Chapter FIFTY NINE: The Assault (4)

We all three rushed down to the water--whence the voice appeared to come. Under the drooping willows, where the current had undermined the bank, we perceived an object in motion. A fearful object it was to look upon: it was the encrimsoned skull of our scalped comrade! His body was submerged below the surface. His head alone was visible--a horrid sight! The three of us leaped at once into the stream; and, raising the poor fellow in our arms, lifted him out on the bank. It was as he had alleged. One of his legs was broken below the knee; and other frightful wounds appeared in different parts of his body. No wonder the Indians had believed him dead, when they stripped off that terrible trophy!

Notwithstanding the ill usage he had received, there was still hope. His wounds, though ugly to the eye, were none of them mortal. With care, he might recover; and, taking him up as tenderly as possible, we conveyed him back to the butte. The Arapahoes had left their _impedimenta_ behind them--blankets and robes at discretion. With these, a soft couch was prepared under the shade of the waggon body, and the wounded man placed upon it. Such rude dressing, as we were able to give, was at once administered to his wounds; and we found new joy in the anticipation of his recovery. His disappearance--from the spot where he had been left for dead--was explained. He had "played 'possum," as he himself expressed it. Though roughly handled, and actually senseless for a time, he had still clung to life. He knew that the Indians believed him dead--else why should they have scalped him? With a faint hope of being left upon the field, he had lain still, without stirring hand or foot; and the savages, otherwise occupied, had not noticed him after taking his scalp. By some accident, his hands had got over his face; and, perceiving that these screened his countenance from observation, he had permitted them to remain so. With half-opened eyes, he could see between his fingers, and note many of the movements that were passing upon the plain in front of him--all this without the Indians having the slightest suspicion that he lived!

It was a terrible time for him--an ordeal equal to that endured by Sure-shot and myself. Every now and then some half drunken savage would come staggering past; and he knew not how soon some one of these strollers might stick a spear into him, out of mere wantonness! On the arrival of night, his hopes had revived; and the cool air had also the effect of partially restoring his strength. The savages, carousing around their fires, took no notice of him; and, as soon as darkness was fairly down, he had commenced crawling off in the direction of the river. He had a double object in going thither. He was suffering from horrid thirst; and he hoped there to find relief, as well as a hiding-place. After crawling for more than an hour, he had succeeded in reaching the bank; and, taking to the water, he had waded down, and concealed himself under the willows--in the place where we had found him. Such was the adventure of the _ci-devant_ soldier, Patrick O'Tigg--an escape almost miraculous!

As if fulfilling the laws of dramatic justice--that the farce should succeed the tragedy--our attention was at this moment called to a ludicrous incident. The Mexican trapper had ridden up, and halted beside the waggon; when all at once his eyes became fixed upon an object that lay near at hand upon the grass. It was the black silk hat of the ex-rifleman, already mentioned in our narrative. After gazing at it for a moment, the Mexican slid down from his horse; and, hobbling towards the hat, took it up. Then uttering a fierce "_Carajo_," he dashed the "tile" back to the ground, and commenced stamping upon it, as if it had been some venomous serpent he desired to annihilate!

"Hilloo! theer, _hombre_!" shouted Sure-shot. "What the ole scratch air ye abeout? Why, ye yeller-bellied fool, thet's my _hat_ yeer stompin' on!"

"_Your_ hat!" echoed the trapper in a contemptuous tone. "_Carrambo, senor_! you should be ashamed of yourself. Any man who would wear a silk hat! Wagh!"

"An' why ain't a silk hat as good's any other?"

"_Maldito sea_!" continued the trapper, taking the wooden leg from his waist, and hammering the hat with it against a stone--"_maldito sombrero_! but for that accursed invention, we poor trappers wouldn't be as we are now. _Carrambo_! it's fetched beaver down to a plew a plug; while only ten years ago, we could get six _pesos_ the skin! Only think of that! _Carrai-i-i_!" Pronouncing this last exclamation with bitter aspirate, the incensed trapper gave the unfortunate hat one more blow with his timber leg; and then, spurning the battered tile from his toe, hobbled back to his horse! Sure-shot was disposed to be angry, but a word set all right. I perfectly comprehended the nature of the trapper's antipathy to silk hats, and explained it to my comrade. In their eyes, the absurd head-gear is more hideous than even to those who are condemned to wear it--for the trappers well know, that the introduction of the silk hat has been the ruin of their peculiar calling.

"'Twan't much o' a hat, after all," said Sure-shot, reconciled by the explanation. "It b'longed to the sutler at the Fort: for yee see, capting, as we left theere for a leetle bit o' a hurry, I couldn't lay my claws on my own ole forage-cap; so I took the hat in its place? an' thet's how I kim by the thing. But heer's a hat perhaps, mister, this heer'll pleeze ye better? Will it, eh?"

As Sure-shot put the question, he took up the plumed bonnet of an Arapaho warrior--which had been left lying among the rocks--and, adjusting the gaudy circlet upon his head, strode backward and forward over the ground with all the swelling majesty of an Indian dandy! The odd-looking individual and his actions caused the laughter of the bystanders to break forth in loud peals. The Mexican fairly screamed, interlarding his cachinnations with loud "santissimas," and other Spanish exclamations; while even the wounded man under the waggon was unable to restrain himself at the mirth-provoking spectacle.

CHAPTER EIGHTY.

SPIRITUAL WIVES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

THE DEATH-SONG.

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

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

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

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

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

"What girl?"

"The Chicasaw--Su-wa-nee."

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

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

"About what?" I asked.

"Well--Su-wa-nee says that the carryvan's broke up into two."

"Ha!"

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

"There's not much news in that. We had anticipated something of the kind?"

"But thar's worse, capt'n."

"Worse!--what is it, Wingrove?" I put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety.

"Holt's gone wi' the Mormons."

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

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

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

"The worst that kud happen, I reck'n--_she's dead_."

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

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

"What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?"

"Why, sartin, capt'n. Who else shed it be?"

"Marian dead?"

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

"Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?"

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

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

"Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied--belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive the girl's father--the Indian to do the same with you. The story is false, Marian Holt is _not_ dead."

"Marian ain't dead?"

"No, she lives--she has been true to you. Listen."

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO.

MARANEE.

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

"Behold!" I said. "Yonder is Marian--your own Marian!"

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

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

"Jest as you like, capt'n. P'raps it mout be the better way."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah! is the scalped man living?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You, and you only."

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

"The wounds I speak of are not in the body."

"Where, then?"

"In the heart."

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

"It is an arrow."

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

"Not impossible for you. You can extract the arrow--you can save him!"

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

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

"A resemblance?"

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

"I remind you of some one, then?"

"Ay--truly."

"Some one who has been dear to you?"

"Has been, and _is_."

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

"One dear also to you--_your sister_!"

"My sister!"

"Lilian."

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

OLD MEMORIES AWAKENED.

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

"My sister Lilian?"

"Yes, Marian Holt--your sister."

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

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

"And she--has she returned your love?"

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

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

"I have come direct from it."

"From the Obion? perhaps from--"

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

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

"I have."

"And spoken with her? How long ago?"

"Scarcely a month."

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

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

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

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

"Almost a woman."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Name him!"

"Frank Wingrove."

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

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

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

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

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

"Say rather with bewailing."

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

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

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

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

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

"All that you saw, I admit, but--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.

PLAYING CONFESSOR.

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

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

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

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

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

"For what reason did he so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did."

A deep-drawn sigh followed the confession.

"Once more speak the truth--you _love him still_?"

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

"If true, you could love him still?"

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

FURTHER REFLECTIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX.

A TRUE TIGRESS.

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

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

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

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

"I declar', Marian--"

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

"I swar' Marian, by the livin'--"