University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
A THRILLING ADVENTURE.

Lost in the wilderness! Lost on the prairie! What
terrible associations are linked with these two phrases,
in the mind of him who has ever experienced their
heart-sickening reality! No situation, probably, in
which a human being can be placed, can more forcibly
bring home to him the enervating, overpowering sense
of human littleness and human helplessness—the
crushing, blasting sense of loneliness and desolation—
than being completely lost in the awful solitudes of
nature. He looks around him, as far as his strained
and aching sight can reach, and beholds solitude
stretching away and away, seemingly limitless; he
looks above him, and beholds the heavens spread with

cheerless grandeur over all; while excited fancy
places him in the immediate presence of the Great
Principle which wrought a world from chaos; and
standing there, a conscious atom of the Universe, his
sins, like culprits, rise up before him, and ready conscience
pronounces a severe judgment—a judgment
from which there is no appeal to human sympathy.
Time misspent—wrongs committed—all the errors of
a life passed in the whirl and turmoil of a human
vortex—now rise up for dispassionate review; and
his inner-self writes the sentence that expels him from
all that is pure and holy.

It was not my misfortune, in the present instance,
to experience all these sensations in the full poignancy
of despair—for I did not, for a moment, consider myself
lost beyond hope—but I felt enough to make me
wretched. That I should find my companions, either
soon or late, I did not doubt—for I had not as yet
advanced far enough into the wilderness to preclude
the possibility of a sudden return to the settlement I
had left in the morning, where I could procure another
horse and take a fresh start upon the broad trail; but
should I find them during the night that had now just
dropped its dark curtains around me? And if not,
what physical sufferings might result to myself! and
what prostrating, mental anguish to my dear friend!
who had already begun to cling to me, and put his
hope in me—as the mariner puts his trust in the bark
which bears him over the great deep—and to whom,
therefore, my absence would be a source of grief and

alarm, that would banish sleep from his debilitated
frame! And for myself, I was much fatigued with
my day's ride, foot-ramblings, and intense nervous
excitement, and felt the need of both food and rest.
With the exception of a single sea-biscuit, I had eaten
nothing since morning; and the keen, gnawing sense
of hunger, which I now experienced, brought additional
dejection to my oppressed spirits.

But it was folly to stand idle, or sit down and brood
over my misfortune; and so, collecting all my forces
with a will, both mental and physical, I determined to
find the camp, if it were possible to be found. Ascending
the highest knoll or ridge in my immediate vicinity,
I surveyed the landscape in every direction, as far as
my sight could penetrate in the star-light darkness—
but saw nothing to determine my course. I shouted
with the whole strength of my lungs—but only the
echo of my voice, the hooting of some owl, or the
dismal howl of a distant wolf, came back in answer.
I discharged my rifle—but my hearing remained
unrejoiced by another report; and reloading my
piece, I again set off, taking a more westerly course.

In a few minutes I came upon a small stream of
water, which I supposed to be the same that flowed
past our camp—but could not decide whether that
camp were above or below. Being undetermined, I
mounted another elevation, and away to the westward
discerned a light, which I believed to proceed from
the fire of a camp—but whether from the one I was
in search of or not, I could not say. At all events, it

was a welcome sight, for it showed the locality of
human beings; and with my eyes riveted upon it,
with as eager a gaze as ever miser bestowed upon his
gold, I made all haste over the intervening ground,
and reached it within a quarter of an hour after making
the discovery.

It proved to be the camp of a party of emigrants
and traders, united for the journey, on their way to
New Mexico. There were some twenty or thirty
wagons in all, which were arranged in a circular form,
in regular order, on the bank of a little creek, the side
next to the water being left open. Here, at different
fires, the several parties, or families, were having prepared
their evening meal—the women, some eight or
ten in number, being the principal cooks; while the
men were packing and unpacking, smoking, lounging,
and looking after their animals, which were picketed
within rifle range. As I drew near the camp, no one
seemed to take any notice of me; and before I had
addressed any one, my attention became arrested and
riveted upon an object, that for the time caused me to
forget where I was and what I sought.

In the full blaze of a bright fire, over which was
suspended a kettle, which she seemed to be watching,
stood a pale, delicate, but beautiful girl, of perhaps
sixteen or seventeen years, bare-foot, and clad in
coarse garments. The style of her dress was rather
Mexican than American, and consisted of a scarlet
petticoat, with a full, flowing sack, which covered her
bust and a portion of her arms, and fell half way below

the waist, around which it was secured by a blue belt
—thus giving her a somewhat fanciful and picturesque
appearance. The usual appendage of the head—the
long muffler, or rebozo—was wanting; and her long
raven ringlets fell in wanton profusion around her
pale face, neck and shoulders.

But it was the expression of that pale face which
riveted my gaze. The features were fine and beautiful,
seemingly intellectual, but melancholy to a degree.
They did not lack soul, but lacked the soul of happiness.
They seemed as if a blight had fallen upon the
young heart—as if a secret sorrow were nestled in the
soul. The eyes were large, dark, full and dreamy;
and beaming through long, drooping lashes, the expression
was very sweet and fascinating—the more
fascinating, perhaps, that its constant sadness seemed
to demand constant sympathy.

As I stood somewhat in the shade, and silently regarding
her, I could not but fancy that some fairy had
been expelled from her bright realm, and been doomed
for a season to wander over an unsympathizing, uncongenial
world. I felt a strange interest in her—an
interest for which I could not account. I had never
before experienced such peculiar sensations in the
presence of one of her sex. It was as if some unknown
superhuman force were drawing me to her, and compelling
the conviction that her destiny and mine were
in some unaccountable manner united. For a time I
was fascinated—spell-bound. What could it mean?

I aroused myself, with a start of surprise, and, without
a moment's reflection, advanced straight to her side.

“Fair being,” said I, “who are you?”

My voice broke her reverie—for until I spoke she
did not perceive me. She looked up suddenly, and
for a moment her soft, dark eyes timidly rested upon
mine. I felt a strange thrill pass through every nerve
and fibre of my system, and a strong impulse to rush
forward and clasp her in my arms. What did it all
mean? and what foolish thing might I have done,
had my magnetic infatuation continued without interruption!
But it was harshly interrupted.

“Who are you, stranger? and what do you want?”
demanded a gruff voice, that instantly transported me
from Paradise to Pandemonium.

I started, and my fairy shrank timidly away. I
looked around, and discovered that the voice proceeded
from a black-haired, swarthy, ill-favored, very earthly-looking
human being, who was reclining on the
ground near one of the wagons. He had a pipe in
his hand, from which, as he spoke, he knocked the
ashes; and gathering himself upon his feet, he came
swaggering forward to where I stood. His height
was about five feet ten inches, his frame bony, his features
cadaverous, his eye black and devilish, and his
age about forty-five years.

“Were you addressing yourself to me, sir?” I
inquired, in a subdued tone; while I felt certain that
a close examination would discover anything but

a pleasant mood in my flushed face and flashing
eyes.

“Yes,” he gruffly replied; “I was talking to you,
and to nobody else! I want to know who you are?
and what you want?”

“And I want to know what right you have to
make the inquiry?” returned I.

“I'll let you know, — soon, if you don't give me
a straight-forward, civil answer.”

“When you put your questions in that courteous
manner which is due from one gentleman to another,”
said I, “I will answer you civilly and correctly; but
if you think to bully me into a gentlemanly reply,
you have mistaken your man.”

“Well, I want no more words with you!” he rejoined,
biting his lip; “so take yourself off! Away
with you now!”

“I am not used to being ordered away like a dog,”
said I.

“Well, you had better get used to it then—for a
decent dog is worth two of you!”

“You are an insolent scoundrel!” said I.

“By —! no man tells me that and lives,” he
fairly shouted with rage; and as he spoke, he darted
to his wagon and seized his rifle.

Ere he could bring it to a level, my fairy, who had
been standing back, a witness of all that had taken
place, suddenly bounded forward, with a scream, and,
seizing his arms, exclaimed:

“Oh! don't shoot him, father! for God's sake, don't
shoot him!”

“Back, spawn of a hell-cat!” he cried, gnashing his
teeth with fury; and raising his hand, he dealt her a
blow on the side of the head which laid her prostrate
on the earth.

I could bear no more; I was beside myself with a
thousand wild fancies; my brain was in a whirl; I
thought of nothing but that I was in a country without
law, where my life had twice been sought; that
my angel protector had been struck down by a demon
in the human form; that it was his life or mine; and
bringing my piece to a level, I darted forward, and
discharged it within ten feet of his breast.

He fell. I saw him fall, and heard him groan. But
I stood as one paralyzed. What had I done? Had
I committed murder?

“Oh, sir! oh, sir! you have killed him!” broke in
the sweet, mournful voice of the being for whose life I
would have given mine; and seemingly unmindful of
the foul, brutal blow she had herself received, she
crawled to him, and bent over him—affectionately, I
fancied, she bent over the prostrate monster whom
she had called father, and whom my act had laid low,
perhaps in death.

I stood transfixed—my eyes riveted upon two objects—an
angel and a demon. There came a rush
of feet—a buzz of voices. Shadowy spectres seemed to
flit past the different firelights—to the right—to the
left—before, and behind. I was soon surrounded;

my strained sight no longer rested upon the angel
and the demon; other objects intervened; I felt rude
hands grasp me, and comprehended that I was being
hurried away.

All this, I think, occupied no more time than I
have in recording it; and I was finally aroused from
a kind of mental lethargy, by words uttered in a tone
of stern reproof and inquiry.

“Young man, you have probably killed one of our
party? Who are you? how came you here? and
what led you to shoot Gaspard Loyola?”

I looked up, and saw myself surrounded by some
ten or twelve strong, muscular, hardy, bronze-featured,
resolute men. The speaker was advanced in
years, and had iron-gray hair, and a commanding
appearance. To him I addressed my reply.

“Sir!” said I—“most deeply do I regret the sad
occurrence of which you speak; and half an hour
since, I should have regarded as insane the man who
had predicted that I was on the point of staining my
hands with the blood of a total stranger.”

I then proceeded to state who I was; whence I
came; the peculiar circumstances which had led me
to their camp; the cause of my quarrel with the person
they called Loyola; and how, while acting in self-defence,
I had been governed by a kind of insane
impulse.

“I think Mr. Rivers speaks the truth,” said one of
the party; “for you know this Loyola makes it a
point to quarrel with every one who crosses his path;

and I myself heard a portion of the conversation just
repeated, and saw the Spaniard run for his rifle, and
knock down the girl for interfering.”

“He deserves all he's got'!” said another, with an oath.

“We will examine the girl,” rejoined the first speaker,
“and if she corroborates the statement of the
young man, we must acquit him.”

Leaving some three or four of the party with me,
as a kind of guard, he then walked away with the
others, to where the wounded man was lying.

“I feel faint,” said I, to those remaining with me;
“I have scarcely tasted food since morning: will you
permit me to sit upon the ground?”

“Come with me,” returned one, “and I will give
you food.”

He led the way to a wagon, on the opposite side
of the camp, where his supper—which he was in the
act of devouring, when interrupted by the general
alarm—was still spread out on the end-board—the
latter being turned down and supported horizontally,
to serve as a table. The repast before me consisted
of hot coffee, with sugar—a great luxury in the
wilderness—a freshly baked corn-cake, and several
smoking slices of meat, with salt. He got another
cup and poured it full of coffee—first asking me if I
would take some whiskey, which I declined.

“Eat, young man,” he said, in a kindly tone; “you
are welcome.”

I did not feel the same keen appetite as when
wandering over the rolling prairie; but being very

faint, I considered it essential to take food to sustain
nature. Accordingly, I drank off half the coffee at
once, and then ate a few mouthfuls of the corn-cake
and meat—which, owing to the weak and nervous
state of my system, I swallowed with difficulty, and
with a sensation of nausea.

While thus engaged, the wife of my kind and hospitable
entertainer, who gave me his name as Phillips,
came running up and exclaimed:

“William, they think he'll die, though he is still
alive.”

I staggered at the words; for till now, knowing
Loyola to be alive, I had some hope that his wound
would not prove mortal; and had Phillips not caught
me, I should have fallen to the ground.

“Hush, Martha!” he said to his wife; “have you
no regard for the young man's feelings?”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” returned the woman,
addressing me in a kindly tone. “I did not think before
I spoke. But nobody seems to blame you: they
say you did it in self-defence.”

“God forbid the man should die!” groaned, I, sinking
down upon a box, in great distress of mind.

Mr. Phillips, and the men who were with him, used
such words as they could to console me; but I had a
terrible consciousness, that, should the man die, I
should never know peace of mind again. While they
were yet talking to me, the venerable head of the
party—for such he was by election—returned and
said:

“Mr. Rivers, you stand honorably acquitted of
crime. The testimony of Adele corroborates yours;
you acted in self-defence; and though I think you
might, by prudence, have avoided the tragic quarrel, I
take pleasure in adding, that I am empowered, by
the verdict of twelve of our party, to discharge you
from custody.”

“Will the man die?” inquired I.

“The wound, which is in the right breast, is thought
to be mortal.”

“Then God arrests me, and takes the case to the
High Court of Eternity!” I groaned, feeling most
deeply the pangs of remorse and despair.