"Your good qualities?"

"Not much to boast of, cavallero. True, in my youth, I had the name of being the best horseman in our village—the best rastreador—the most skilful trapper. I could 'tail the bull,' 'run the cock,' and pick up a girl's ribbon at full gallop—perhaps a little more adroitly than my competitors; but I think it was something else that first gained me the young girl's esteem. I had the good fortune once to save her life— when, by her own imprudence, she had gone out too far from the village, and was attacked by a grizzly bear. Ay de mi! It mattered not. Poor nina! She might as well have perished then, by the monster's claws. She met her death from worse monsters—a death far more horrible; but you shall hear."

"Go on! From what you have disclosed, I am painfully interested in your tale."



CHAPTER NINETY THREE.

A BLOODY BRIDAL.

"Puez senor! what I am about to tell you happened full ten years ago, though it's as fresh in my mind as if it was yesterday. You may have heard of the village of Valverde? It is about fifty leagues south of Santa Fe, on the Rio del Norte—that portion of the valley we call the Rio Abajo. It was at one time a settlement of some importance—rich and prospering as any in New Mexico—but, in consequence of the incursions of the Apaches, it fell into decay. Is now a complete ruin without a single inhabitant."

"Well, amigo; it was there I was born: and there lived I, till I was twenty-five years of age—up to the time when that calamity befell me, and mine—the same I am about to speak of. I may say two years after that time; for I did not leave the neighbourhood till I had taken revenge upon those who were the cause of my misfortunes. I have spoken of Gabriella Gonzales. I have told you that I loved her; but I could not find words to tell you how much I loved her. You, who have come all this way in pursuit of a sweetheart,—you, cavallero, can understand all that. Like you with yours, I too could have followed Gabriella to the end of the world! Puez amigo! Like you, I had the good fortune to be loved in return."

I could not divine the object of the Mexican in proclaiming this similitude. Perhaps it was done with the view of cheering me—for the quick-witted fellow had not failed to notice my despondency. It could only be a conjecture on his part: for how could he know ought of Lilian, beyond the fact of my preference for her, and that she was the object of our expedition? Of course he was aware, like all the others, of the purpose of our pursuit. From Sure-shot, or Wingrove, he might have learnt a little more; but neither he nor they could possibly have been acquainted with a sentiment of which, alas! I was myself in doubt—the very doubt which was producing my despondency. His incidental allusion could have been only conjecture. I would have joyed to believe it just; but whether just or not it had the effect of soothing me; and, silently accepting it, I permitted him to continue his narration.

"I need not enter into the particulars of my wooing. Gabriella lived upon a hato some distance below Valverde, and nearer to the desert of the Dead Man's Journey (Jornada del muerto)—of which no doubt you have heard mention. Her father was a hatero, and owned large flocks of sheep. He pastured them upon the great plains on the eastern side of the Sierra Blanca—where I was in the habit of going in my capacity of cibolero to hunt the buffaloes. The hatero and I became acquainted—became friends. He invited me to visit his house, and I went. I saw Gabriella for the first time; and ever afterwards was her beautiful face before my eyes. I went often, as you may believe, cavallero; but for a long time I was uncertain whether I was welcome— I mean to Gabriella: for her father still continued my friend. It was only after the incident I have mentioned—my saving her from the bear— that I felt certain my love was returned.

"She had ventured too far into the mountains, where I had chanced to be at the time. I heard her voice calling for help. I ran through the rocks, and came up, just as a huge bear was springing upon her. I was a good shot, and my bullet brought down the monster—stretching him lifeless at her feet. Gabriella thanked me with sweet words—with smiles that were far sweeter, and told me still more. From that hour I knew that she was mine. Shortly after she consented to marry me."

"You were married, then?"

"Married—but only for an hour."

"Only for an hour!"

"Ah! senor; just so. One hour of wedded life, and then we were parted for ever. Death parted us. Death to her—to me worse than death; despair that has never left me—no—never will."

The voice of the speaker trembled in sorrowful tone. It was manifestly a sorrow that defied any efforts I might have made at consolation. I made none; but in silence and with eager attention awaited to hear the denouement of a drama, whose prologue promised such a tragical ending.

"Puez, senor," proceeded the narrator, after a short silence, "Gabriella, as I have said, consented to marry me, and we were married. It was the day of our wedding. We had parted from the church; and with our friends had gone out into the country for a dia de campo. There were about twenty of us in all, young men and girls—about, an equal number of each—all in their holiday dresses, just as they had been to the church. Most of the girls were Gabriella's bridesmaids, and still wore the flowers and jewels they had used at the ceremony. The place chosen for our dia de campo was a pretty spot, about a mile distant from the town. It was a glade in the midst of the chapparal, surrounded by beautiful trees, and sweet-smelling flowers. We went afoot: for the distance did not make it worth while for us to ride. Besides, we preferred enjoying the ramble, without being encumbered with horses. Well, senor; we had arrived on the ground, spread out the repast we had brought with us, uncorked the wine-bottles, and were in the full tide of enjoyment—talking and laughing gaily—when all of a sudden—we heard the trampling of horses. Not of one or two; but the hoof-strokes of a whole troop. At first we thought it might be the cavallada of some rich proprietor, galloping past the place. We knew that horses were pastured in that neighbourhood; and it was like enough to be one of the half-wild droves straying through the chapparal. Still we were not without apprehension: for it might also be a troop of Apaches—who in those times made frequent forays upon the defenceless settlements. Alas, cavallero! our apprehensions proved but too just. We had been seated on the grass, around our festive preparations. We had scarce time to spring to our feet, ere the yell of the savages sounded in our ears; and almost on the instant the glade was filled with dusky warriors. They were all upon horseback, brandishing their long lances, and winding their lazos around their heads. Fearfully painted, and whooping their wild cries, they resembled the very demonios! We could neither retreat nor defend ourselves. Against such odds it would have been idle to have attempted the latter: besides, we were all without weapons. On an occasion like that which had called us forth, one does not think of preparing for such an event. I own it was imprudent of us to go out unarmed—more especially when the country was filled with Indian novedades—but who could have dreamt that such was to be the fatal termination to our joyous dia de campo? Ay de mi! I may well call it fatal. Very few of our men survived that dreadful day. Two or three of the young fellows managed to retreat into the bushes; and afterwards got off. The others were killed upon the spot— most of them impaled upon the spears of the Apaches! The women were left untouched: for the Indians rarely kill our women. Them they reserve for a different destiny. Ah! cavallero! a destiny worse than death! Not one of them escaped. The poor ninas were all made captives; and each, borne off in the arms of a swarthy savage, was mounted upon his horse. Gabriella, the queen of all,—because by far the most beautiful—was chosen by the chief. I saw her struggling in his grasp, I saw him dragging her over the ground, and raising her to the withers of his steed. I saw him leap up behind her, and prepare to ride off—Gabriella, my beloved—my bride!"

Here the speaker paused—as if overcome by the very remembrance of the incidents he was relating; and it was some time before he became sufficiently composed to resume his narrative.



CHAPTER NINETY FOUR.

A ROUGH DRAG.

Recovering himself, at length, the narrator proceeded:—

"You may ask, senor, how I came to be witness of all these outrages. Was I not speared like my companions? Was I not, like them, killed upon the spot! I answer, no. I was still alive; and I might almost say uninjured. True I had been beaten and bruised in the struggle—for I had made an impotent effort at defending myself—but they had not killed me. I was for a time stunned, and senseless; but my senses returned before the fray was over; and I was a witness to the closing scene. It was then I saw the young girls in the act of being hurried off by their captors. It was then my heart was wrung, by the spectacle of Gabriella struggling in the arms of the chief. I was helpless to interfere. I was prostrate upon the earth, and held fast in the gripe of two brawny savages—one kneeling on each side of me. I expected them at every instant to put an end to my life. I awaited the final blow—either the stroke of a tomahawk or the thrust of a spear. I only wondered they were delaying my death. My wonders ceased, when I at length got my eyes on the face of the Apache chief—which up to that moment I had not seen. Then I recognised an old enemy, whom I had encountered on the plains; and I saw that the recognition was mutual. This explained why they had not finished me on the spot. I was spared only to suffer some more horrible mode of death.

"It was not long till I was made acquainted with their intention. I saw the chief telegraph some order to the Indians who guarded me; which one of the latter hastened to execute. A lazo was looped around my ankle, and carried out. The other end of it was made fast to the tail of a horse; after which the Indian leaped upon the back of the animal. The other also mounted his own horse; and the whole troop appeared ready to gallop off. I could see that the savages were hastening their departure. There was but a small band of them; and, as the place was near a large town, they had reason to fear pursuit. Those of our party who had escaped would return at once to the town—where troops were stationed at the time. This explained to me the hurried movements the Indians were making. Carrambo, senor! I had not much opportunity to reflect on the chances of our being rescued by our friends. I saw what the savages intended for me; and that was sufficient to occupy all my thoughts. I was to be dragged at the tail of a horse!

"Yes, cavallero! and the infernal design was instantly carried into execution; for in a moment after, the chief gave the signal to ride forward, and the whole troop went off at a gallop. He to whose croup I was attached was last in the line; and, consequently, I was trailed along without coming in contact with the others—the long lazo separating me from his horse by a distance of more than a dozen yards. Fortunately the ground over which they dragged me, was free from rocks or other inequalities—else I should have been torn to pieces. It chanced to be a smooth, grassy sward; and protected by my leathern jaqueta and calzoneros, I was less injured than one might expect. It was my ankle that suffered most—for the loop soon slipped down below the joint, and nearly drew the bone out of its socket. That, senor, is how I came to be 'un cojo' as you see."

With a bitter smile the speaker pointed to his deformed foot, and then continued:—"Well—I suppose it would have killed me in the end: since the smooth turf did not extend far in the direction the savages were taking. But just then an idea came into my head, that gave me some hope of being able to relieve myself from my perilous situation. After the first hundred yards or so had been passed over, I saw that the savages had ceased to pay any attention to me. They were all too eager to hurry onward; besides, they were occupied with the women captives. It occurred to me, that if I could only get my foot free from the noose, I might part company with my captors, without any of them perceiving it. I remembered that I had a knife in my pocket; and, as my hands had been left free, I believed that I could get my fingers upon it, notwithstanding the rapid rate at which I was being jerked over the ground. I tried to get out my knife, and succeeded. As good luck would have it, just then, the path on which my captors were travelling, narrowed between two groves of timber—forming a kind of avenue or lane. Through this the troop had to pass in Indian file—my particular horseman still keeping in the rear. While going through, the gallop of the horses was interrupted—or at least their pace was greatly slackened—the rearmost of the band being thrown almost into a walk. This gave me the opportunity I desired; and, making an effort, I doubled my body over on itself—until I was able to reach the lazo beyond my foot. A single cut of my keen blade severed the thong; and I was detached on the instant. With anxious gaze I looked after the retreating horsemen: fearing they would see what I had done, gallop back, and spear me where I lay; but to my great joy I saw them ride on, till the last of them was out of sight. Yes, cavallero!" continued the narrator, "I saw the last horse, and the very tail to which I had been attached, pass out of sight. No doubt the horse knew what had happened, but not his rider. Not one of the whole troop appeared to have any suspicion that there was aught amiss—until I had crawled into the bushes, and got some distance from the path. Then I could hear them, as they galloped back, and rode whooping through the thicket in search of me. Carrambo, senor! I then felt more anxious than ever. Up to that time I had no thought of anything else than being rubbed out. I had been certain of it, from the first moment of the attack upon our party. Now, however, I had conceived a hope that I might escape, and return to the rescue of Gabriella. To be captured the second time would have been ten times more disagreeable than at first—when there was no opportunity either to hope for safety, or to reflect on the means of securing it. Now that a chance of life had offered itself, I was doubly fearful of losing it. I could make but little headway—so much was I disabled—but half hobbling, half crawling, I worked on through the thicket in the direction of the town. I could hear the savages beating the bushes behind; and every moment I expected to have them upon me. They would in time have traced, and overtaken me; but perhaps they cared not much for the capture. They had secured the booty they most prized; and, probably, reflected that, by wasting time in searching for me, they might risk losing it again. For this, or some other reason, they gave up the search; and I could tell by their voices, heard at a greater distance, that they were riding off. Without staying to assure myself, I limped on to the town—which I reached at length. Two of my friends, who had escaped at the first onslaught, had got there before me. The news of the sad disaster had spread like a prairie fire. The whole population was excited by the outrage; for the young girls made captives had many friends and relations in the place. So also the men who had been murdered. The troops were summoned to arms. It chanced to be a squadron of lancers—one of the best then in the service of the government—and these, along with about a hundred volunteers, all mounted, rode forth in pursuit of the savages. Notwithstanding that my wounded ankle pained me exceedingly, I was able to accompany them on horseback. Americano! I fear my narrative may be wearying you; and therefore I shall not enter into the particulars of the pursuit. Sufficient to say, that we succeeded in overtaking the ravishers. It was near midnight when we came up with them. We found them in their camp, with huge fires blazing all over the ground. We approached within pistol range before any alarm was given. They had been carousing on mezcal, and were keeping no guard. The bright blaze showed us how they had been occupied. The women sat here and there, many of them lying prostrate upon the earth. Their torn garments and dishevelled air betokened that a sad catastrophe had befallen them! We could bear the sight no longer. With hearts full of vengeance, both soldiers and citizens rushed upon the base despoilers; and the work of retribution began. Gabriella had been the first to become aware of our advance; and, springing to her feet, had bounded beyond the reach of her captors, and was running outward to meet us. Ay de mi! it was the last race of her life. An Indian arrow shot after was too quick for her; and, pierced through and through, she fell dying into my arms. Pobrecita! She kissed me with her parting breath, and then expired. Ah! senor, that was a kiss of death!" A long deep-drawn sigh, and the drooping attitude into which the speaker had fallen, told me that he had ended his narrative. Out of respect to the sacredness of his sorrow, I forbore questioning him farther at the time. It was only afterwards that I learnt from him some additional particulars: how most of the savages were slain upon the spot, and the captive girls rescued; but, although escaping with lifer they had all been the victims of barbarian lust, that brought more than one of them to an early grave! A wild tale it may appear; and, although we may term it a romance of New Mexico, its counterpart is not the less an oft-recurring reality in that unhappy land.



CHAPTER NINETY FIVE.

ASSUMING THE DISGUISE.

Our fire began to burn low, before the lovers returned into its light. During their moonlit ramble, no doubt, many sweet memories were renewed. No wonder they should wish to prolong it. But all of us required a certain measure of rest; and it was time to make the necessary arrangements for passing the night. Although we had given up all apprehension on the score of the Arapahoes; yet that was no reason why we should not observe a proper prudence, and keep prepared for any emergency that might arise. In that wild neutral road, trodden by many tribes, an enemy may spring up at any moment, or come from any side. It was agreed between us that one should keep watch, while the others slept—each taking his tour of guard throughout the night. Marian was of course excepted from this "detail," and, after bidding us all good-night, the huntress-maiden retired to her tent—at the entrance of which the ever-faithful and ever-watchful Wolf placed himself. There did the great dog stretch his body—a sentinel couchant—with such grim Cerberus-like resolution, that even Wingrove might not have dared to cross the threshold of that sacred precinct? As yet we had not assumed our Indian disguises. The opening scene of the travestie was reserved for the morning; and, after arranging the hours of our respective watches—the trapper taking the first and longest—the rest of us crept under the covering of the buffalo lodge, and sought that repose necessary to recruit us for coming events.

At earliest dawn, and long before the sun had gilded the snowy summits of the Spanish peaks, we were all afoot. A breakfast—similar in materials to our supper of the preceding night was hastily prepared, and still more hastily eaten. After that we proceeded to equip ourselves for the masquerade. Peg-leg acted as principal costumier; and well understood he the role he was called upon to perform. Perfectly acquainted with the Utah costume—both that used for war and the chase— there was no fear about the correctness of his heraldry being called in question. He knew every quartering: of the Utah escutcheon, with a minuteness of detail that would have done credit to a King-at-arms.

For himself he needed no disguise. As a trapper of Taos, he might also be an associate of Utah hunters; and personally unknown to the Mormons, they would have no other thoughts about him—further than that their friend Wa-ka-ra had sent him to guide them across the deserts of the Colorado. At the Mormon camp, therefore, he could present himself in his Mexican costume, without the Saints having the slightest suspicion as to his true character. This left him free to lend his services to the rest of us, and assist in our heraldic emblazonment. His first essay was upon myself. My features being sufficiently pronounced, rendered it all the more easy to make an Indian of me; and a uniform coat of vermilion over my neck, face, and hands, transformed me into a somewhat formidable-looking warrior. A buckskin hunting tunic, leggings and mocassins concealed the remainder of my skin; while some locks of long hair extracted from the mane and tail of my Arab, and craftily united to my own dark tresses, with the plumed bonnet and drooping crest overall, completed a costume that would have done me credit at a Parisian bal masque.

With equal facility was accomplished the metamorphosis of the young backwoodsman, but not so easily that of Sure-shot. The nez retrousse, thin yellow hair, and green-grey eyes appeared to be insurmountable obstacles to the Indianising of the ex-rifleman. Peg-leg, however, proved an artist of skill. The chevelure of Sure-shot, well saturated with charcoal paste, assumed a different hue. A black circle around each eye neutralised the tint of both iris and pupil. To his face was given a ground-coat of red ochre; while some half-dozen dark stripes, painted longitudinally over it, and running parallel to the nose, extinguished the snub—transforming the Yankee into as good an Indian as any upon the ground!

Marian was her own "dresser;" and while we were engaged outside, was making her toilet within the tent. Her costume would require but little alteration: it was Indian already. Her face alone needed masking—and how was that to be done? To speak the truth, I was apprehensive upon the score of her disguise. I could not help reflecting on the fearful fate that awaited her, should the counterfeit be detected, and the girl identified. All along, I had felt uneasy upon this point; and had been endeavouring to devise some scheme by which to avoid the imprudence of her presenting herself in the Mormon camp. But the thought of Lilian— the perilous situation in which she was placed—perhaps more than all, the selfishness of my own love, had hindered me from thinking of any definite alternative.

When I saw the huntress-maiden issue forth from her tent—her face empurpled with the juice of the allegria berries—her cheeks exhibiting, each a circle of red spots, with a line of similar markings extended across her forehead—I no longer felt apprehension for the result. Though the hideous tattooing could not hide the charms of her speaking countenance, it had so changed its expression, that even Wingrove himself would not have recognised her! More like was it to baffle the scrutiny of father and false husband.

In due time we were all dressed for the drama; and, after making a cache of our cast-off garments, we struck tents, and moved forward to the performance. The faithful Wolf accompanied us. It was against my wish, and contrary to the counsel of our guide; but Marian would not part with a companion that more than once had protected her from cruel enemies. The dog had been disguised, as the rest of us. Shorn of his shaggy coat, with his tail trimmed smooth as that of a greyhound—his skin, moreover, stained Indian fashion—there seemed but slight danger that the animal could be recognised.



CHAPTER NINETY SIX.

THE MORMON TRAIN.

A few hours' ride brought us to the western end of the pass; when, rounding a spur of the mountain, a wide plain was suddenly displayed to our view.

"Mira!" exclaimed the Mexican, "el campamento de los Judios!" (Behold! the encampment of the Jews!)

The guide halted as he spoke. The rest of us followed his example—as we did so, gazing in the direction to which he had pointed.

The plain that stretched before us was the grand valle of San Luis; but presenting none of those characteristics which we usually associate with the word "valley." On the contrary, its surface was perfectly level—having all the aspect of a sleeping sea; and with the white filmy haze suspended over it, it might easily have been mistaken for an expanse of ocean. At first sight, it appeared to be bounded only by the horizon; but a keen eye could perceive its western rim—in the dim outlines of the Sierra San Juan, backed by the brighter summits of the "Silver" Mountains (Sierra de la plata). More conspicuous, on the north, were the wooded slopes of the Sierras Mojada and Sawatch; while, right and left, towered the snow-covered peaks of Pike and the Watoyah— like giant sentinels guarding the approach to this fair mountain-girt valley. These details were taken in at a single coup d'oeil; and in the same glance the eye was attracted by the sheen of real water, that, like a glittering cord, was seen sinuously extended through the centre of the plain. Under the dancing sunbeams, it appeared in motion; and, curving repeatedly over the bosom of the level land, it resembled some grand serpent of sparkling coruscation that had just issued from the mysterious mountains of the "Silver Sierra," and was slowly and gently gliding on towards the distant sea. From the elevation on which we stood, we could trace its tortuous windings, towards the distant Sierra of San Juan; and in the concavity of one of these—almost upon the verge of our vision—we beheld "el campamento de los Judios."

Unprepared for it, we should never have thought of taking what we saw for an encampment of Mormons, or men of any kind. Under the white filmy veil that floated over the plain, some half-dozen little, spots of a more intensified white were barely visible. These the Mexican pronounced to be "los carros" (the waggons). I had recovered my pocket-glass, and this was now called into requisition. A glance through it enabled me to confirm the trapper's statement. The white spots were waggon-covers: they could be none other than those of the Mormon train. I could make out only some half-dozen of them; but there were others behind. The vehicles were clumped, or, more likely, corralled upon the plain. This, indeed, was evident from their arrangement. Those seen were set in a regular row, with their sides towards us—forming, no doubt, one quarter of the "corral."

I looked for living forms. These were also visible under the glass—men and animals. Of the latter, a large drove of different kinds and colours could be seen, mottling the plain to some distance from the waggons. The men were moving about the vehicles. Women I could also distinguish by their dresses; but the distance was too great for me to note the occupations of either sex—even by the aid of the magnifying lens. Lilliputians they looked—both men and women—while the horses and cattle might have been mistaken for a pack of curs. It mattered not to us to know their occupation; nor even what they might be doing when we should arrive upon the ground. We had no intention of stealing upon them. Confident in our complete deguisement, we intended to ride boldly forward—if need be, into the very middle of their camp. It was now the hour of noon; and we halted to bivouac. Although the distance that separated us from the Mormon camp was still considerable, we were in no hurry, about advancing. We had formed the resolution not to join company with the Saints, until near sunset. We knew that there would be curious eyes upon us; and in the hour of twilight we should be less exposed to their scrutiny. True, we might have joined them in the night, and passed off our counterfeit semblance with still greater security. But the morning would bring fresh light, with curiosity unsatisfied, and that would be more disadvantageous. Half an hour of observation, and the novelty of our arrival would wear off. For this the half hour of twilight would be the best time. No doubt, they had met many parties of friendly Indians while crossing the great plains. There had been some among their travelling companions. They would scarce consider us a curiosity. We had a reason for reaching their encampment a little before nightfall: we wanted a few minutes of light to take the bearings of the corral, and get acquainted with the topography of the surrounding plain. Who could tell what chances might turn up in our favour? An opportunity might occur that very night—as likely as afterwards, and perhaps under more favourable circumstances? We had no desire to enter upon our engagement as guide and hunters. We should be too willing to abandon the role, even before beginning it.

————————————————————————————————————

The last rays of the setting sun were sparkling on the selenite of the Silver Mountains, as we approached the encampment of the Saints. We had got near enough to make out the dimensions of the caravan. We saw that there were about a score of the large tilted waggons (Troy and Conestoga), with several smaller vehicles (Dearborns and Jerseys). The latter, with springs, were no doubt the more luxurious travelling carriages of such Saints as may have been in easier circumstances at home; while the ox-drawn "Conestogas" belonged to the common crowd. With the larger waggons, a "corral" had been formed—as is the usual custom of the prairie caravan.

In the following fashion is the enclosure constructed:—The two front waggons are drawn side by side, and halted close together. The two that follow next on the trail, are driven up outside of these—until their front wheels respectively touch the hind ones of the pair that precede them—when they also stop. The pair following in their turn double their poles upon these; and so on, till half the train is expended. The enclosure is not yet complete. It forms only a half-circle, or rather a semi-ellipse; and the corresponding half is obtained, by a slight change in the mode of bringing up the remaining vehicles. These are driven forward to the ground, so that the rear of each is turned inward—the reverse of what was observed in bringing the others into place—and the double-curve which before was constantly diverging, now becomes convergent. When all the waggons have got into their places, the ellipse will be completed; but it is customary to leave an open space at the end—a sort of avenue by which the enclosure may be entered. When horses and cattle require to be corralled, this entrance can be closed, by simply stretching a rope across it. If danger be apprehended, the travellers can keep within this enclosure—the bodies of the waggons forming an excellent rampart of defence. The tilts serve as tents; and under their capacious covering the female members of the emigrant's family are accustomed to sleep in comfort and security. Sentinels outside, and horse-guards picketed still further off, give warning of the approach of an enemy.

As we drew near the camp, we could perceive that in this approved fashion had the Mormons constructed their corral. Most of the lighter vehicles were inside the enclosure; and there we could see the forms of women and children moving about in an excited manner—as if they had retreated thither on discovering our approach. The men still remained outside; and the horses and horned cattle had been left undisturbed. Our party was not large enough to have created an alarm—even had our arrival been unexpected. It could scarcely have been so. No doubt they took us for what we were: the emissaries of the Utah chief!

When within a few hundred yards of the camp, a party, already on horseback, came trotting towards us. Archilete had hoisted a piece of white fawn-skin on his gun-rod—the world-known symbol of peace, and so understood by the red men of America. A towel or table-cloth, or something of the sort, was held up in answer; and after the demonstration the mounted men spurred forward to meet us. When we had approached within a dozen lengths of each other, both parties reined up; and the Mexican and Mormon leader, separating from their respective followers, met midway between the two parties, shook hands, and entered into conversation. What they said was simple enough. I could hear the trapper declaring in broken English the nature of our errand—that he had been sent by Wa-ka-ra to act as their guide; and that we his companeros, were the Utah hunters, to provide game for the caravan. Of the Mormons who rode up to us there were half-a-dozen in all; and I was fain to hope that they were not a fair specimen of the emigrant party. They were not—as I afterwards ascertained. They were the Danites, or Destroying Angels, that accompanied the train. "Destroying devils" would have been a more appropriate appellation: for six more villainous-looking individuals I had never beheld. There was no sign of the angelic, neither in their eyes nor features—not a trace; but, on the contrary, each might have passed for an impersonation of the opposite character—a very "devil incarnate!" Five of them I had never seen before—at least to remember them. The sixth only on one occasion. Him I remembered well. The man who had once looked in the face of the ex-attorney's clerk, and ci-devant schoolmaster of Swampville, was not likely soon to cast that countenance from his remembrance. It was Stebbins who was talking to the Mexican. The dialogue was of brief duration. The tale told by the trapper was scarcely news: it had been expected; and was therefore accepted without suspicion. The interview ended by the Mormon leader pointing to a place where we might pitch our tents—outside the waggon enclosure, and near the bank of the river. This was just what we desired; and, proceeding direct to the spot, we commenced unpacking our paraphernalia.



CHAPTER NINETY SEVEN.

THE CORRALLED CAMP.

As soon as our quality was known, the Saints came crowding around us. The corral poured forth its contents—until nine-tenths of the whole caravan, men, women and children, stood gazing upon us, with that stare of idiotic wonder peculiar to the humbler classes of countries called civilised. We managed to withstand the ordeal of their scrutiny with an assumed air of true savage indifference. Not without an effort, however: since it was difficult to resist laughing at the grotesque exclamations and speeches, which our appearance and movements elicited from these wondering yokels. We were cautious not to notice their remarks—appearing as if we understood them not. Peg-leg, by the aid of his Anglo-American jargon—picked up among the mountain-men—was able to satisfy them with an occasional reply. The rest of us said nothing; but, to all appearance earnestly occupied with our own affairs, only by stealth turned our eyes on the spectators. I could perceive that the huntress was the chief attraction; and for a moment my apprehensions were sufficiently keen. The girl had done nothing to disguise her sex— the mask extending no farther than to her face and features. Her neck, hands, and wrists—all of her skin that might be exposed—were stained Indian of course; and there would have been little likelihood of their detecting the false epidermis under a casual observation. Had it been a mere ordinary person—painted as she was—she might have passed for an Indian without difficulty. As it was, however, her voluptuous beauty had tempted a closer scrutiny; and, spite of her disfigured features, I saw glances directed upon her expressive of secret but passionate observation. Some of the bystanders took no pains to conceal their predilection.

"Darnationed likely squaw!" remarked one. "Who air she, old timber-toes?" inquired he, addressing himself to the guide. "Squaw— Utah gal," replied the Mexican in his trapper patois. Pointing to me, he continued: "She sister to hunter-chief—she hunter too—kill bighorn, buffalo, deer. Carrambo! si! She grand cazadora!"

"Oh! durn yer kezedora. I don' know, what that ere means; but I do know, an' rayther calculate, if that ere squaw had the scrubbin'-brush an' a leetle soft soap over that face o' hern, she'd look some punkins, I guess."

The fellow who had thus eloquently delivered himself was one of the six who had saluted us on our arrival. Two or three of his confreres were standing beside him—gazing with lynx, or rather wolf-like glances upon the girl. Stebbins himself, before parting, had cast upon her a look of singular expression. It was not significant of recognition; but rather of some thought of viler origin. The others continued to give utterance to their mock admiration; and I was glad—as the girl herself appeared to be—when the tent was pitched, and she was able to retire out of reach of their rude ribaldry.

We had now an opportunity of studying the Mormons chez eux memes: for not one of them had the slightest idea that their talk was understood by us. Most of them appeared to be of the humbler class of emigrants— farm-people or those of mechanical calling—artisans of the common trades—shoemakers, blacksmiths, joiners, and the like. In the countenances of these there was no cast that betrayed a character, either of particular saintliness or sin. In most of them, the expression was simply stolid and bovine; and it was evident that these were the mere cattle of the herd. Among them could be observed a sprinkling of a different sort of Saints—men of more seeming intelligence, but with less moral inclinings—men of corrupt thoughts and corrupt lives—perhaps once gentle, but now fallen—who had, no doubt, adopted this pseudo-religion in the expectation of bettering their temporal rather than spiritual condition. The influence of these last over the others was quite apparent. They were evidently chiefs— bishops or deacons—"tenths" or "seventies." It was singular enough to see dandies among them; and yet, however ludicrous the exhibition, dandyism was there displayed! More than one "swell" strutted through the crowd in patent-leather boots, Parisian silk hat, and coat of shining broad-cloth! The temporary halt had offered an opportunity for this display of personal adornment; and these butterflies had availed themselves of the advantage, to cast for a few hours the chrysalis of their travelling gear.

The women were of all ages; and, it might be added, of all nations. Several European tongues mingled in the melee of sounds; but the one which predominated was that language without vowels—the jargon of the Welsh Principality. The continual clacking of this unspeakable tongue told that the sons and daughters of the Cymri mustered strongest in the migration. Many of the latter wore their picturesque native costume— the red-hooded cloak and kirtle; and some were unspeakably fair, with the fine white teeth, fair complexion, and ruddy cheeks, common to other branches of the Celtic race, but nowhere so characteristic as among the fair maidens of Cambria. It was, no doubt, those sweet shining faces, wreathed with free artless smiles, that had caused the lady-killers to unpack their portmanteaus.

My own eyes dwelt not upon these. Ever since our arrival upon the ground, I had been watching with keen glances the opening that led into the corral. Every one who came forth—man or woman—had been the object of my scrutiny. But my glances had been given in vain; and were not rewarded by the recognition of a single individual. The entrance was about two hundred yards from the place where our tents were being pitched; but even at that distance I should have recognised the colossal squatter. As for Lilian, my heart's instinct would have declared her identity at the most casual glance. Neither father nor daughter had yet made their appearance outside the enclosure: though all the world beside had come freely forth, and many were going back again. It was odd, to say the least, they should act so differently from the others. She, I knew, was very different from the "ruck" that surrounded her; and yet one would have thought that curiosity would have tempted her forth—that simple childlike inclination, natural in one so young, to witness our wild attire—to gaze on our plumes and our paint? I could less wonder at Holt himself being insensible to such attraction; but in her it seemed strange. My astonishment increased, as form after form passed out from the opening, but not that for which my eyes were searching. It ceased to be astonishment: it grew into chagrin; and after that assumed the character of an apprehension. This apprehension I had already entertained, but in a less definite form. It now shaped itself into a cruel doubt—the doubt of her being there—either inside the corral, or anywhere in the Mormon camp!

After all, had we taken the wrong track? Might not Holt have kept on with the gold-diggers? The story of the Chicasa signified nothing. Might not Lilian, under the protection of that gallant dragoon, with the torn tassel—might not she? "It is quite probable," I muttered to myself, "highly probable that they are not here! The squatter may have resisted the will of his Apostolic companion; and, separating himself from the Mormon party, have gone on with the diggers? No! yonder! Holt himself, as I live!"

The exclamatory phrases were called forth by the appearance of a tall man in the opening between the waggons. It was Holt. He was standing still; and must have reached the spot he occupied but the moment before—when my eyes for an instant had been turned away. The Herculean frame, and great rufous beard hanging over his breast, proclaimed to my eyes the identity of the Tennessean squatter; and the costume confirmed it. It was precisely the same worn by him on that eventful morning— when standing before me with his long rifle raised against my life. The ample surtout of greenish blanket-cloth, a little further faded—the red skirt underneath—the coarse horse-skin boots rising to his thighs—the crimson kerchief turbaned around his head, its loose flap falling down over his shaggy eyebrows—were all identical with the portrait remaining in my memory. I watched him with eager eye. Was it his intention to step nearer and examine us? Or had he come forth upon some other business? He was looking grave, and sad, I thought; but in the distance I could scarce note the expression upon his countenance. It did not appear to betoken curiosity. Once only he glanced towards us, and then turned his eyes in an opposite direction. This did not shew that he cared much for our presence, or was in anywise interested in it. In all likelihood, he shared not the childish curiosity of his travelling companions—to whom he in other respects bore but little resemblance. As he stood in their midst, he looked like some grim but majestic lion, surrounded by jackals. His behaviour suggested a further similitude to the great forest monarch. He seemed to hold no converse with those around him; but stood apart and for the moment motionless as a statue. Once only I noticed that he yawned—stretching out his colossal arms, as if to aid in the involuntary action. For this purpose, and this alone, did he appear to have come forth: since, shortly after its accomplishment, he turned back into the avenue, and disappeared behind the barricade of the waggons!



CHAPTER NINETY EIGHT.

BEAUTY EMBROWNED.

The apparition—for it had something of the character of one—restored my equanimity. Holt was with the Mormon train; and of course Lilian also. It may seem strange that this knowledge should have given me satisfaction—that a belief, but yesterday grieving me, should to-day bring gladness!

The apparent anomaly is easily explained. It was the consequence of a change in the situation. My confidence in the success of our scheme had now become strengthened—almost to a certainty. So deftly had we taken our measures, that we need apprehend no great difficulty in attaining the end aimed at. Among the Saints, there was not the slightest suspicion of our character—at least none had yet shown itself. We should be free to come and go, as we pleased: since the very nature of our contract required it. Camp and caravan would be alike accessible to us—at all hours, I might say—and surely opportunities would not be lacking for the accomplishment of our purpose?

Only one object was worth regarding: the will of Lilian herself. She might still refuse to become a runaway? She might not consent to forsake her father? In that case, our efforts would be idle indeed! Had I reason to expect such a perverse contingency? Surely not? Though my own influence might be gone, her sister would still have the power to persuade her? Her eyes once opened to the conspiracy that threatened her, surely but one thought could arise in that virtuous bosom—how to escape from it? "No—no," was my concluding reflection, spoken in soliloquy, "there need be no fear of opposition in that quarter. True, Lilian is still a child; but her virtue is that of a virgin heart. Her sister's story, when told to her, will arouse her to a sense of her own danger. She will be ready, as we, to adopt measures for averting it."

Drawing comfort from this reflection, I was turning to attend to my horse. The gallant creature had been sadly neglected of late, and needed my care. A huge Mexican silla, that with its trappings half-covered its body, would have sufficiently disguised him; but I had not much fear of his being recognised. Stebbins and Holt had both seen him—once only, and then under such circumstances that it was scarcely possible they could have noticed him. Otherwise, they might have remembered him readily enough. Such a noble steed, once seen, would not easily be forgotten. I had no fear, however; and was about to remove the saddle, when an object presented itself to my eyes that interrupted my intention—causing me to remain fixed and immobile. In the open ground, scarcely twenty paces from where I stood, was a form that fell upon the eye like a beam of empyrean light in the midst of deepest darkness—a girl of golden roseate hue, with a chevelure of yellow hair hanging to her haunches in all its lustrous luxuriance! Scarcely twenty paces separated me from Lilian Holt: for need I say that it was Lilian herself who was standing before me?

Instinctively, I noted changes. The wax-like smoothness, and, to a certain extent, the whiteness of her complexion, had yielded to the fervid rays of the prairie sun; but the slight embrowning appeared rather an improvement: as the bloom upon the peach, or the russet on the nectarine, proves the superior richness of the fruit. It had toned down the red upon her cheeks, but the glow was still sufficiently vivid. I observed or fancied another change—in her stature. She appeared to have grown larger and taller—in both respects, almost equalling her sister—and resembling the latter in that full development of form, which was one of the characteristic features of her queen-like beauty. These were the only changes external. Even the simple costume—the old homespun frock of yellowish stripe—still enveloped her form; no longer hanging loosely as of yore, but presenting a more sparing fit on account of the increased dimensions of the wearer. The string of pearls, too— false pearls, poor thing!—yet encircled her throat, whose now fuller outline was more capable of displaying them. A pleasing reflection crossed my mind at the moment, that shaped itself into an interrogatory: might there have been no motive for further adornment?

As erst, her little feet were naked—gleaming with roseate translucence against the green background of the herbage. She was standing when I first saw her: not in a position of rest, but with one foot pressing the turf, the other slightly retired, as if she had just paused in her steps. She was not fronting me, but half-turned. She appeared to have come as near as she intended, and was about going off again in an oblique direction: like the startled antelope, that, despite its timidity, stops to gaze upon the "object that has alarmed it." So short a time had my eyes been averted from the path by which she must have approached, I might well have fancied that she had suddenly sprung out of the earth—as Cytherea from the sea! Equally brilliant was the apparition—to me, of far more absorbing interest. Her large eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wondering curiosity—a curiosity which the picturesque habiliments and savage character of my toilet were well calculated to provoke. Her examination of me was soon ended; and she walked off in the direction towards which she had already turned her steps. She seemed scarcely satisfied, however: as I observed that she looked repeatedly back. What thought was prompting her to this? Women have keen perceptions—in intuition almost equalling instinct in its perceptive power. Could she have a suspicion? No, no: the thing was improbable—impossible!

The path she was following would conduct her to the bank of the river— about a hundred yards above where our tents had been pitched, and a like distance from the nearest of the waggons. Her object in going thither was evident. A tin water-can, hanging by its iron handle over her wrist, proclaimed her errand. On reaching the river, she did not proceed to fill the vessel; but, placing it near the water's edge, sat down beside it. The bank, slightly elevated above the stream, offered a sort of projecting bench. Upon this she had seated herself—in such an attitude that her limbs hung over, until one foot was immersed in the water. Her long hair lay spread upon the grass behind her; and with her head drooping forward, she appeared to gaze into the crystal depths of the stream—as intently, as if mirrored there she saw the form upon which the thoughts most delighted to dwell. Up to this point, I had watched her every movement. But only by stealth and in silence: since I knew that eyes were upon me. Just then, however, most of the gazers retired from our tents—a call to supper within the corral having summoned them away. For all that, I dared not approach the girl. The act would have appeared strange; and even she might desire to shun the too free intrusion of my savage presence—perhaps flee from it altogether? The opportunity of speaking with her was sufficiently tempting. Such another might not soon recur? I trembled at the thought of losing it. What was to be done? I might have sent Marian. She was still inside her tent, where she had taken shelter from the bold glances of her vulgar admirers. She did not yet know that Lilian was outside. I might have given her notice of the circumstance, and deputed her to speak with her sister; but I had certain reasons for not following this course.

At this crisis an idea occurred to me, that promised to aid me in obtaining the interview I longed for. My Arab had not yet been given to the grass! Near where Lilian was seated, the herbage was luxuriant— more so than anywhere around. Upon it I could picket my steed, or hold him in hand, while he should browse? I lost not a minute in removing the saddle, and adjusting the halter; and scarcely another in approaching the spot where the young girl was seated. I drew near, however, with due circumspection—fearful that by a too brusque approach I might hasten her departure. I gave my horse to the grass—now and then guiding him with a pull upon the halter, which I still held in my hand. The young girl saw that I was gradually nearing her, and looked twice or three times towards me—not with any air of alarm. Rather of interest, I thought; but this may have been only a fancy. My horse appeared to share her attention—indeed, more than share it: since she fixed her eyes upon him frequently, and looked longer at him each time! Was it the noble form that was attracting her admiration? Or was there something that called up a recollection! She might remember the horse?

"Oh, Lilian! would that I could speak to you as myself! How my heart yearns to give and receive some token of recognition? But no—not yet. I would not declare myself, till assured that that recognition might be welcome. Not till I could learn, whether the tender tie that bound our hearts was still unloosed—whether its too slender thread was yet unbroken!"

I had resolved to explore the secret chambers of her heart; and this it was that rendered me desirous of anticipating any interview that might occur with her sister. Perhaps too easily might I obtain the knowledge of which I was in search? I might reach, only to rue it? As I drew near, my hopes of being permitted to address myself to her increased. She still kept her seat, and made no attempt to shun me. I had approached within speaking distance. Words were upon my tongue; when a harsh voice, coming from behind, interrupted, at the same instant, both my speech and my intention.



CHAPTER NINETY NINE.

THE YELLOW DUENNA.

"Good lor, gal! wha you doin' down da? You know Mass' Holt an' Mass' Stebbins want dar coffee? Why ain't you done fotch de water?"

I faced round on hearing the voice. The tone and patois had already admonished me that the speaker was neither white nor Indian, but of that third typical race that mingles in the social life of the transatlantic world—an African. The harsh accentuation had prepared me for the appearance of a man and a negro; but, on turning, I perceived that I was mistaken—both as to the sex and colour. In the speaker I beheld a mulatto—a yellow woman of large size—gross, corpulent, and greasy. Her dress was a light-coloured muslin print—negligently open at the breast, and garnished with gaudy ribbons, from which freely protruded the mountainous masses of her bosom. On her head was a toque of checked "bandana," folded over the black corkscrew ringlets, that scarce reached so low as her ears; while ungartered stockings upon her ankles, and slipshod shoes upon her feet, completed the tout ensemble of her costume. Notwithstanding the neglige visible in her apparel, there were signs of conceit as to personal appearance. The fashion and trimmings were not in keeping with that of her tabooed race; and in the set of the toque there was a certain air of coquetry. The features, small and regular, might have once passed for handsome; but they were now nearly eliminated by her obese condition, which produced a disproportionate rotundity of face. The eyes, moreover, had lost all loveliness, if ever they had been endowed with such an expression. Their glance, in its brightest day, could have been only animal. It was still sufficiently sensual; but sensuality of a sullen and leering character. The voice of this woman had already produced an unpleasant effect upon me; so, too, the words spoken. The sight of her, as she stood "akimbo," her hands resting upon her enormous haunches, only strengthened the sinister impression, which was still further confirmed by my observing that it had caused a similar effect elsewhere—upon Lilian! Even over that radiant countenance I could see that a cloud had stolen, and continued to shadow it!

"Say, gal! wha you doin' dar, anyhow? You fill dat pail double-quick, or, golly, you catch it!" A threat! Lilian listens to it, and obeys!

"I am coming, Aunt Lucy!" replied the girl, in a trembling voice, at the same time hastening to fill the water-can.

I was in hopes that this conciliatory answer would send the mulatta back into the corral. To my chagrin, it produced a result directly the reverse; for, on hearing it, the woman came waddling down in rapid strides towards the river. She made direct for the spot where Lilian was filling the can; and by her quick, nervous gestures, and the lurid light flashing in her half-buried eyes, I could perceive that some hideous passion was stirring within her. Lilian had already perceived that she was approaching, and stood waiting for her—evidently in awe! When within a few paces of the girl, the fat fury opened speech upon her—and in a tone as vindictive as the sound of her voice was harsh and grating.

"Wha for, gal, you call me Aunt Lucy? Wha for you say dat? Dam! you call me so 'gain, I jab you eyes out. Sure I live, I gouge you!"

The monster, as she spoke, stretched out her hand, bending the thumb with a significant gesture.

She continued in the same spiteful tone:—"I tear you' har you so conceit' 'bout—you' golding har, folks call. Piff! you' har da colour ob yella squash. I pull um out o' you' head in fistful, you call me Aunt Lucy 'gain."

"I did not know it would offend you," replied the young girl, in a meek voice. "Do not the others call you by that name?" she inquired hesitatingly. "Mr Stebbins does so?"

"Nebba you mind what Mass' Stabbins he do; da's my affair. You hab a care you no call me so. Da's my affair, too. Jes you say Aunt Lucy 'gain, I soon spoil you' beauty, buckra gal."

"I shall not do so again, Lucy," timidly rejoined the young girl.

"Miss Lucy, you please. Don't you tink you still in Tennessee! You' know better bye 'n bye. Yella woman out heer good as white—marry white man all same—all same 'mong da Mormons—yah, yah, yah!"

A leer towards Lilian accompanied this laughter, rendering its hideous significance more palpably expressive. So provoked was I by the brutal behaviour of the yellow wench, I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing up, and kicking her over the bank upon which she was standing. Nothing but the stern necessity of preserving my incognito hindered me from treating her as she deserved; and, even then, it cost me an effort to keep my place. As I continued to watch them. I could see that the young girl cowered beneath the threats of this bold bawdril, who had in some way gained an ascendancy over her—perhaps appointed by Stebbins to act in the double capacity of spy and guardian? Notwithstanding the horrid imaginings to which the woman's presence had given rise, I succeeded in smothering my wrath, and remaining silent. My good star was guiding me; and soon after I was rewarded for the act of prudence.

"Say, gal!" continued the mulatta, still addressing herself to Lilian, "wha for you sittin' down dar, gazin' into da water? S'pose you tink you see him shadda dar? Yah, yah, yah!"

"Whose shadow?" innocently inquired the girl. I trembled while listening for the reply. "O Lordy! you berry innocent gal, make 'pear! S'pose I no see you write him name in dat ere book you got? S'pose I no see you make him letter in de sand, wha we camp on Akansaw? You scratch am name ebberywha; you got um on de big box inside Mass' Stebbins's waggon. Ha! you better no let Mass' Stebbins see him name dar!"

I would at that instant have given my horse for a glance at either box or book. But in another moment the necessity was gone; and the revelation, though made by polluted lips, was not the less welcome to my ears. What cared I whether the oracle was profane, so long as its response echoed my most earnest desires?

"S'pose nobody read but youseff?" continued the mulatta, in the same jeering tone. "S'pose nobody know what E.W. stand for? yah, yah! S'pose dat ere don't mean Edwa'd Wa'ffeld? eh missy yella bar—dat him name?" The young girl made no reply; but the crimson disc became widely suffused over her cheek. With a secret joy I beheld its blushing extension. "Yah, yah, yah!" continued her tormentor, "you may see um shadda in da water—dat all you ebba see ob Edwa'd Wa'ffeld. Whoebbar dat ere coon may be, you nebbar set you' eyes on him 'gain—nebba!" A dark shade quickly overcast the crimson, betokening that the words gave pain. My pleasure was in like proportion, but inversely. "You fool, missy' golding har? you' better gone 'long wi' de young dragoon offica who want take you—dat am, if you must had man all to youseff. Yah, yah, yah! Nebba mind, gal! you get husban' yet. Mass' Stebbins he find you husban'—he got one for you a'ready—waitin' dar in de Mormon city; you soon see! Husban' got fifty odder wife! Yah, yah, yah!"

Words appeared upon the lips of Lilian—low murmured and but half uttered. I could not make out what they were; but they appeared not to be a reply to the speeches that had been addressed to her. Rather were they the involuntary accompaniment to an expression of peculiar anguish, that at that moment revealed itself on her features. The mulatta did not seem either to expect, or care for an answer: for on giving utterance to the fiendish insinuation, she turned upon her slippered heels, and hobbled back towards the camp. I held my face averted as she was passing near where I stood. I feared that she might be attracted to stop and examine me; and I had a motive for wishing her to keep on. Her curiosity, however, did not appear to be very excitable. Such as it was, it evolved itself in a comic fashion—as I could tell by the coarse "Yah, yah, yah!" that broke from her as she passed me. I could perceive by the receding of the sound, that she had gone on without stopping. Lilian followed at a distance of about ten paces. Her body was bent to one side by the weight of the water-can; while her long golden-hair, falling in confusion over the straining arm, almost swept the sward at her feet. The toilsome attitude only displayed in greater perfection the splendid development of that feminine form—which death alone could now hinder me from calling my own.

I had already planned my course of action. I only waited for an opportunity to carry it out. No longer desired I to remain unrecognised by her. The barrier that had hitherto restrained me from giving sign or word—and that would still have continued to do so—had now been removed, happily as unexpectedly. In my heart, now filled and thrilling with joy, there was no motive for further concealment; and I resolved at once to declare myself. Not openly, however; not by speech, nor yet by gesture. Either might provoke an exclamation; and draw upon us prying eyes that were observing at no great distance. As stated, I had already shaped out my course; and, for a minute or more, had been waiting for the very opportunity that now offered.

During the conversation above detailed, I had not been an inactive listener. I had taken from my pocket a scrap of paper, and pencilled upon it three simple words. I knew the paper on which I was writing: it was the half-leaf of a letter well-remembered. The letter itself was not there: it was within the folds of my pocket-book; but there was writing on the fly-leaf, and on both faces of it. On one side were those cherished verses, whose sweet simple strain, still vibrating upon the chords of my heart, I cannot help repeating:

"I think of thee, when Morning springs From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew, And like a young bird lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue. And when at Noon the breath of love O'er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove, I think of thee—I think of thee!

"I think of thee, when soft and wide The Evening spreads her robe of light; And, like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of night. And when the moon's sweet crescent springs In light o'er heaven's deep waveless sea; And stars are forth like blessed things, I think of thee—I think of thee!"

"O sir! it is very, very true! I do think of you; and I am sure I shall do so as long as I live.

"Lilian Holt."

On the reverse side of the page I had penned, or rather pencilled, a response. Not then, but in an idle hour by the way: with the presentiment, that it might some time reach the hands of her for whom it was intended. In those hands I was now determined to place it—leaving the issue to the cipher itself. The answer ran thus:

To Lilian.

"As music sweet, thy gentle lay Hath found an echo in my heart; At morn, at eve, by night, by day, 'Tis never from my thoughts apart: I hear the strain in every breeze That blows o'er flower, and leaf, and tree; Low murmuring, the birds and bees All seem to sing—I think of thee!

"Perhaps, of me no more a thought Lingers within thy bosom blest: For time and absence both are fraught With danger to the lover's rest? O Lilian! if thy gentlest breath Should whisper that sad truth to me, My heart would soon be cold in death— Though dying, still 'twould think of thee!"

"Edward Warfield, The Indian Hunter."

The words at the moment added were those appended to my own name—which I had introduced to aid in the recognition. However inappropriate might be the scheme for making myself known, I had no time to conceive any other. The interruption caused by the mulatta had hindered me from a verbal declaration, which otherwise I might have made; and there was no longer an opportunity for the periphrasis of speech. Even a word might betray me. Under this apprehension, I resolved to remain silent; and watch for the occasion when I might effect the secret conveyance of the paper.

As the young girl drew near, I stepped towards her—pointing to my lips, and making sign that I wished to drink. The action did not alarm her. On the contrary, she stopped; and, smiling kindly on the thirsty savage, offered the can—raising it up before her. I took the vessel in my hands, holding the little billet conspicuous between my stained fingers. Conspicuous only to her: for from all other eyes the can concealed it— even from those of the bizarre duenna, who had faced round and was still standing near. Not a word escaped me, as I pretended to drink. I only nodded towards the paper as I raised the vessel to my lips.

Ah! that weird instinct of a woman's heart—a woman who loves! How pleasant to watch its subtle play, when we know that it is exerted in our favour! I saw not the action, nor yet the emotion that may have been depicted on that radiant face. My eyes were averted. I dared not trust them to watch the effect. I only knew that the can was taken from my hands—the paper along with it; and, like a dream, the fair water-carrier passed from before me—leaving me alone upon the spot! My eyes followed the receding form, now side by side with that of the chiding guardian. Together they entered the corral—Lilian upon the nearer side; but, as the maiden's face disappeared behind the sombre shadow of the waggons, a glance given back through those shining tresses convinced me that my scheme had succeeded!



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED.

A SISTER'S APPEAL.

I hastened to inform Marian of what had passed—having returned to the tents, without giving any sign of the excitement that was stirring within my breast. Why not to-night? Why not at once—within the hour? These were my reflections, put interrogatively, as I hurried over the ground. The huntress still remained within her tent; but, enjoying the fraternal privilege, I could enter; and, stooping, I passed under the covering of skins.

"You have seen sister Lilian!" she said, affirmatively, as I entered.

"I have."

"And spoken with her?"

"No—I dared not trust myself to speak; but I have given her a token of recognition."

"In writing? I saw you. She knows, then, that you are here?"

"By this time she should—that is, if she has found an opportunity to look at the paper."

"She will find that, I daresay. Oh, she is beautiful—very beautiful. I do not wonder, sir, that you love her! Were I a man—Knows she that I too am here?"

"Not yet. I feared to tell her, even in writing. I feared that in the sudden transport of joy which such a discovery would produce, she might proclaim it to your father—perhaps to him!"

"You are right—there might have been a risk of that. She must not know that I am here, till we can caution her against declaring it. How do you propose to act?"

"I have come to take counsel from you. If we could only make known to her that you are present, she might find an opportunity of stealing forth; and in the darkness, all the rest could be accomplished. Even to-night—why not this very night?"

"Why not?" echoed the huntress, catching eagerly at the idea. "The sooner the better. But how am I to see her? Should I enter their camp? Perhaps—"

"If you write to her, I—"

"Would, stranger? say could. Writing is not one of my accomplishments. My father cared little to teach me—my mother still less: she cared not at all. Alas! poor ignorant me: I cannot even write my own name!"

"It matters not: dictate what you would say to her. I have here paper and pencil; and shall write for you. If she has read the other, she will be on the look-out—and no doubt we may find an opportunity of giving a note to her."

"And she of reading it, no doubt. Yes; it does seem the best course we can pursue—the surest and safest. Surely Lilian has not forgotten me? Surely she will follow the advice of a sister who dearly loves her?"

Drawing out my pencil, and tearing a leaf from the memorandum-book, I stood ready to act as amanuensis. The intelligent though unlettered maiden, resting her forehead upon her hand—as if to aid in giving shape to her thoughts—commenced the dictation:

"Beloved sister!—A friend writes for me—one whom you know. It is Marian who speaks—your own sister Marian—still living and well. I am here with others—in the disguise of Indians—those you have seen. We are here on your account alone. We have come to save you from a danger—O sister! a dreadful danger: which your innocent heart cannot have dreamt of!"

I was not so certain of this. The shade I had observed upon Lilian's countenance—produced by the taunting speeches of the mulatta—had convinced me that the young girl was not without some presentiment of her peril, however vaguely outlined. So much the better for our purpose; and, as I had already declared this belief to Marian, I did not interrupt her. She continued: "When you have read this, do not show it to any one. Do not make known its contents even to—"

The maiden paused for a moment. Filial affection, too cruelly crushed, was causing her voice to falter. Tremblingly and low muttered came the words:

"Our father—!"

"Dear Lil!" proceeded she in a firmer tone, "you know how dearly I loved you? I love you still the same. You know I would have risked my life to save yours. I now risk that and more—ah! far more, if I could tell you; but some time you shall know all. And you, dear Lil! your danger is even greater than of life—for it is the danger of dishonour! Hear me, then, beloved sister, and do not refuse to follow my advice! When it is dark—and to-night if possible—steal out from the camp. Separate yourself from the vile people who surround you—separate yourself—O sister! it is hard to say the word—from him, our father—him who should have been our protector, but who, I fear—Alas! I cannot speak the thought. To-night, dear Lil! if possible, to-night! To-morrow it may be too late. Our disguise may be discovered, and all our plans frustrated. To-night—to-night! Fear not! your friend awaits you—as also your old favourite, Frank Wingrove, with other brave companions. Your sister will receive you with open arms."

"Marian."

Surely Lilian would not resist such an appeal? Surely it would be enough to separate her—even from him whose slight protection scarcely gave him claim to the sacred title of parent?

Our next anxiety was, as to how the note might be delivered. We thought of Archilete; and in the end he might have been employed to convey it to her for whom it was intended. But just at that moment the Mexican was absent. In the performance of his metier as guide, he had entered the corral, and was engaged with the chief men of the caravan—giving them such counsel as might enable them to pursue their route, and no doubt concealing those points that might be prejudicial to our cause. I had no reason to doubt the fidelity of the man. It is true his betrayal of us would have been fatal; though it might afterwards have brought himself to punishment. But it never occurred to me to question his loyalty. His sentiment of hostility for the Mormon "hereticos" had been freely and repeatedly expressed; and I reposed perfect confidence in the honesty of his declarations. On discovering the absence of Archilete, the idea occurred to me, that it might not be necessary to await his return to the tents. Time was too valuable to be wasted. Already had the sun sunk to rest over the grand desert of the Colorado; and the sombre shadows of the Sierra San Juan were projected far into the plain—almost to the edge of the encampment. In these latitudes, the soft eve lingers but a few minutes; and night was already spreading her russet mantle over the earth. The white tilts of the waggons gleamed paler through the grey light; and the red glare of the camp-fires, burning within the corral, now shone upon the canvas—disputing the power to illumine it, with the last touches of the twilight. Another minute—scarcely another minute—and the day would be done.

"Come!" I said to my companion, "we may go together. The guide has proclaimed us sister and brother—prophetic words, I hope. Believing in that relationship, these people will not see anything extraordinary in our taking a stroll together. Outside the camp, we may find the opportunity we are in search of?"

Marian offered no objection; and, issuing together from the tent, we proceeded in the direction of the corralled waggons.



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE.

A CARAVAN BALL.

As if to favour our design, the night descended dusk as the wing of a vulture. The summits of San Juan were no longer visible—their outlines becoming blended with the dark background of sky; while the more sombre slopes of the Sierra Mojada had long since faded from the view. Even light-coloured objects could be but dimly traced through the profound obscurity—such as the white covers of the waggons, our own weather-bleached buffalo-tents, the metallic sheen of the stream, and the speckled oxen browsing along its banks. Between these objects the atmosphere was filled with a uniform and amorphous darkness; and dusky forms like ours could be seen only under the light of the blazing fires. A few of these had been kindled outside the enclosure—near the avenue entrance; but most were inside, surrounded by groups of emigrants—the flames casting their ruddy light upon the bright cheerful faces of women and children, or on the ruder and more careworn countenances of the men. Underneath the waggon-bodies, the red light, broken by the radiating spokes of the wheels, gleamed outward in a thousand jets; and men walking outside, flung gigantic shadows over the plain. Nearer to the line of barricade, only the shadows of their limbs were projected, the upper part of their persons being shrouded from the glare by the tilts and boxing of the waggons. Under this friendly cover we were enabled to approach close up to the vehicles, without much risk of attracting observation. But few persons were straying outside—only the cattle-guards and other routine-officers of the caravan, all equally negligent of their duties. They knew they were in Utah territory, and had no enemy to fear.

It was, moreover, the hour of most interest in the daily routine of a travelling-train: when forms cluster around the bivouac fire, and bright faces shine cheerfully in the blaze; when the song succeeds the supper, the tale is told, and the merry laugh rings on the air; when the pipe sends up its aromatic wreaths of blue curling smoke; and sturdy limbs, already rested from the toils of the day, feel an impulse to spring upward on the "light fantastic toe." On that eve, such an impulse had inspired the limbs of the Mormon emigrants. Scarcely had the debris of the supper been removed, ere a space was cleared midway between the blazing fires; music swelled upon the air—the sounds of fiddle, horn, and clarionet—and half a score of couples, setting themselves en quadrille, commence treading time to the tune. Sufficiently bizarre was the exhibition—a dance of the true "broad-horn" breed; but we had no thought of criticising an entertainment so opportune to our purpose. The swelling sound of the instruments drowning low conversation—the confusion of many voices—the attraction of the saltatory performance— were all circumstances that had suddenly and unexpectedly arisen in our favour. My companion and I had no longer a fear that our movements would be noted. Indeed, only those who might be in the waggons, and looking through the draw-string aperture in the rear of the tilts, would be likely to see us at all. But most of these apertures were closed, some with curtains of common canvas—others with an old counterpane, a blanket, or such rag as was fitted for the service.

We saw no face looking outwards. All were turned upon the attractive circle of Terpsichoreans, that, under the brilliant light of the fires, were bounding through the mazy figures, of the dance. The waggons forming the sides of the enclosure were in echellon; and their tilts lapping on each other, it was impossible to see between them. With the two, however, that closed the end of the corral, the case was different. These had been drawn up side by side, and parallel to each other; and though their wheels touched, there still remained a space above the tires, through which we could command a view of the ground within the enclosure. At this point we had placed, ourselves. It proved the very vantage-ground we desired. We could view the enclosed ellipse longitudinally, and note nearly every movement made by those inside. Even should we be detected in our espionage, it would pass without suspicion as to our real object. What more natural than that we should desire to witness the spectacle of the dance? The act would be construed as springing from mere savage curiosity?

Our eyes, wandering over the different figures, soon became fixed upon two. They were men, and seated—near each other, and some paces apart from the crowd of dancers. They were Holt and Stebbins. Both were by the side of a large fire, that threw its red light in full glare over them—so that not only their figures, but even the expression upon their features we could distinctly trace. The squatter, pipe in mouth, and with head drooping down almost to his knees, looked grimly into the fire. He was paying no attention to what was passing around him. His thoughts were not there? Stebbins, on the other hand, appeared eagerly to watch the dancers. He was dressed with a degree of adornment; and exhibited a certain patronising attitude, as if master of the sports and ceremonies! Men and women went and came, as if paying court to him; and each was kept for a moment in courtly converse, and then graciously dismissed, with all the ludicrous etiquette of mock ceremonial!

I looked among the dancers—scrutinising each face as it came round to the light. There were girls and women—some of all ages. Even the gross mulatto was "on the floor," hobbling through the figures of a quadrille. But Lilian? I was disappointed in not seeing her—a disappointment that gratified me. Where was she? Among the spectators? I made a hurried examination of the circle. There were faces fair and young—white teeth and rose-hued cheeks—but not hers. She was not among them! I turned to her sister to make a conjectural inquiry. I saw that the eyes of Marian were fixed upon her father. She was regarding him with a singular expression. I could fancy that some strange reflection was passing through her mind—some wild emotion swelling within her bosom. I refrained from interrupting the current of her thoughts.

Up to this time, the waggon beside which we stood had been dark inside. Suddenly, and, as if by magic, a light flashed within, gleaming through the translucent canvas. A candle had been lighted under the tilt; and now continued to burn steadily. I could not resist the temptation to look under the canvas. Perhaps a presentiment guided me? It needed no disarrangement of the cover. I had only to step a pace to one side and opposite the curtain in the rear of the vehicle. The slight rude hanging had been negligently closed. An interstice left open between the two flaps permitted a fall view of the interior. A number of large boxes and articles of household use filled up the bed of the waggon. Over these had been thrown some coarse garments, and pieces of bed-clothing—blankets, counterpanes, and a bolster or two. Near the forward end, a chest of large dimensions stood higher than the rest; and upon the lid of this a piece of tallow-candle was burning, in the neck of an old bottle! Between the flame of the candle and my eyes a figure intervened, shadowing the rearward part of the waggon. It was a female figure; and, dim as was the light, I could trace the outlines of a lovely silhouette, that could be no other than that of Lilian Holt. A slight movement of the head brought the gleam of golden-hair under the flickering flame; and the features were seen en profile. They were hers. It was Lilian who occupied the waggon. She was alone—though in front of the vehicle, I could see forms not distant from where she sat. Young men were loitering there. Ardent glances were directed towards her. She appeared desirous of shunning them. She held in her hands a book. One might have fancied she was reading it: for it was open. But the light fell sparingly on the page; and her stealthy glances towards it told, something else than the book was occupying her attention. A piece of detached paper that gleamed whiter between the leaves, was evidently the object of her solicitude. It was the writing upon that she was trying to decipher. I watched with eager glance. I noted every movement of the fair reader. Marian had joined me. We both watched together.

It required an effort to restrain ourselves from speech. A word would have been worth all this writing; but it might also have ruined everything. They who stood in front of the waggon might hear that word. It was not spoken. Lilian was evidently embarrassed by the presence of these young men; and cast uneasy glances towards them as she read. Perhaps the restraint thus placed upon her hindered any violent show of emotion, which the writing on the paper might have called forth. A short suppressed sigh, as she finished reading; a quick searching glance among the groups in front—another, shot stealthily towards the rear of the waggon—this was all in her manner that might have appeared unusual. I waited till her eyes were again turned rearward; and then, gently parting the canvas flaps, I held Marian's note between my fingers inside the curtain. The apparition of my red-hand did not cause an alarm. The poem had paved the way for the more prosaic epistle: and neither scream nor start was occasioned by its delivery. As soon as I saw that the piece of paper was observed, I dropped it among the boxes, and withdrew my hand. The fear that we might have been noticed standing too long in one place, influenced us to move away. If fortune should favour the reading of that note, on our return we might find our scheme much more ripe for execution. With this reflection, we glided silently from the spot.



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO.

TO HORSE AND AWAY.

Our absence was of short duration—a turn to the tents and back again. While there, I had spoken a word to Wingrove and Sure-shot. Archilete was still absent. I had warned my comrades not to picket our horses at too great a distance from the tents: as we knew not how soon we might need them. Little thought I, as I delivered this cautionary counsel, that within the hour—nay, almost within that minute—we should be hastening to mount and be gone! Our idea had been that some time about midnight—perhaps later—when the camp should be buried in sleep— Lilian, already warned that we were in wait for her, would steal forth and join us at the tents. Thence, trusting to the speed of our horses, we should find no difficulty in escaping—even though pursuit might be given on the instant of our departure. We were all well-mounted—as well, at least, as the Mormons could be—and with a guide who knew the passes, we should have the advantage of them.

It did not occur to Marian or myself, that that very moment might have been more appropriate for flight, than the hour of midnight or any other. Then, in the midst of their noisy revelry, when all eyes were turned upon the dance, and souls absorbed in the giddy whirl of pleasure—when slight sounds were unnoticed amidst the swelling music and the clangour of voices—when even the hoof-stroke of a galloping horse would have fallen unheard or unheeded—then, indeed, would have been the very time for our designed abduction! The idea did not occur to either of us. I cannot tell why it did not: unless it was that we were hindered from thinking of final measures, by our uncertainty as to the disposition of Lilian. Her consent was now the most important condition to our success—as her refusal would be its grandest obstacle. Surely she would not refuse? We could not for a moment harbour the apprehension. By this time she must have read the letter? We could now safely speak face to face with her—that is, if opportunity should be found for an interview. To seek that opportunity, therefore, were we returning a second time to the rear of the waggons. The candle was yet burning under the tilt. Its flame feebly illuminated the canvas. We drew near with stealthy tread, taking notice that we were not observed. We stood once more by the end of the huge vehicle. We were raising our eyes to look through the curtain, when at that instant the light went out. Some one had suddenly extinguished it! One might have regarded this as an ill omen; but, the moment after, we could hear a slight rustling sound—as of some one moving under the cover of the waggon, and passing along towards its hinder end. We stood silent, listening to the sound. It ceased at length; but, immediately after, the edge of the curtain was raised slowly, and without noise. A face appeared in the opening! There was scarcely any light; but even through the grim darkness that lovely face gleamed soft and white. Marian stood nearest, and easily recognised it. In a tender tone she pronounced the magic word: "Sister!"

"O Marian! sister! is it you?"

"Yes, dearest Lil! But hush! speak low!"

"Are you yet alive, dear Marian? or am I dreaming?"

"No dream, sister, but a reality."

"O mercy! tell me, sister—"

"All—all—but not now—there is no time."

"But he, dear sister? who is he that is with you?"

I stepped near enough to reply in a whisper: "One, Lilian, who thinks of thee!"

"O sir! Edward!—Edward!—it is you!"

"Hush!" whispered Marian, again interposing with a quick gesture of caution. "Speak only in whispers! Lilian!" continued she in a firm tone, "you must fly with us!"

"From our father? Do you mean that, Marian?"

"From our father—ay, even from him!"

"O dear sister! what will he say? what will he do, if I forsake him?— Our poor father!—"

There was anguish in the tones of her voice, that told of filial affection still strong and true, however much it may have been trampled upon.

"Say and do?" interrupted Marian. "He will rejoice—should rejoice— when he knows the danger from which you have escaped. O sister! dear sister! believe me—believe your own Marian! A fearful fate is before you. Flight with us can alone save you. Even father will soon be powerless to protect you, as he was to protect me. Do not hesitate then, but say you will go with us? Once beyond the reach of those villains who surround you, all will be well."

"And our father, Marian?"

"No harm will come to him. It is not his ruin they seek; but yours, sister, yours!" A choking sigh was all the reply I could hear. It appeared to be a signal that the spell was broken: as if the heart had escaped from some thraldom in which it had been long held. Had the words of Marian produced conviction? or had they but confirmed some apprehension previously conceived? Was it the snapping of the filial thread I had heard in that anguished expression? Both the sigh and the silence that followed seemed to signify assent. To make more sure, I was about to add the influence of my intervention, with all the fervency of a lover's appeal. Wild words were upon my lips; when at that moment some strange interjections reached my ears, uttered within the enclosure. I stepped suddenly to one side, and looked over the wheels of the waggon. There I beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to rush through my veins in quick quivering current. Marian saw it at the same time. Holt had been seated near the fire, when seen but the moment before; but, as we now looked through, we saw that he had risen to his feet, and was standing in an attitude that betrayed some singular excitement! It was from him the interjections had proceeded. The cause was easily explained. The dog Wolf was leaping up against his legs— uttering low growls of recognition, and making other demonstrations of joy. The animal had identified its old master! Despite the stained snout and close-trimmed tonsure—despite both paint and shears—the dog had been also identified. Between him and his master the recognition was mutual. I saw this at a glance; and the speeches of the squatter only confirmed what was already evident to the eye.

"Durn it, ef 'taint my ole dog!" cried he, after several shorter exclamations—"my ole dog Wolf! Hullo, Stebbins!" continued he, facing sharply round to the Saint; "what's the meanin' o' this? Didn't you tell me that he wur dead?"

Stebbins had turned pale as a sheet; and I could see his thin lips quivering with excitement. It was less fear than some other passion that was playing upon his features; and too easily could I conjecture the current of thought that was running through his brain. The presence of that animal must have called up a train of reflections, far wilder and stranger than those that were passing through the mind of the squatter; and I could perceive that he was making an effort to conceal his emotions. "'Tis a very odd circumstance," said he, speaking in a tone of assumed surprise—"very odd indeed! It is your dog, certainly, though the animal has been disfigured. I thought he was dead. The men of our spring caravan told me so. They said that the wolves had killed him."

"Wolves! durn it, I mout a know'd they kudn't a killed him—not all the wolves on the parairies! Why thur ain't the scratch o' a claw on him! Whar did he come from anyhow? Who's brought him hyur?"

I could see that Stebbins was desirous of parrying the question. He gave an evasive answer. "Who knows? He has likely been in the hands of some Indians—the paint shows that—and preferring the company of whites, he has followed us, and strayed into the camp."

"Did he come with them ere Injuns that's outside?" quickly inquired Holt.

"No?—I fancy not with them," answered the Mormon, in whose glance I could detect the falsehood.

"Let's go an' see!" proposed the squatter, making a step towards the entrance of the corral.

"No—not to-night, Holt!" hastily interposed the other, and with an eagerness that showed the interest he felt in procrastinating the inquiry. "We must not disturb them to-night. In the morning, we can see them, and learn all about it."

"Durn about disturbin' them! Why not to-night, instead o' the mornin'?"

"Well—if you wish to know to-night, I'll go myself, and speak to the guide. No doubt, if the dog came with them, he can tell us all about it? You stay here till I return?"

"Don't be long then. Ho, Wolf! ole fellur! Injuns have had ye, eh? Durn it, old boy! I'm as gled to see ye, as if—"

An unexpected reflection was called forth by the form of speech—not that to which he was about to give words—but one whose bitterness, not only hindered him from saying what he had intended, but caused him instantly to abandon his caresses of the dog. Staggering back to his seat, he dropped heavily down upon it—at the same time burying his face in his hands. The expression upon the Mormon's features, as he parted from the fire, was one of demoniac significance. Clearly he comprehended all! I saw him gliding off through, the corral, with silent stealthy tread, like some restless spirit of darkness. Here and there he paused; and for a moment held one in conversation—then quickly passing on to another. There was no mistaking the object of these manoeuvres. As clearly as if declared. I divined their intent. He was summoning the "Destroyers!"