University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

As our party was now quite formidable,
we had no fears of again being attacked,
so long as we remained together. On the
fourth day from quitting the valley described
in the previous chapter, we entered
the small village of Taos. Here I found
a melange of all nations and colors, consisting
of trappers, hunters, traders, adventurers,
&c.

Mingling with all classes, I at once
proceeded to make inquiries regarding the
present whereabouts of the Great Medicine
Tribe, and also if any had seen or
heard of a certain young man (giving a

full description of Huntly) being taken
prisoner by the Indians or Mexicans. To
my first inquiry, I received from several
the answer, that a singular tribe of Indians,
among whom was a beautiful female, had
been seen in the vicinity within a few
weeks; but where they now were, or in
what direction, none could tell. As to the
latter, each replied with a shake of the
head, that he could tell me nothing. It
was not an uncommon thing, they informed
me, for a white man—an adventurer—to
be taken, robbed, held for ransom, knocked
on the head, or sold into slavery; but no
one remembered hearing of, or seeing such
as I had described.

To me this news produced great disappointment;
for, from some cause which I
cannot explain, I had been sanguine of
getting information of Huntly so soon as
I should arrive at Taos. Here, then, was
a complete overthrow of my most ardent
hopes! and I now felt keenly the sandiness
of the foundation on which I had reared
my expectations. I might pass a long life
in a wearisome and dangerous search, and
be no wiser of Huntly's fate at last. There
was still a faint hope that Prairie Flower,
who I doubted not had gone south with
her tribe for this purpose, had gained
some information of him; and at once I
determined to hunt her out, with the additional
resolve, that should my surmises
prove correct, and she had failed also, to
set out on my return forthwith. But where
should I begin to look for her was the
next question. She might be as difficult
to find as Huntly, and there was no certainty
of my ever seeing either again.

The day following my a rival in Taos, I
was passing along one of the streets, pondering
upon these matters, when I chanced
to meet an old mountaineer, whom I did
not remember having seen before. Determined
to leave no stone unturned, I
accosted him with the same inquiry I had
made of the others He stopped, looked
at me attentively a moment, as if to comprehend
my questions, and then in a
musing, half soliloquizing manner, replied:

“'Bout the Injins, don't know—think
I've seed such—won't be sartin—don't
like to be sartin when I aint. Yes! think
I hev seed 'em—yes, know I hev—but it
war two year ago, and away up north a
— of a ways: Fact. 'Bout the other
chap, don't know;—yes—no—stop—let
me see—y-e-s, I reckon—aint sartin—
what was he like?”

Here I proceeded to give a description
of my friend, with what conflicting feelings
of hope and fear I leave the reader to
imagine. In fact, my voice became so
tremulous, that several times I was forced
to stop and put my hand to my throat to
prevent, as it were, my heart from strangling
me.

“Git cool, and jest say that thar over
agin,” rejoined the other, when at length
I tremblingly paused for his answer.

I repeated it twice, before he seemed
satisfied.

“Now,” says he, “I'll think—let me
see!” and he deliberately proceeded to
take up each point of my description, and
apply it to some person he had seen,
making his own comments as he went
along, “Slim and graceful—let me see!
—yes—no—ye-a-s—rather reckon he was
—know it—fact. 'Bout twenty-three—
stop — let me think!—yes—reckon he
might be—know he was—sartin. Good
face — han'some featurs—stop—a—y-e-s
—know it—settled.”

Thus he went on until I found my patience
completely exhausted, and was about
to interrupt him, when he suddenly exclaimed:

“Seen him, stranger—sartin as life—
know I hev.”

“Where? where?” cried I, breathlessly,
grasping his hand.

“San Domingo.”

“When?”

“'Bout a year ago.”

“God be thanked! You are sure?”

“Sartin, or I'd never said it.”

“Well, well—what became of him?”

“It's more'n I ken say—spect he war
made a slave. A — old Greaser had
him, and wanted to sell or git him ransomed.
He axed too high, and nobody
traded. I pitied the poor feller, but I
hadn't no money, and thar warn't no Yankees
thar then to help me out in takin
him. Old Greaser went sothe; and some
I axed shuk thar heads, and said that
that old scamp war a robber chief, and
had lots o' help close by. All I know,
stranner.”

“But do you think he is alive now?”

“Can't say, ye see, 'cause don't know.
Never say what don' know. Anything
more to ax, stranger?”

“Nothing that you can answer,” I replied;
and thanking him kindly for his information,
I placed a gold coin in his hand,
and hurriedly left him to seek out my companions
— my spirits, so lately depressed,
now buoyant and bounding.

The party which had joined mine at the
valley, had not yet quitted Taos; and calling
all together, I proceded to lay before
them my joyful intelligence. When I had
done, Black George gave a shout, Teddy
a whoop, Pierre shrugged his shoulders
and doubled his dose of snuff, and every
one expressed his delight in his own peculiar
way. The Rovers—so our new companions
termed themselves—were nearly
all young men from the States, who had
come west more for adventure than speculation;
and as I had become a favorite
with them in the short time of our acqaintance,
they at once volunteered me
their assistance, an offer I accepted with
tears of gratitude.

Ordering out our animals, we mounted
and set forward immediately, and, although
the day was partly advanced, succeded in
reaching Santa Cruz about nightfall. By
noon of the next day we rode into Santa
Fé—a place of much importance and notoriety,
from being centrally located on
the great caravan route from Missouri to
Southern California. At the time of which
I write, Santa Fé contained some four or
five thousand inhabitants, and was the emporium
of the northern trade between New
Mexico and Missouri. However, it was
anything but an agreeable place—its inhabitants
being mostly made up of the offscourings
of the earth—without religion,
morality, or any other noble quality. To
gamble, steal, rob and murder were among
the refined amusements of the most worthy
set. To make matters still worse,
there had recently been some difficulty between
the Mexicans and the citizens of
the United States, and on both sides existed
a bitter hostility, which was productive
of the most violent crimes. It was
dangerous for any one to traverse the
streets alone, particularly after nightfall;
for at every corner he turned, he knew
himself in danger of assassination. The
Indians here generally sided with the
Mexicans, and looked upon all Yankees as
their worst enemies.

Such was the state of affairs at Santa
Fé on my arrival; and the same inimical
feeling, to a greater or less extent, prevailed
in all the adjacent towns. As myself
and party had no desire to quarrel
with any one, we took care to be civil, always
together, well armed, and to mind
our own business on all occasions; and
in consequence we fortunately escaped
without molestation.

Making several inquiries in Santa Fé,
and gaining nothing further of Huntly or
the Mysterious Tribe, we pursued our
course southward through Cinega to San
Domingo.

Here the story of the old trapper was
so far confirmed, that several persons remembered
having seen the notorious
robber, Gonzalez, in possession of a handsome
young prisoner, whom he was anxious
to dispose of, declaring he could not
find not it in his heart to kill him, and could
not afford to part with him without recompense;
that no one there being disposed to
purchase him, he had gone farther south;
but what had since become of him none
could afford me any information. In answer
to my inquiry concerning Prairie
Flower, I learned that some time ago she
had been seen in this vicinity with her
tribe—that she had made inquiries similar
to mine, and that all had departed
southward.

This news almost made me frantic with
joy. Huntly, I argued, was living. Prairie
Flower, like some kind angel, had gone
to his rescue; and it might be, that even
now he was free and enjoying her sweet
companionship. The joyful thought, as I
said but now, nearly drove me mad with
excitement; and all my olden hopes were
not only revived, but increased by faith to
certainties.

Hurrying forward to San Bernilla on
the Rio Grande, I heard nearly the same
tale as at San Domingo; and following
down the river to Torreon, listened to its
repetition—and at Valencia, Nutrias, and
Alamilla likewise. At Valverde, the next
village below the last mentioned, I could
gain no intelligence whatever. This led

me to think Gonzalez had disposed of his
prisoner between the two villages — or,
what was just as probable, had taken another
course. For what I knew, he might
have crossed the Rio Grande and struck
off into the Sierra de los Mimbres—a
mountain chain only a few miles to the
west of us, whose lofty, snow-covered
peaks rose heavenward to a vast hight,
and had been distinctly visible for several
days. If he had taken this direction, the
chances of tracing him successfully appeared
much against us. It was equally
as probable, too, he had gone eastward—
perhaps to Tabira—a small village some
seventy miles distant. But which course
should we take? Consulting my friends,
we at length resolved to retrace our steps
to Alamilla, make inquiries of all we might
meet on the way, and then, if we could
gain no satisfactory information, to strike
out for Tabira on a venture.

This matter settled, we at once turned
back, but had not proceeded far, when we
met a couple of Mexican hunters. As I
understood a smattering of Spanish, I at
once addressed them, and, in course of conversation,
gained the joyful tidings, that
a prisoner, such as I described, had been
purchased by a Mexican, living not more
than three miles distant, and that in all
probability we should find him there now.
The path to his residence having been
pointed out, I rewarded each of my informants
with a gold coin, and then driving
the spurs into our horses, in less than
half an hour we reined them in before a
small hacienda, much to the terror of the
inmates, who believed we had come to rob
and murder them. Assuring the proprietor,
a rather prepossessing Mexican, that
in case he gave us truthful answers no
harm should be done him—but that, being
partially informed already, the slightest
prevarication would cost him his tongue
and ears, if not his head—I proceeded to
question him.

Thus forewarned, and much in fear of
the execution of the threat, he gave
straight-forward replies, to the effect that
more than a year ago Gonzalez had paid
him a visit, and offered him an American
at a small price, declaring that if he did
not purchase, he would knock the prisoner
on the head without more ado, as he had
cost him more time than he was worth;
that at first, he (the proprietor of the hacienda)
had refused to buy, having as many
slaves as he cared about; but that something
in the young man's appearance, and
the appeal he made with his eye, had
touched his feelings, and the bargain had
at length been struck. He farther stated,
that the prisoner had not been treated like
the rest of his slaves, but with more respect,
and had behaved himself like a gentleman
and won his confidence. A short
time ago, he continued, a small tribe of
Indians had called upon him, and offered a
ransom for the prisoner, stating he was an
old acquaintance; that he had accepted
the offer, and the prisoner had departed
with them toward the north, in fine spirits.

This was the substance of the information
I gathered here; but it was enough
to intoxicate me with joy, and was received
by the rest of the party with three
hearty cheers, much to the astonishment of
the old Mexican, who did not comprehend
what was meant.

The prisoner was Huntly—there was
no doubt of that—and the Great Medicine
was the Indian tribe which had set him
free. The next thing was to go in quest
of them. They had gone toward the
north, and had had some time the start of
us. It might be difficult to find them—
but nothing, I fancied, in comparison with
the task I had first undertaken of tracing
out my friend. The Rovers agreed to accompany
me as far as Santa Cruz, when,
after having seen me so far safe, they
designed returning to Santa Fé.

It is unnecessary for me to detail each
day's journey. Suffice, that in due time
we arrived at Santa Cruz, where I parted
from the Rovers, with many expressions
of gratitude on my part, and heart-felt
wishes for my success on theirs. My party
was thus reduced to six; and as two of
the number preferred remaining here to
going north immediately, I settled with
them at once, still retaining Teddy, Pierre,
and Black George.

With these I again set forward rapidly,
making inquiries of all I met. For two
or three days I could get no tidings of the
Mysterious Tribe, and I began to have
doubts of being on the right course.
Fortunately, before we had decided on

changing our direction, we met a party of
mountaineers, who informed us that a few
weeks before they had seen a small tribe
of friendly Indians, somewhere between
the Spanish Peaks and Pueblo, among
whom were a white man and a beautiful
female half-breed—that they were moving
very leisurely toward the north—and that
in all probability they were now encamped
somewhere in the beautiful valley of the
Arkansas.

Elated with the most extravagant anticipations
of soon realizing our sanguine
hopes, we again pressed forward for two
or three days, and leaving the lofty Spanish
Peaks to our right, tracing up the head
waters of the Rio Mora, we struck off over
the Green Mountains and camped at last
in the far-famed valley of the Arkansas,
within full view of the eternal snow-crowned
Pike's Peak.