University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PARTING AT BENT'S.

Bent's Fort stands on the left bank of the Arkansas,
near the stream, which here flows over a pebbly bottom,
and is easily forded, the water seldom being
over two feet in depth. The fort itself, is a large,
square building, constructed of the Mexican adobes,
or sun-dried bricks. It is flanked by circular bastions,
loop-holed for musketry, and is entered through a
large gate, which opens upon a corral or yard.
Fronting upon this inner court, are the dwellings,
rooms, shops, offices, stables, etc., of the different
occupants of the station.

Great is the variety of character to be found in one
of these western fortresses; for in this respect they
are much alike—from the Yellow Stone to the Gila—
from the Missouri to the Columbia. Being the trading
posts of whites and Indians, they often present a curious
mixture of races. Here, in a group of twenty, you
will not unfrequently find an American, an Englishman,
a German, a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a Mexican,
an African, and Indians from different tribes; and of
these whites—unless Government troops, with perhaps
an occasional traveler—nine-tenths will be traders,
trappers, hunters, teamsters and guides—always excepting,
of course, the parties of emigrants halting on
their way to and from more distant regions.

Many of these whites, too, these mountaineers, are
but little removed from savages—having been all
their lives in the wilderness, away from the refinements
of civilized society—and, as a natural consequence,
if they marry at all, they generally find them
Indian wives; and if they settle, select some well
known trading post, and pass the remainder of their
days afar from their native soil and beyond the reach
of law. I saw numbers here who had Indian wives,
and appeared to be contented and happy—many of
their children being bright, active, and beautiful in
form and feature.

On arriving at this station, I immediately made the
best provision I could for poor Varney. During the
last few days of our journey, he had regained a little
strength, so that he could walk a short distance, and

sit up for an hour or two at a time; but no one who
saw him, believed he would live to reach the mountains,
which were still many leagues distant. He met
kindness and sympathy from every quarter, and I had
no difficulty in procuring him the best accommodations
which the station afforded; and I also secured
him a faithful attendant, in the person of a half-breed,
who promised not to leave him till his health should
be restored or death should end the scene. My
reasons for this course of proceeding, together with
some matters of interest to the reader, and the disposition
I was about to make of myself, will be gathered
from the following conversation, which took place
between Varney and myself about a week after our
arrival at the fort.

The room assigned to Varney was small, but
comfortable. It contained a good bed, a deal table,
a couple of chairs, and had chintz curtains to its
single window, which, together with the door, looked
out upon the corral. These little things, trifling in
themselves, gave the apartment a cheerful appearance;
and this, I think, is seldom without its effect upon
the occupant, especially if he is suffering from a
disease which at times causes him great depression of
spirits. It was not without its effect, I am certain,
upon my friend, who seemed to brighten a little
every-day, and gradually regain the hope he had recently
lost. It was to this room I repaired one night,
about nine o'clock. I found Varney in bed, expecting
me, with a lamp burning upon the table. I drew up

a chair to his side, sat down, and took his thin hand
in mine; but it was perhaps a minute ere either of us
broke the solemn silence.

“So,” he said at length, with a deep sigh, and in
a tremulous tone—“the hour I have so long dreaded
has come at last—the hour in which we must part,
perhaps to meet no more on earth!”

“Let us hope otherwise, my dear friend—let us
hope otherwise!” said I; “we should never despair
of the possible!”

“No, Roland, I will not wholly despair; and
though this separation is painful to me, I will try
and bear it like a man—trusting in God—for I think
it is for the best.”

“Ah! my dear friend, it gives me joy to hear you
speak thus,” said I; “for I have all along been
afraid you would not be able to take leave of me with
anything like composure.”

“Nor should I now, Roland, had I not in a great
measure prepared myself for the trial; and did not
my comparatively comfortable situation here—even
here, in the wilderness—render me better able to
bear the parting than at any time since our first
meeting.”

“And I can the better leave you,” said I, “that I
feel assured you will be well cared for, and receive
every attention and kindness which your situation demands.
All I have spoken with here, deeply sympathize
with you, and there seems to be one universal
wish for your recovery. Besides, your attendant,

Panto, the half-breed—recommended to me by Bent
himself, as kind and faithful—has already formed a
strong attachment to you—and, if you go to the
mountains, will go with you. As a hunter and guide
he has few superiors. He knows the ground—is
well acquainted with Indian wiles and stratagems—is
companionable and prudent—and can serve you better
than I could.”

“But can never take your place in my heart, for
all that,” sighed Varney. “However, it is well; and
with the exception of losing you, I know not that it
could be better arranged. Two weeks ago I had no
hope of reaching the mountains; I was looking for
death; but now I am so much improved, that I trust
a couple of weeks more will again see me on my way;
so let me thank God for the blessings I have, and look on
the bright, rather than on the dark, side of the picture.”

“And it is possible, ere two weeks expire, I may
rejoin you,” I replied.

“If I could only be assured of that, I should be
happy; but you will not return in two weeks, Roland;
though I pray God you may some time return, and
find your journey has not been made in vain! All is
arranged, I suppose, for your departure?”

“Yes—we leave to-morrow at the break of day;
and, thanks to the noble Spaniard, we have a strong
party of experienced men, all well armed and well
mounted.”

“How many do you number?

“Fourteen in all, including the negro, and two
Indians who will act as guides and interpreters.”

“And where do you expect to find this Arrapahoe
village?”

“That we cannot say, as this is the season when
they are continually on the move. Two weeks ago,
I understand, the grand village was within fifty miles
of here—now it may be two hundred distant—we
must search for it.”

“And you are not sure the girl is their prisoner
after all?”

“Alas! no—would I knew even that!”

“You are still resolved, I suppose, to try mild measures
first?”

“Yes, we shall take three mules, loaded with such
articles as Indians prize; and if we find the girl and
her companion, we shall endeavour to purchase them;
but if we fail to get possession of them peaceably, let
their captors beware of blows!”

“But fourteen is a small number to attack a strong,
warlike tribe!”

“What we lack in numbers we must make up in
valor. But I do not apprehend we shall come to
strife; for Indians, everywhere, hold their female
prisoners at some price, and we are prepared to pay
even a high ransom.”

“And does this noble Spaniard bear all the expense
of the expedition?”

“Nearly so. He would have taken the whole expense
upon himself; but I insisted on fitting out Botter,

and paying him; and nothing but want of means
prevented my claiming the right to pay at least half
of all the rest. As it is, I am forced to content myself
with the intention of reimbursing him after my
return to the States—though he has positively declared
he will never accept a single coin from me for
such a purpose. We shall see.”

“What a noble, generous soul!”

“He is indeed, Alfred—a man among a million.”

“And you are well mated, Roland.”

Thank you for the compliment.”

“Rather thank God for the fact, my friend,” said
Varney, earnestly. “How soldom it is,” he continued,
reflectively, “that we find a human being who acts
for the good of others, without some motive of self
being at the bottom.”

“There may be none entirely devoid of self,” I
rejoined; “but there are a few who, when compared
with the many, appear so—the distinction between
them and the generality of mankind is so marked—
the difference so great. But a word of yourself. You
have improved so much during the last few days, that
I trust, as you say, a couple of weeks will see you
able to resume your journey; but I would advise you
not to set out till you feel strong enough to ride at
least twenty miles a day; and at that rate you will
soon reach La Puebla de San Carlos, whence you can
gain the mountain heights, in the vicinity of Pike's
Peak, with very little difficulty. I suppose, if you

live, it is your design to spend the winter in this
quarter?”

“Yes, my friend, such is my hope.”

“Well, if I come back from this expedition, it
shall be my care to visit you ere I return to the
States.”

“Say you so!” cried Varney, eagerly. “Oh! the
very idea gives me joy! Oh! Roland, if I could have
you with me, and regain my health, I should be the
happiest mortal living! What a delightful time we
could have in hunting along the valleys of the mountain
streams—where, I am told, game of all kinds can
be found in abundance, from the buffalo to the coyote
—including deer, elk, antelope, bears, wolves, and
mountain goats. But the dream—and it is a dream
—is too bright for a reality. It is your intention to
return in the fall, and I would not persuade you to
remain longer away from those who love you, and
have the first claim upon you. But you will see me
again—promise me that!”

“Providence permitting, I certainly will, Alfred;
and though I will make no promise of remaining with
you for any length of time, yet we will talk over the
past, and speculate on the future; and perhaps your
bright dream, as you term it, may not prove all a
dream. Take care of yourself, my dear friend—be
ever cautious and never rash—and always remember
your life is valuable to more than yourself.”

“It is sweet to think so!” said Varney, grasping

my hand, while tears filled his eyes; “it is sweet to
think that when we die we shall be mourned!”

“And you would be sadly mourned, by two at least,
Alfred—by him who now stands beside you, and by
her who is far away.”

“I believe it, Roland—God bless you both—I
believe it!” returned Varney, so stirred with emotion
that he could scarcely articulate the words “And
pray take the advice you have given me, to yourself,
my dear friend! for you will not perish unwept; and
you—pardon me, Roland! you are more rash than I
—and you are about to start on a perilous expedition.
I sincerely pray you may be successful; for aside
from an earnest desire that these poor prisoners may
be reclaimed, I know success would render you happy,
and your happiness lies at my heart.”

We conversed a few minutes longer; and then,
with a melancholy depression of spirits—for it was
very uncertain if we should ever meet again—I said,
in an unsteady tone:

“And now, Alfred, it only remains for me to bid
you farewell.”

“Must we then part?” cried Varney, with a flood
of tears.

“It is even so,” said I, with dim eyes and quivering
lips. “It is getting late—I have some matters to
arrange before I sleep—and I shall leave too early to
see you in the morning. Let us hope all may turn
out as we could wish; and we must remember, that
the same Power which has preserved us during our

perils, is around us still; and that we cannot perish,
except it be by the will of Him who gave us life.
Trust in God, my dear Alfred, and hope! Farewell!”

“God bless and preserve you!” he rather gasped
than said. “Farewell, my friend—farewell!”

In an instant we were locked in each others arms;
and for perhaps a minute we stood sobbing, but
without speaking another word. Then gently disengaging
his arms, I laid Varney carefully on the
bed, and rushed from the apartment, feeling as if
stifled for the want of air. So we parted.

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