 | CHAPTER XXXIV.
NEWS FROM HOME. The border rover |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
NEWS FROM HOME.
Pueblo de San Carlos, or Village of St. Charles, as
it is called, is a small, square fort, built of adobes,
with a wall about eight feet high, which stands on
the left bank of the Arkansas, at no great distance
from the base of the mountains. It is occupied by
Indian traders, coureurs des bois, and mountaineers,
with their Indian and Mexican wives and children;
and at the time I visited it, I could not discover that
its tenants were remarkable for either beauty, cleanliness,
intelligence or refinement. They were about
as civil, however, as tame bears—and this was as
much, perhaps, as I had a right to expect.
On pushing my inquiries here, I finally learned,
from a respectable looking half-breed, that more than
a year ago, two persons, answering the description of
El Doliente and Adele, accompanied by a negro, had
made a short halt at the fort, and employed a guide
to conduct them to Santa Fe. This intelligence,
which to me was of great importance, was all I could
gather; and as may readily be believed, I was more
possibly obtain more definite information.
“If I only had the means,” said I to Varney, “tomorrow
should see me en route to the capital of New
Mexico.”
“Would to Heaven I had enough for both!” he
replied.
“We must go first to Bent's,” I rejoined; “and if I
can recover the money I left there, I think, with
what you have, and proper economy, we shall be able
to travel respectably among civilized people, at least
for a time.”
“You knows what this hyer old hoss told ye up
to the mountains, I expect, Freshwater!” observed
Botter, who chanced to overhear my remark.
“I do; and I thank you, from my heart, for your
generous offer, Sam; but if I can get along without
touching your hard earnings, I would rather do so.”
“It'll be all the same to old One-Eyed Sam afore
spring—you kin gamble on to that thar!” he rejoined,
good humoredly. “Every dollar this hyer nigger
gits, is greased beautiful; and the way they slides
through these hyer old j'ints, is a caution to old Kaintuck.
Augh!”
Varney traded his mule for a horse, and purchased
another for me; and the second morning after reaching
the Pueblo, we set off for Bent's Fort, distant
about seventy miles. We camped out one night, and
reached our destination before dark of the second day,
in good bodily condition. Here I met with a surprise,
no less than a letter from my father, accompanied
with a heavy purse of gold.
Having never written home since the letter dated
on board the steamer Missouri, which the reader
doubtless remembers—and having mentioned in that,
that I contemplated going as far west as Bent's Fort—
my father had become extremely anxious concerning
my long absence and silence, and had actually dispatched
a messenger to this point in quest of me.
The messenger had remained here a month—and had
gone back with a belief that I was no longer among
the living—but had left the purse of gold and letter
with Mr. Bent, to be put in my possession, in case I
should be heard of within a couple of years. The
epistle of my father, even before I broke the seal, excited
strange and powerful emotions; and with a
trembling hand, and something like a guilty conscience,
I tore it open, and read as follows:
“My dear Son!—If ever you see these lines, you
will learn that your parents are almost broken-hearted,
on account of your long absence and silence. If living,
may you never feel the keen pang of disappointment
we all felt—but your mother and myself
especially—on the receipt of your letter from Missouri,
which told us you were about to cross the plains to
Bent's Fort, and would not be with us on your birthday.
From that moment I have been growing old—
and with that intelligence my fondest hope perished.
Why did you leave me at such a time? You know
seeing you duly installed my successor! I could not
think of continuing the business any longer; and so,
on your twenty-first anniversary—you not being
present—the establishment of your father, and which
might have been yours, passed into the hands of your
brothers-in-law—who, for reasons that I will explain,
if ever I see you, have changed the firm of Rivers &
Co. to that of Colden and Sharp. If you want to
know more, Mr. Spencer, the agent I send out to find
you, will inform you. I also send you a thousand
dollars in gold, not knowing what your wants may
be. Oh! my son, if among the living, do come home,
and all shall be forgiven. I found, from your letter,
that the life I had proposed for you was not to your
liking: you should have told me of this before you
left. It has been a great disappointment to me—but
let that pass. If I ever get you with me again, I
think I shall be quite happy, comparatively speaking.
Colden and Sharp are worthy young men, and have
good judgment and business tact. Your friends are
all usually well, except your mother, who frets a good
deal about you, which wears upon her. All send love,
and so I need not specify. Will you not come home,
and make all our hearts glad? Your affectionate
father, &c.”
To this epistle, which bore date the preceding
March, there was a postscript, which said a volume in
a few words.
“Roland, my son, God bless you! If you are
the heart of your now unhappy mother.”
The hand that had penned these lines was my
mother's, and that hand had trembled so as to make
the writing nearly illegible, and there was the stain
of a tear upon the page. As I finished reading the
whole, I handed the letter in silence to Varney; and
sinking down upon a seat, my overcharged heart
found some relief in a flood of tears.
“What do you now propose, my friend?” inquired
Varney, when I had in a great degree regained my
usual composure.
“I must go home, Alfred. I must set out immediately
too. Mr. Spencer has returned—and even now
my parents are mourning me as dead. Heaven help
me! Should my disobedience—for I can call it by
no other term—be the means of shortening the days
of my dear mother, I shall never forgive myself—
shall never be happy again.”
“I fear I am much to blame for all this,” said
Varney, sadly.
“You, my dear friend? no!” cried I, grasping his
hand. “It is I, and I alone, that am to blame.”
“But you know I was anxious to have you go with
me, Roland!”
“But, at the same time, I remember you urged me
to do only what I thought best, and I thought best to
go. No, Varney, do not accuse yourself of leading
me astray, or I shall have more to regret than now.”
“But had it not been for me, you might not have
come hither!”
“Say rather, had it not been for my own desire.
Did I not contemplate making such a journey before
I left home? long ere I saw you, or knew you had an
existence? What folly, Alfred, to reflect upon yourself,
in a case in which, to say the most, you have only
been an accessory after the fact.”
“But even that is criminal in law.”
“Only when the original deed is criminal, remember,
and amenable to the law! But enough of this,
my friend! There is no analogy between the fact, as
it stands, and the figure by which we have chosen to
represent it—and so let the subject drop. We are all
creatures of circumstance; and a train of circumstances,
which nothing human could foresee, have
placed me here at a period remote from my intentions.
If I have erred—and God, who knows all things, only
knows whether I have done wrong to myself and
those who gave me being,—if I have erred, I say, I
must now endeavor to retrieve the error, as much as
possible, by setting forth immediately upon my return
to those who are mourning me as dead.”
“Then you will not endeavor to find Adele?”
“Ah! Adele—sweet Adele! how that name thrills
through my soul! Alfred, you love—you know what
love is—advise me—what shall I do? Shall I attempt
to find her? and if so, for what purpose? to
what end? To know her the wife of another—that
would be terrible. To know her the victim of a villain—that
be more miserable, perhaps, than I am now—and
Heaven knows I am very far from being happy at
this moment.”
“Then, as soon as you like, we will set off across
the plains for Independence.”
“You think such a course best, Alfred, all things
considered?”
“All things considered, I do. You might not find
Adele, should you seek her; and if found, the happiness
you seek might not be found with her.”
“It is settled then—let us inquire when the next
train goes eastward!” said I.
But it was not settled—at least not settled as I had
supposed. I believe, to some extent, in destiny; and
it was my destiny, ere long, to gather such intelligence
as, in one sense, almost compelled me, in my
vacillating state of mind—swayed as it was by every
strong emotion—to change my design. On making
inquiries, I learned among other matters of interest
to me, that El Doliente had been here with Adele;
that he had left full pay for such of the party as had
gone with him in quest of the girl, and had not returned,
and were not known to have been killed by
the Indians; that the conduct of both had been such
as to win the esteem and love of the high-minded;
that Adele had more than once mentioned my name,
but always with tears; and that both had set out for
Santa Fe, by way of Pueblo, and expected to spend a
few days with the Governor of New Mexico. Add to
who had been hired at Pueblo to guide them to Santa
Fe; that he stated he had seen them cordially received
by Governor Armijo and his family; and that he spoke
of El Doliente as a gentleman, and of Adele as one
of the kindest and most beautiful ladies he had ever
met: add these facts to the foregoing, I say, and take
everything into consideration, and I think the reader
will not be surprised at my putting off my journey
homeward, till I had made another in a contrary
direction, and gathered further tidings of one who
still held the first place in my affection.
“Alfred,” said I, “you must by this time be aware
that your companion is a man of whims, without
stability of purpose. Already have I again changed
my plan. I am now resolved upon a journey to Santa
Fe; but I will not be so selfish as to ask you to
accompany me; for now that you have been led to
look upon a speedy return to the States as a matter
of certainty, it would be cruel to drag you away upon
a long journey of hardship and peril—a journey—”
“Stop!” cried Varney, interrupting me: “you have
said enough, unless your object be to give offence.
I trust, whatever may be my imperfections, ingratitude
is not one of them. I have not forgotten how
you stood by me in my distress, when I had not
another friend to call upon; and if I desert you now,
may my limbs wither, and my heart turn to stone!”
It being now finally settled that we should depart
for Santa Fe, I lost no time in making further improvements
and donning a still more civilized costume than I had
been able to manufacture from the materials furnished
by the old trapper. I did not succeed in getting what
might be termed a citizen's dress—but only a slight
improvement on the mountaineer's—yet it was so
much superior to the patched articles I laid aside, that
I looked into a hand mirror with pride, and really felt
quite fashionable. My hair—or rather the want of
it—was a source of considerable annoyance for a time;
but I finally succeeded in purchasing, of a Canadian
Frenchman, a respectable looking wig, which put my
mind at ease on that point. Thus renewed, in the
outer man at least—and having recovered my money,
hired the guide of El Doliente, and settled everything
to my satisfaction—we bade adieu to Bent's Fort, and
hastened back to Pueblo, where we stopped to lay in
some provisions, that we might not be hindered by
being compelled to hunt game for food. Here I saw
Botter for the last time; and after informing him of
all that had occurred, he replied, in his characteristic
manner:
“Chaw me up fur a liar, Freshwater, but your old
dad's some punks! A thousand shiners, hey? Why,
riddle my old carcass with ramrods, ef it wouldn't
take this hyer old one-eyed nigger a desperate spell
to fotch in enough beaver to them thar! yes-sir-ee!
And all fur nothing! He's a trump—you kin gamble
high on to him, boy; and I'm glad on't; fur you is
some'at to a younker, and not nigh so green as you
tin fur the boys, hey? fur them as didn't git rubbed
out? Wall, that thar war decent, Freshwater—hey!
Shadbones?—yes-sir-ee—chaw me! Wall, may be
he wasn't sich a — rascal arter all—hope he wasn't.”
“They gave him an excellent character at Bent's,”
I rejoined.
“Wall, I'spect he's got white blood into him, and
knows what decency is; but ef he didn't love that
thar gal, Freshwater, harder nor nary mule kin kick,
then chaw me up fur a liar! and call this hyer old
beaver a one-eyed — old woodchuck! Augh!
wagh! shagh!”
“Are you certain, Sam?”
“I seed it, Freshwater—old One-Eyed seed it—yes-sir-ee!
And he knowed she war your meat, too—ef
he didn't, why was eyes made? But he mought hev
thought you war rubbed out, d'ye see? which all on
us did, you know.”
“And Adele?” inquired I, nervously: “did she
seem to return his passion?”
“Not to fust—nary once; but I reckon she gin in
afore she left.”
“I hardly know whether to think him a villain or
not!” said I, greatly troubled and perplexed. “There
has been mystery about the whole affair, from beginning
to end. When I first mentioned her, he got
excited; in listening to her history, he acted like a
madman; and ever after, even in fitting out the expedition
and going in quest of her, he displayed an
“You jest ought to heerd him go on, when
he found the Injins had got the best of us, and
knowed thar wasn't nary chance to gitting the gal
away!” said Botter—“fur, in course, he didn't know
as she'd put out with you. Chaw me, Freshwater—
but, fur a leetle while, he made all howl beautiful.
Augh!”
“Well, it is all very strange, and I know not what
to think,” said I. “If I can ascertain that he really
loves the girl, and has made her his wife, I shall
retire, without disturbing their happiness, and return
home a sadder, and perhaps a wiser, man; but if I
find he has wronged Adele Loyola, then will I pray
to be set face to face with him, and let God judge
between us!”
“Them's 'em!” returned Sam. “Go in, Freshwater!
I'll gamble on to you.”
At the final parting, Botter shook hands with both
Varney and myself; and, for an old mountaineer,
used to all kinds of changes and vicissitudes, he
seemed not a little affected.
“Good-by, boys!” he said, in a rather unsteady
voice; “and as this hyer old nigger's Kaintuck dad
used to say—may your meat never run out, nor your
corn-crib git low! Expect it 'aint like you'll ever see
this hyer old One-Eyed agin—nary once—chaw me!
Augh! But ef we don't never meet agin, I hope you
won't forgit as how we've all been in whar blood was
got a stray thought to spar', you'll let her slide to the
mountains, whar she'll find old Sam cotching beavers
and raising ha'r till he goes under.”
“God bless you, Sam!” said I, shaking his honest
hand heartily: “while memory lasts, you will not be
forgotten by me!”
“Let me echo the words of my friend!” said Varney,
with feeling.
“Chaw me!” rejoined the old trapper, turning away,
and bringing his hand quickly across his eye. “I
haint felt so womanish sence Wolfy quit to the —
Pawnees—nary once. Augh! Wall, good-by, boys!
and hyer's a old one-eyed beaver as will travel fur a
wet. Augh! augh!”
With this Sam turned abruptly away, and disappeared
within the fort. We never saw him again.
| CHAPTER XXXIV.
NEWS FROM HOME. The border rover | |