University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
SERIOUS SPECULATIONS.

Wild, thrilling and rapturous were the sensations
which Varney and I experienced, as each so suddenly
and unexpectedly discovered and clasped to his heart
a friend supposed to be no more. To attempt to
describe our emotions, and impart to the reader a
tithe of what we felt, would be worse than vain; and
so I will only request him to take into consideration
our peculiar temperaments, the strength of our attachments,
the length of time since our parting, the perils
and hardships we had encountered, the belief of each
that the other was dead, together with our strange
meeting in a lonely wilderness—and with all these
facts duly considered, he may form some faint idea of
the feelings which stirred the inmost depths of our
souls as we stood clasped in each other's embrace.

“Is it possible this can be my dear friend, Roland
Rivers!” exclaimed Varney at length, starting back
and looking eagerly into my face.

“Rather let me say, is it possible this can be Alfred
Varney! the pale, emaciated, consumptive friend,
whom I left at Bent's, lying upon what I feared would
be his bed of death! No wonder, with your full,
bronzed face, and robust frame—seen unexpectedly
in this dim light—that I did not recognize you, even

though your voice had a familiar sound; and then Sam
took care to destroy my faintest suspicion, by telling
me you were dead.”

“Fun, ain't it?” roared Sam. “I knowed thar'd be
fun, when I diskivered Freshwater up to t'other valley.
Yes, ye see, boys, I says to myself, says I, `Sam,
you old beaver, you kin fotch Freshwater and Shadbones
together mysterious—and you kin git fun out
on 'em—and ef you don't do it, Sam, you old one-eyed
nigger, then you ought to jest let 'em chaw you
up fur a liar'—wagh! hagh! wagh! Wall, when I
got to my shanty hyer, I left you, Freshwater, to
hunt Shadbones—fur I knowed he warn't fur off, case
it war nigh feeding time—and he's powerful to eat
now, is that same Shadbones—and so when I seed
him, I sent him up hyer to do the ginteel to my
Injun friend—wagh! hagh! wagh!”

“But how is it I find you here with Sam?” inquired
I of Varney. “Come, sit down, and tell me your
story.”

“Yes, go in, Shadbones, and I'll fix you up some
beaver tails, and call it squar'—I will—chaw me!”
said Botter, who immediately started out, leaving us
to ourselves.

The story of Varney, which occupied a couple of
hours in narration, I shall abridge. After our parting
at Bent's Fort, he remained there a couple of weeks,
and then resumed his journey, accompanied by the
half-breed, in the double capacity of guide and servant.
He reached Pueblo without accident, and spent

a month at the fort, hoping I would join him; and
then, his health having in some measure improved, he
joined a party of hunters, and ascended the range of
mountains known as the Three Parks, and of which
his present locality formed a part. Once upon the
mountains, he began to experience a remarkable
change in his system; and soon discovered, by unmistakable
signs, that his lungs were healing,[1] and his
joy at this discovery may readily be imagined. He
spent the fall, and a portion of the winter, in riding,
hunting, and fishing—sometimes in company with a
strong party, and sometimes with only his guide for
his companion—and toward spring made his way to
St. Vrain's Fort, where he encountered Botter, and
from his lips gathered all that was known of my history.
He here learned that El Doliente and Adele
had gone together toward the south; but no one knew,
or appeared the least interested in knowing, their destination,
though the tongue of scandal was not idle
concerning their moral characters. As to myself, it
was believed that I was dead. The girl stated that I
had been delirious; and it was supposed that, after she
left me, I had wandered away, in a state of delirium,
and perished, and been devoured by wild beasts—the
effect of which news on my friend was for a time very
severe.

On arriving at St. Vrain's, it had been Varney's
intention to return to the States during the ensuing
summer; but fearing a relapse, and believing one
more season on the mountains would effect a permanent
cure, he had easily been prevailed on by Botter
to accompany him on a trapping expedition, which
was to end at the commencement of cold weather.
Botter had been successful beyond his expectations.
The valley where they were now located, had been discovered
early in the summer; and here the old trapper
had built his hut, and fixed his head quarters; though
he had since trapped on all the streams within fifty
miles, and had sometimes been absent for days at
a time. Varney had sometimes accompanied him,
and had sometimes remained alone while he was
away; and had passed his time pleasantly, in hunting
and fishing, while Sam was busy looking
after his traps. The time for setting out on their
return to some one of the wilderness forts, was now
near at hand; and only the day previous to my arrival,
the old mountaineer had announced his intention
of gathering up his traps and furs, pulling up stakes,
and making a bee line for Pueblo within a week.

Such was the substance of what I gathered from
Varney—his story being interrupted more than once
by Botter—who, during the narration, brought us in a

well cooked dish of beaver-tails, which proved a most
delicious repast, and to which I certainly did ample
justice. Having heard Varney's story, I proceeded
to relate my own—and both he and Botter sat and
listened to me with manifest interest. When I had
brought my narrative to the point where I had so
unexpectedly met Botter, the old trapper characteristically
observed:

“Freshwater, thar's no use in saying you hain't
been in some desperate tight places; but ef you was
ever nigher being rubbed out, than when old One-Eyed
Sam had his squint along the barrel of this
hyer rifle, all I've got to say is, you've went through
a tighter squeeze than ary nigger this hyer old coon
ever heerd tell on. Yes sir-ee—a heap—chaw me!
Augh!”

“You did really intend to shoot me then?” said I.

“I kim so nigh to it, that I don't know why I
didn't—fur it's a settled pint with me, to raise red-nigger's
ha'r wharsomever I find it; and ef you wasn't
a red-nigger to old Sam jest about then, then hyer's
what never seed snakes.”

“The same good Providence which has ever watched
over me, saved me from your murderous design,” I
rejoined.

“Don't know 'bout that thar—but I reckon it war
the skeer in you as made me hold up,” said Sam,
dryly.

“I was not so scared as excited,” I replied.

“Wall, it had a powerful look to skeer, to this old

possum,” rejoined Botter, with a laugh. “The fact is,
I thought you'd die to skeer, and save powder—ef I
didn't, may I never tell the truth agin! Augh!”

“Well, I was saved, and am here, and I thank God
for it!” I rejoined. “And now, to change the subject,
pray tell me, Alfred, what you think of the conduct
of El Doliente and Adele?”

“I hardly know what to think, Roland. I have
never seen the girl, you know; but from all you have
told me of her, I have good reason to suppose her
innocent of the sin laid to her charge.”

“But why did she set off alone with the Spaniard?”

“What was she to do? Without home, without
friends, believing you to be dead, what object could
she have in remaining in a wilderness fortress, surrounded
by rough, vulgar, uncouth beings, who could
have little or no sympathy with one so pure, refined,
and intelligent? It would naturally be her desire to
get among the people of her race and religion; and
El Doliente may have generously afforded her the
opportunity, and taken her for the time under his protection.
We should never condemn our friends, and
especially those we love, without positive proof of
guilt!”

“You give me hope!” cried I, grasping his hand;
“and I thank God there is one to speak in her defence!
Poor Adele! it is wrong to censure her without proof
positive of wrong—and if ever being loved, I know
her heart was mine.”

“And that love has sustained and saved her, rest

assured, my dear Roland—even supposing the snares
of temptation to have been thrown around her.”

“Oh! do you think so, Alfred?”

“Sincerely and truly.”

“But she believes me dead.”

“Then, with her belief, she may fancy you present
with her in spirit—and true love dies not.”

“Oh! Great God! let not these bright hopes be
raised, to be suddenly destroyed!” I prayed. “But I
must find her, Alfred—I must find her; I must know
the truth; and till then I shall never rest in peace.
How can this be done? what shall I do? She may
have gone to Mexico; but how shall I ascertain
whither she has gone? and how follow her? since, if
I recover the money I left at Bent's, my means will
still be very limited.”

“I have some which is at your service.”

“But you must go with me.”

“There may be enough for both, if we use prudence
and economy.”

“Tell you what 'tis, Freshwater,” put in Sam—
“you're a trump—and trumps war al'ays skeerce when
this hyer old nigger gambled high; and so whensomever
I got a trump, d'ye see, I al'ays held tight on to
it, and val'ed it powerful; and being's I val'e you
some'at—and you've did me a good turn by-gone—
why, I'll jest turn these hyer beaver skins into tin,
and you kin take the pile and slide. Augh!”

“Sam,” cried I, seizing his horny hand, “you have
a soul!”

“Hev I?” said Sam, simply; “wall, that's what a
Gospel preacher tell'd me once; but — my old
weather-beaten carcass, ef ever I seed it, or knows
whar it ar'! No sir-ee—chaw me!”

“But should I borrow your money, what would
you do through the winter?”

“Make Injun fixings, and sell 'em to the traders—
and next spring thar's more beaver.”

“I thank you for the offer, and may accept of it;
but depend upon it, if I do take your money, and
live to return to the States, you shall never have
reason to complain of a bad investment.”

“Don't know what that thar is,” pursued Sam;
“but if it's ary thing to kivering, you needn't mind
gitting it—fur this hyer old One-Eyed never war
much to flummery, gew-gaws, and gim-cracks—nary
once. Augh!”

“What course had I better pursue first?” I inquired
of Varney.

“I think we had better go to Pueblo first, and
there make inquiries—as it is very likely, if the parties
went to Mexico, that they stopped there on their
way.”

“You think, then, I should gain nothing by going
first to St. Vrain's?”

“It would certainly cause much delay, and I think
would be without any corresponding advantage.”

“Well, I will be guided by you, my friend; and
for Pueblo we will set out, as soon as Sam shall say
ready.”

“Two days more, Freshwater—jest gin this hyer old
woodchuck two days to git ready in—and then we'll
all tramp han'some—we will. But mought I gin you
a bit of advice?”

“Certainly, Sam.”

“Then jest you go in, and rub off that thar Injun
grease—chop off that thar — old pigtail— put a
skin kivering over your noddle, and git your body
inside to human fixings; fur if you don't look like the
devil now, you do like one of his imps; and the next
white gintleman as fotches his piece to b'ar on you,
mought spile your meat-trap. Augh! Thar's the
stuff fur you! (pointing to a heap of miscellaneous
articles)—thar's a cougar skin to make a cap on;
thar's a blanket you can toggle into a hunting frock;
thar's dressed deer-skin fur your breeches; and you
kin gamble high on to it, that you won't look no
worser fur transmogrifying yourself from a red-nigger
into a white gintleman. Hey! Shadbones?”

“I think the change would improve his appearance,”
laughed Varney, “and I will assist him to
make it. No wonder I did not sooner recognize
him.”

“And I'll jest take a tramp, to look arter my
muleys,” said Sam, catching up his rifle and setting
off forthwith.

The moment we were again left to ourselves, I hastened
to inquire of Varney concerning one whom a
feeling of delicacy had prevented my mentioning in
the presence of a third party.

“What of her you love, my friend? what of Mary
Edwards?” I said.

“I have heard nothing of her since we parted,” was
his reply; “but if she is living, and God spares my
life, I hope to see her again ere long.”

“Are you still as much attached to her as when we
first met?”

“Yes—my heart has undergone no change since.
How could it, Roland? I loved her then, and true love
changes not by absence. It was for her I sought to
prolong my life; and without her, I fear that life
would now be valueless.”

“But if she has heard nothing from you, what more
reasonable than for her to suppose you dead?”

“I have often fancied that she is mourning me as
one no longer among the living,” replied Varney,
somewhat dejectedly. “Sweet Mary! with what
trembling hope have I looked forward to our meeting!”

“Are you sure of her heart, Alfred?”

“What do you mean?” he quickly demanded.

“Are you sure of her love? Bear in mind, that
nothing passed between you on this subject! and she
may be ignorant of the affection she inspired—and,
because of this, may have turned her thoughts to
another—for love, to be lasting, must be conscious of
reciprocity.”

“You startle me, Roland! Surely, she must have
known I loved her! for she could not but have seen
it in my every action.”

“Yet love is exacting, and requires more assurance

than friendship; and moreover, she may think you no
longer among the living. Pardon me, if I say any
thing to give pain, or even uneasiness! but should
any thing have happened, I think you would bear it
better if in a measure prepared for the blow.”

“Speak out, Roland!” cried Varney, nervously
grasping my arm, and looking eagerly and anxiously
into my face.

“Suppose you find Mary Edwards the wife of
another?”

He released my arm—staggered back—and, sitting
down, remained silent for some minutes.

“God forbid!” he exclaimed at length; “God forbid!
for then indeed might I wish for that death I
have so long, and anxiously, and even painfully,
labored to shun! Enough! my dear friend—enough!
You mean me well, I know; but let us speculate no
more on a matter that is life or death to me!”

The subject dropped then, nor was it resumed for a
long time after. What I had said, had the effect to
dampen the spirits of Varney, so that at times he was
very sad and gloomy; and I should have regretted
giving him the least pain, only for the reasons stated
to him, that I feared he might possibly find a change,
which, coming upon him suddenly, and without previous
preparation, might be productive of more serious
consequences.

We spent the two succeeding days in getting ready
for our departure. I employed most of the time in
effecting a much desired change in my personal appearance,

and Varney assisted me; while Botter kept
himself busy, in scraping and drying some newly
taken beaver skins, and in repairing his mule saddles,
sacks and straps, collecting his traps and camp utensils,
and packing all snugly for safe transportation.

It may not be amiss, in this connection, to mention
the mode of catching the beaver, which confers the
name of trapper upon such as make a living by this
occupation. Large steel traps are baited with an oily
substance, taken from the scrotum of the beaver itself,
and placed in the “run” of the animal, under water.
A chain, attached to the trap, is then made fast to a
picket, or sapling, on the bank; while a cord connects
with a stick, which floats on the water—so that,
in case the beaver gets away with the trap, its locality
may be readily discovered. The bait, called “medicine,”
the beaver scents while under water; and being
curious to know what it is, and why it is there, he
hovers about the trap, till accidentally he springs it
with his foot and is caught. He is thence taken out
by the trapper and skinned; and his skin, scraped
and stretched on a hoop, is dried in the sun, and thus
prepared for the market—while his tail is carefully
put aside as a bonne bouche.

Everything being prepared for our journey, we set
out at daylight for Pueblo, on the third morning after
my arrival. Varney had one mule, and Botter two;
but as the trapper's animals were both well laden, we
took turns in riding the beast of Varney. We had
pleasant weather all the way, though at times very

cold; and in five days we reached Pueblo, without
accident or incident worthy of note.