 | CHAPTER XI.
STARTLING NEWS. The border rover |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
STARTLING NEWS.
The breeze was blowing softly from the south, a
few fleecy clouds were floating through the blue of
heaven, and the bright, genial sun was some three
hours advanced on his western decline, when we
reached that little Paradise of the West known as
Council Grove. On our journey hither, I had seen
many beautiful places and scenes—but none to equal
this. A grove of stately trees, their trunks standing
like huge columns to support the green Gothic canopy
above, formed a broad belt to the right and left of a
clear running stream, which purled through a gently
sloping valley, whose emerald hue was variegated
with thousands of bright flowers. All the sylvan
charms of the temperate zone were here in lavish profusion.
Giant trees of oak, beech, hickory, elm, ash,
maple and walnut, here seemed vieing for superiority,
yet with harmonious rivalry, and locking their huge
arms in fraternal embrace. Bees hummed their
drowsy songs, as they flew from one bright flower to
another—sometimes seeming to dispute possession with
gay-colored butterflies—while thousands of grass-hoppers
went bounding from blade to blade, and the
innocent cricket chirped his music beneath them all
Above us, sleek, bright-eyed squirrels went leaping
boldness in their every movement; and while hundreds
of showy-plumed aerial voyagers fluttered
among the green leaves, the well-known mocking-bird,
cat-bird, and blue-jay, made the air vocal with
their melodies.
“Roland,” exclaimed Varney, as we rode under the
green arches, “is this the Garden of Eden?”
“The Garden of Eden could scarcely have been
more beautiful and enchanting,” I replied.
“This hyer's one of the spots!” observed One-Eyed
Sam; “and this hyer old nigger says it, as has
seed some punks in his time. Augh! But we've
been a long time gitting here,” he added, with some
hesitation; “and though I hate to tell you so, Wolfy's
got opinionated that we'd best quit to this hyer.”
“Indeed!” returned I, in a tone of surprise; “and
do you wish to be released from your bargain?”
“Wait till we camp,” was the reply, “and then I'll
tell you some'at.”
We pitched our camp in one of the shadiest nooks
of this sylvan retreat; and then, for the first time, I
discovered we were not the only human tenants of
the grove. On the opposite side of the stream, some
distance below us, was a small moving village of
Peorias; and near it, the camp of a party of white
traders from Missouri. I pointed them out to Botter,
who said, in reply:
“Sartin, Freshwater—I knowed thar'd be white
and red humans hyer, so as you could take your pick,
this hyer's a grand stamping ground to all the friendly
red niggers, and them as wants to trade with 'em;
and I've seed 'em here as thick as fleas to a dog's
back—ef I haven't, chaw me! Augh!”
“Then you are really in earnest about separating
from us?” inquired I.
“Why, hoss, I don't like it, and I'd like to take
you considerable; but Shadbones keeps us back like
a sick muley, and Wolfy growls like the d—l, and so
what's a old one-eyed nigger to do except to gin in?”
“Well,” said I, “I don't know as I can blame you;
for when we made our bargain with you, I supposed, of
course, we should be able to travel much faster than
we have done between here and Independence.”
“Yes,” returned Botter; “and don't forgit we've
had jam up weather, and been tramping through a
peaceable country; but now we're agwine to leave all
them thar behind; and what 'ud Shadbones do with
his tent tore up into lariats, all heaven kiming down
to water, and a hundred screeching devils arter his
top-knot? You kin gamble high on to it, Freshwater,
that ef he don't jine some big party with wagons, he'll
never take his ha'r to Bent's.”
“But can we find such a party going directly to
Bent's.”
“Expect—leastways, thar's al'ays some as is gwine
out about this time.”
“Very well, I will have a talk with my friend, and
see what can be done.”
This conversation occurred while Botter and myself
were unsaddling and unpacking our animals; and as
soon as I had hoppled and picketed ours, I informed
Varney what had passed between us.
“Well, Roland, he is right,” he said, in a low, sad
tone. “I have myself been thinking I might never
get through on horseback, and Stericks' impatience
and surliness is a great source of annoyance. We
will pay them for their time, and let them go; and if
I can find no means for getting on, I can die here.
It is at least a consolation to think my body will take
its last rest in the most beautiful spot I have ever
seen.”
“Come! come!” returned I; “do not talk of dying
here, or elsewhere! During the last three or four
days, your health has improved, and you only need
good spirits to make you still better. Let us take a
walk through this grove, and visit our neighbors.”
“Have you given up all thoughts of overtaking
Adele?” inquired Varney, as, arm-in-arm, we sauntered
down the flowery bank of the limpid stream.
“I should, if I have not—for doubtless the traders
are fifty miles ahead of us.”
“And are you contented to let her go?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because it is my duty to study your pleasure and
happiness, as well as you mine; and as we cannot
longer travel together in the company of the trappers,
perhaps you had better leave me here and go on with
them yourself.”
“Leave you here—alone?”
“No, not alone. I think I can make friends with
my countrymen here—or at least with the Indians;
and in their camp, and under their protection, I can
remain till I find an opportunity of prosecuting my
journey with a large company of wagoners. I am delighted
with the place—I feel the need of rest—and
so I think I shall pass a few days very agreeably
here.”
“And for what purpose shall I go forward?”
mused I.
“That you best know yourself, Roland?”
“True, I did promise Adele I would see her again
soon; and, I frankly admit, it would give me pleasure
to keep my word; but that pleasure would be heightened
to have you in my company.”
“But you see that cannot be, Roland. I can only
travel a few miles a day on horseback, under the most
favorable circumstances; and the most favorable
circumstances, so far, we have had. What would
become of me, should I see the reality of the picture
which Botter has drawn? And, moreover, you could
go on to Bent's Fort, and there await me; and there,
you know, we were to separate, according to your
original plan of returning home in the fall; so that the
parting must come soon or late, and the only difference
between now and then is time.”
“You grow philosophical,” said I, “and seem anxious
to get rid of me.”
“Roland Rivers!” exclaimed Varney, stopping suddenly,
that touched my heart—“what have I ever done to
deserve such words from you?” and his voice trembled,
and his dark eyes filled with tears.
“Forgive me, my friend!” said I, grasping his thin
hand. “I was hasty; I did not think before I spoke;
but I was surprised to hear you speak so coolly of
separation, when all along I had been led to suppose
it would be painful to you as well as myself.”
“If you could look into my heart this minute,
Roland, and behold the anguish it has cost me to
make this proposition, you would not reproach me
with making it coolly, and without pain.”
“Why then have you made it at this time of all
others?”
“Roland, I have watched you closely for the last
few days, and have thus been made aware how much
your mind dwells upon that poor girl. Ah! you
start—you are surprised; but you must know that,
to me, the face of a friend is a glass, in which I see
the heart mirrored; and to read your heart, in so
good a glass as your face, were an easy task, even to
a novice. I know you have sought to conceal from
me the fact of your mind being occupied with what
you fancied would give me pain to learn—but which
I have learned, nevertheless—and had it not been
that I indulged the hope of being able to make such
progress as would accomplish your desire, I should
have spoken to you on the subject ere this. Thus
you perceive why I have chosen the present time, of
rendered certain that I cannot go forward with the
rapidity required—and I would not have you disappointed
for the world.”
“But, Varney, much as I would like to see Adele,
and learn the fate of Loyola, I cannot bear to think
of leaving you here—it seems like deserting a friend.”
“It is not so in truth,” replied Varney; “though I
shall be selfish enough to exact a promise, that you
will either return on the trail and meet me, or go forward
to Bent's and await my arrival—for not to behold
you again, would render me miserable indeed.”
“But can you find a safe conveyance to the fort, do
you think?”
“We will inquire; and here we are at the traders'
camp. How shall we cross the stream? I would avoid
wetting my feet.”
“Let me show you;” and lifting him in my arms,
as if he had been a child, I quickly landed him on the
opposite bank—for the stream was neither wide nor
deep.
We here found a few traders from Missouri, and a
small village of Peorias—the “big village,” as it was
termed, being out on the plains. The Indians here
were not painted, and really appeared quite civilized
—many of them being clothed in garments purchased
from the whites, and several of them being able to
converse in the English language with ease and
fluency. The males, some of them, were fine, athletic-looking
fellows; and a few of the women had interesting
handsome, features. There were about thirty in all—
men, women, and children; and though most of them
were rather flashily ornamented with gold and silver
rings, brooches, red scarfs, red blankets, beads, wampum,
and so forth, I saw not one of decidedly repulsive
appearance Their tents were pitched in a
semi-circle, fronting on the stream, and looked comfortable
and tidy; and their cattle were grazing in the
vicinity, tended by half-grown boys.
The traders, about a dozen in number, were
awaiting customers from the plains—Council Grove
being the grand rendezvous of all the friendly tribes.
They dealt in guns, knives, pistols, trinkets, gew-gaws,
cloths, blankets, powder, lead, whiskey, tobacco, sugar,
coffee, and so on; and bartered their commodities for
furs, skins, horses, cattle, and such articles of Indian
manufacture as would find ready market in the
States. Their wagons were so disposed as to form a
hollow square; and they displayed their articles in a
long, temporary booth, each trader having his allotted
place or stall. At present they were doing no business;
and while three or four were lounging about,
smoking their pipes, and talking over their affairs, the
others were playing cards and pitching quoits.
To our inquiries concerning a party for Bent's Fort,
we were answered, that it was supposed a small train
of wagons would be shortly going out, but at what
precise time no one could say. Varney asked for the
privilege of being allowed to pitch his tent in their
so; and further, that he could mess with them, by
paying his share of the expense—a proposition which
he accepted with pleasure.
“You seem determined to so arrange your affairs
that I shall have no excuse for remaining with you,”
I observed to him.
“I know enough of the human heart, to be almost
certain that you will not rest contented till you have
redeemed your promise to Adele,” he replied.
“Well,” I rejoined “I will talk with Botter before
I decide—though I have no great inclination
to travel further with his surly companion.”
We were just on the point of leaving the traders'
camp, and recrossing the stream to our own, when
we heard the tramp of horses' feet; and immediately
after, four men, in the usual hunting costume of
the West, rode up to the wagons and dismounted—
their fine, noble animals, covered with sweat and dust,
fairly drooping their heads with fatigue, showing that
they had been ridden fast and far. The riders themselves,
all comparatively young men, and fine, athletic
fellows, looked weary and anxious—so that it was
evident, from a single glance, that something had
gone wrong.
“You're back soon, Mr. Sutton,” said one of the
traders, addressing one of the new-comers—a tall,
handsomely-formed individual, with black hair, eyes,
and beard, and whose age could not be far from
thirty. “Anything the matter?”
“Yes!” replied Mr. Sutton, in a positive tone, with
compressed lips; “the Indians are out in great
numbers, and several whites have been killed. You
perceive that two of our own party are missing!”
Instantly the parties playing cards and pitching
quoits, left their games, and gathered around the
speaker and his companions, to hear the news.
Varney and myself also hurried up to the group.
“Let's hear all about it!” said the one who first
addressed Sutton.
“The story is soon told,” pursued Sutton. “We
were out on the plains, having some rare sport with
the buffaloes, in the vicinity of the Plum Buttes, when
we were suddenly set upon by a large party of Arrapahoes.
As our numbers were too few to cope
with them, we fled, in a southeast direction, aiming
to strike the Santa Fe trail. The Indians followed us
for a few miles, and then apparently gave up the pursuit.
As it was near night, we selected a pleasant
spot, and camped, keeping a sharp look-out till daylight,
when we were astonished to perceive the same
party not more than a mile distant. They had probably
been searching for us through the night, for
they immediately bore down toward us, and we made
a narrow escape, having barely time to saddle and
mount our beasts before they were upon our camp.
We left our tents, blankets, and camp utensils, which
they stopped to seize and divide, and this diversion
in our favor probably saved our lives. Determined
this time to put a safe distance between them and us,
reached Turkey Creek, where we found a company
of Santa Fe traders encamped on the western bank of
the stream. We joined them, and told them our
story. Some looked grave; but a few of the young
men received the intelligence lightly enough, and
seemed to think we had been unnecessarily scared.
They said if we had stood our ground, doubtless the
Indians would have fled, as they do not like to face
the unerring rifles of the whites.”
“That's a fact,” said the Missourian; “you see you
haint got seasoned out here yet!”
“Suppose you reserve your opinion, sir, till you
hear my story through!” rejoined Sutton, a little testily.
“When I have finished, you will be better able
to judge whether the Indians proved themselves arrant
cowards or not.”
“Oh, sartin,” returned the other, a little crestfallen.
“Go ahead!”
“I do not think,” proceeded Sutton, with a touch
of irony, “I am more cowardly than people in general;
but as my companions and myself came out here
for a pleasure hunt, we were not in a proper condition
to see the propriety of recklessly throwing our lives
away, when caution and prudence could save them.
Well, as I have said, some of the younger members
of the party in question, made rather light of our
story, and none seemed to be apprehensive of their
camp being attacked, though they took the precaution
to post sentinels. But it was attacked, nevertheless—probably
who fought like devils. We did not fly this
time, sir! but made as good a defence as we could.
Several of the Indians were killed; but, alas! that I
must add, several of the whites also, among whom
were two of our comrades. After a desperate fight of
more than an hour, our enemies retreated, bearing
away their dead, driving away several of the animals,
and taking with them two female prisoners.”
“Shocking!” exclaimed several voices.
“Was there a wounded man in that camp when
you joined it?” inquired I, eagerly.
“There was, sir—a Mexican, or Spaniard, I believe
—but he was killed at the first onset, and his daughter
was one of the two taken prisoners.”
“Good God! Adele a prisoner!” exclaimed I, in a
tone that drew the attention of the whole group upon
me.
“Yes,” said Sutton, “that was the name—I remember
hearing it mentioned with commiseration after the
fight was over.”
“When did this occur?”
“Last night.”
“You don't say you've come from Turkey Creek
since last night?” said one of the traders, in a tone of
surprise.
“Yes, since daylight this morning.”
“Then you've eyther killed your hosses—or, dern
me, they're some punks!” cried another.
“They are the true mettle, or we should never
“But they need rest and food now; and as we are
almost worn out with our long ride, I will stand treat
for the whole, if any of you will unharness and
hopple them.”
Three or four of the party instantly took charge of
the weary animals, and I inquired the distance to
Turkey Creek.
“Wall, stranger, it's seventy mile, or tharabouts,”
was the answer; “leastways, we put it down for two
jam-up days' journey.”
“Will you permit me a few minutes' private conversation
with you?” I said, addressing one of
Sutton's companions—a light-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking
young man, of perhaps twenty-five years of
age.
“Certainly,” he replied, in a courteous tone; and we
immediately withdrew from the crowd.
“As I know several of the company which was
attacked,” I began, “and take a deep interest in the
fate of the poor girl—who, as your companion says,
was taken prisoner—I shall be much obliged to you
for some particulars of the tragic affair. Are you
sure the girl was not killed?”
“I am not sure,” he answered; “but after the fight,
it was discovered that she and another female were
missing, and it is supposed that the Indians took
them away alive.”
“Are you sure that her father was killed?”
“If you mean the wounded man, I am sure, for I
saw him dead.”
“Do you happen to know if his wound was considered
dangerous at the time of the attack?”
“No, sir! of that I know nothing.”
“And how many of the whites were killed?”
“Seven in all, including two of our party—but
several others were wounded.”
“Was there any talk of following the Indians, in
order to rescue the captives?”
“I heard one or two suggestions of that kind—but
others said it would be the height of rashness and
folly—so I think none will make the attempt.”
“And what will the Indians do with these female
prisoners?”
“Make wives and slaves of them, I suppose.”
“Great Heaven!” cried I—“that must not be! they
must be rescued!”
“More easily said than done, my dear sir!” replied
the other. “These Indians are said to be among the
most formidable of the Western tribes; and it would
be sheer fool-hardiness to attack them in their own
country, without having a large force of experienced
Indian fighters.”
“But might these females not be rescued by stealth
or stratagem?”
“I cannot say, sir! but I think such things seldom
happen except in novels.”
“Is it your intention to return to the prairies?”
“No, sir! it is my intention to return to the States,
a pleasure hunt, and we have had enough of it. Two
of our friends take their last sleep on the banks of
Turkey Creek, and the rest of us are going home,
sadder and wiser than when we came hither.”
“It is curious,” observed Varney, reflectively—
“you return to the States to prolong your life, and I
seek the wilderness for the same object.”
“You go to regain your health?” inquired the
other.
“I do.”
“Well, you may do that, and lose your scalp. As
for me, I think I should rather die among my friends,
in a civilized country, than live out here in constant
dread and terror.”
After some further conversation, we returned to
our own camp.
“Well,” inquired Varney, “what now, Roland?”
“That girl must be rescued, Alfred!”
“But how?”
“I do not know—I must have a talk with Botter.”
“But surely, Roland, you will not be so venturesome
as to set off in quest of her?”
“And must she remain among them forever, poor
girl?”
“It is a hard fate,” sighed Varney, “and I appreciate
your humane and noble feelings; but if you
attempt to rescue her, you will only lose your own
life, and she remain a prisoner still.”
“I might, and I might not—God only knows.”
“You are resolved on the venture then, Roland?”
“I will first consult Botter, and take his advice;
and, apropos, here he is.”
“Pray Heaven he discourage him!” said Varney,
in a tone not intended for my ear—though I heard
the words, and the deep sigh which followed.
| CHAPTER XI.
STARTLING NEWS. The border rover | |