This unexpected news brought the scalp-dance to an abrupt termination; and changed the whole aspect of the scene. The women, with loud cries, rushed towards their horses— with the intention of betaking themselves to a place of security; while the warriors looked to their arms—determined to make stand against the approaching foe. It was not expected that the enemy would make their attack at once. Certainly not before night, and perhaps not for days. The preparations to receive them were therefore entered upon with all the coolness and deliberation that attack or defence might require.

The encounter eventually came off; but it was only afterwards that I learnt the result. The Utahs were again victorious. Wa-ka-ra in this affair had given another proof of his strategic talent. He had made stand by the butte, but with only half of his warriors—distributed in such a manner as to appear like the whole band. These, with their rifles, could easily defend the mound against the arrows of the enemy; and did so during an assault that lasted for several hours. Meanwhile the other half of his band had been posted upon the bluffs, hidden among the cedars; and, descending in the night, they had stolen unexpectedly upon the allied forces, and attacked them in the rear. A concerted sortie from the mound had produced complete confusion in the ranks of their enemies; and the Utahs not only obtained a victory, but "hair" sufficient to keep them scalp-dancing for a month. As I have said, it was afterwards that these facts came to my knowledge. I have here introduced them to show that we could no longer depend on any contingent intervention on the part of the Utah chief; and we were therefore the more keenly conscious that we should have to rely upon our own resources.

The Utahs showed no wish to detain us. They felt confident in their own strength, and in the fire-weapons—which they well knew how to use—and, after thanking their friendly chief for the great service he had rendered us, and confiding our wounded comrade to his care, we parted from him without further ceremony. I witnessed not his parting with Marian. Between them there was an interview, but of what nature I could not tell. The huntress had stayed behind; and the rest having ridden forward, no one of us was present at that parting scene. There may have been a promise that they should meet again: for that was expected by all of us; but whether there was, or what may have been the feelings of the Indian at parting with his pale-faced protegee, I was not to know. It was difficult to believe that the young chief could have looked so long on that face, so beautifully fair, without conceiving a passion for its possessor. It was equally difficult to believe, that if this passion existed, he would have thus surrendered her to the arms of another. An act so disinterested would have proved him noble indeed—the Rolla of the North! If the passion really did exist, I knew there could be no reciprocity. As Marian galloped up, and gazed in the eyes of the handsome hunter—now entirely her own—her ardent glance told that Wingrove was the proud possessor of that magnificent maiden.

In volunteering to be one of our party Marian was submitting herself to a fearful risk. That of the rest of us was trifling in comparison. In reality we risked nothing, further than the failure of our plans; and a certain punishment if taken in the act of abduction. But even for this the Saints would scarcely demand our lives—unless in hot blood we should be slain upon the instant. Her position was entirely different. The Mormon apostle, whether false husband or real, could and would claim her. There was no law in that land—at all events, no power—to hinder him from acting as he should please; and it was easy to foresee what would be his apostolic pleasure. The very presence of Wingrove would stimulate him to a revengeful course; and should her Indian disguise be detected, Marian might look forward to a fate already deemed by her worse than death. She was sensible of all this; but it did not turn her from her determination. Her tender affection for Lilian—her earnest desire to save her sister from the peril too plainly impending, rendered her reckless about her own; and the bold girl had formed the resolution to dare everything—trusting to chance and her own strong will for the successful accomplishment of our purpose. I no longer attempted to dissuade her against going with us. How could I? Without her aid my own efforts might prove idle and fruitless. Lilian might not listen to me? Perhaps that secret influence, on which I had so confidently calculated, might exist only in a diminished degree? Perhaps it might be gone for ever? Strange to say, though I had drawn some sweet inferences from those neglected flowers, every time the bouquet came back to my memory, it produced a palpable feeling of pain! He who so cunningly sued, might hope for some measure of success? And she, so sweetly solicited—more dangerous than if boldly beset—had her heart withstood the sapping of such a crafty besieger! My influence might indeed be gone; or, if a remnant of it still existed, it might not turn the scale against that of her father—that fearful father! What should he care for one child, who had already abetted another to her shame?

Possessed by these thoughts, then, I tried not to turn Marian from her purpose. On the contrary, I rather encouraged it. On her influence with Lilian I had now placed my chief reliance. Without that, I should have been almost deprived of hope. It might turn out that Lilian no longer loved me. Time, or absence, might have inverted the stylus upon the tender page of her young heart; and some other image may have become impressed upon its yielding tablet? If so, my own would sorely grieve; but, even if so, I would not that hers should be corrupted. She must not be the victim of a villain, if my hand could hinder it! "No, Lilian! though loved and lost, I shall not add to the bitterness of your betrayal. My cup of grief will possess sufficient acerbity without mingling with it the gall of revenge."



CHAPTER NINETY ONE.

THE NIGHT-CAMP.

We again rode through the upper canon 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 canon 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 conge, 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 canon, 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, Senor; 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, senor, 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! senor, 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.



CHAPTER NINETY TWO.

GABRIELLA GONZALES.

"Puez, Senor!" commenced the Mexican, "your comrades tell me, you have been campaigning down below on the Rio Grande."

"Quite true—I have."

"Then you know something of our Mexican frontier life—how for the last half century we have been harassed by the Indios bravos—our ranchos given to the flames—our grand haciendas plundered and laid waste—our very towns attacked—many of them pillaged, destroyed, and now lying in ruins."

"I have heard of these devastations. Down in Texas, I have myself been an eye-witness to a similar condition of things."

"Ah! true, senor. Down there—in Tejas and Tamaulipas—things, I have heard, are bad enough. Carrai! here in New Mexico they are ten times worse. There they have the Comanches and Lipanos. Here we have an enemy on every side. On the east Caygua and Comanche, on the west the Apache and Navajo. On the south our country is harassed by the Wolf and Mezcalero Apaches, on the north by their kindred, the Jicarillas; while, now and then, it pleases our present allies the Utahs, to ornament their shields with the scalps of our people, and their wigwams with the fairest of our women. Carrambo! senor! a happy country ours, is it not?"

The ironically bitter speech was intended for a reflection, rather than an interrogation, and therefore needed no reply. I made none. "Puez, amigo!" continued the Mexican, "I need hardly tell you that there is scarce a family on the Rio del Norte—from Taos to El Paso—that has not good cause to lament this unhappy condition of things; scarce one that has not personally suffered, from the inroads of the savages. I might speak of houses pillaged and burnt; of maize-fields laid waste to feed the horses of the roving marauder; of sheep and cattle driven off to desert fastnesses; bah! what are all these? What signify such trifling misfortunes, compared with that other calamity, which almost every family in the land may lament—the loss of one or more of its members— wife, daughter, sister, child—borne off into hopeless bandage, to satisfy the will, or gratify the lust, of a merciless barbarian?"

"A fearful state of affairs!"

"Ay senor! Even the bride has been snatched off, from before the altar—from the arms of the bridegroom fondly clasping, and before he has had time to caress her! Ay de mi, cavallero! Truly can I say that: it has been my own story."

"Yours?"

"Yes—mine. You ask me for souvenirs. There is one that will cling to me for life!" The Mexican pointed to his mutilated limb. "Carrambo!" continued he, "that is nothing. There is another wound here—here in my heart. It was received at the same time; and will last equally as long—only a thousand times more painful."

These words were accompanied by a gesture. The speaker placed his hand over his heart, and held it there to the end of his speech—as if to still the sad sigh, that I could see swelling within his bosom. His countenance, habitually cheerful—almost comic in its expression—had assumed an air of concentrated anguish. It was easy to divine that he had been the victim of some cruel outrage. My curiosity had become fully aroused; and I felt an eager desire to hear a tale, which, though beyond doubt painful, could not be otherwise than one of romantic interest.

"Your lameness, then, had something to do with the story of your blighted love? You say that both misfortunes happened to you at the same time!" My interrogatives were intended to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen. I was successful; and the recital was continued.

"True, senor—both came together; but you shall hear all. It is not often I speak of the affair, though it is seldom out of my thoughts, I have tried to forget it. Carrambo! how could I, with a thing like that constantly recalling it to my memory?" The speaker again pointed to his deformed foot with a smile of bitter significance. "Por Dios, cavallero! I think of it often enough; but just now more than common. Their presence—" he nodded towards the lovers, whose forms were just visible in the grey twilight, "the happiness I see reminds me of my own misery. More especially does she recall the misfortune to my memory— this wild huntress who has had misfortunes of her own. But beyond that, senor, though you may think it strange, your conpaisana is wonderfully like what she was."

"Like whom?"

"Ah! senor, I have not told you? She that I loved with all the love in my heart—the beautiful Gabriella Gonzales."

Men of the Spanish race—however humble their social rank—are gifted with a certain eloquence; and in this case passion was lending poetry to the speech. No wonder I became deeply interested in the tale, and longed to hear more of Gabriella Gonzales.

"En verdad," continued the Mexican, after a pause, "there are many things in the character of your countrywoman to remind me of my lost love—even in her looks. Gabriella, like her, was beautiful. Perhaps your comrade yonder might not think her so beautiful as the huntress; but that is natural. In my mind Gabriella was everything. She had Indian blood in her veins: we all have in these parts, though we boast of our pure Spanish descent. No matter; Gabriella was white enough—to my eyes white as the lily that sparkles upon the surface of the lagoon. Like yonder maiden, she inherited from her ancestors a free daring spirit. She feared neither our Indian enemies, nor danger of any kind—Por Dios! Not she."

"Of course she loved you?"

"Ah! that truly did she—else why should she have consented to marry me? What was I? A poor cibolero—at times a hunter and trapper of beavers, just as I am now? I was possessed of nothing but my horse and traps; whiles he—Carrambo! senor, proud ricos pretended to her hand!"

It is possible that my countenance may have expressed incredulity. It was difficult to conceive how the diminutive Mexican—as he appeared just then in my eyes—could have won the love of such a grand belle as he was describing Gabriella to be. Still was he not altogether unhandsome; and in earlier life—before his great misfortune had befallen him—he might have been gifted with some personal graces. High qualities, I had heard of his possessing—among others courage beyond question or suspicion; and in those frontier regions—accursed by the continual encroachment of Indian warfare, and where human life is every day in danger—that is a quality of the first class—esteemed by all, but by none more than those who stand most in need of protection—the women. Often there as elsewhere—more often than elsewhere—does courage take precedence of mere personal appearance, and boldness wins the smile of beauty. It was possible that the possession of this quality on the part of Pedro Archilete had influenced the heart of the fair Gabriella. This might explain her preference.

The Mexican must have partially divined my thoughts, as was proved by the speech that followed. "Yes, amigo! more than one rich haciendado would have been only too happy to have married Gabriella; and yet she consented to become my wife, though I was just as I am now. May be a little better looking than at this time; though I can't say that I ever passed for an Apollo. No—no—senor. It was not my good looks that won the heart of the girl."