University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

For two days after reaching the valley,
our search proved fruitless, and the reader
can better imagine my feelings than I can
describe them. My anxiety to see my
long-lost friend was so great, that I could
not rest at night, and barely devour enough
food to support nature. A consultation
had resulted in shaping our course up the
river, and on the third day we had the unbounded
delight to meet with a couple of
trappers, who informed us they had seen
the Great Medicine Tribe only two days
before, and that they were then camped
on a small creek, in a lovely valley, at the
base of the southwestern mountain chain,
surrounding what is known as the South
Park, not more than sixty or seventy miles
distant. Never can I forget the feelings I
experienced, nor the wild, prolonged, and
deafening cheers which resounded at this
announcement. Each of my companions
seemed frantic with joy; and as for myself,
I could have clasped the informants,
rough and half civilized as they were, to
my beating heart.

Becoming at last a little more tranquil,
we managed to impress upon ourselves a
brief description of the route to be taken,
and then set forward with the wildness of
madmen just loosened from an insane
asylum. On, on we dashed, over plain
heath and ridges, through thickets and
streams, till the blowing and reeling of our
animals warned us we must be more
prudent, or their lives, at least, would be
the penalty of our rashness.

Throughout that day, nothing was
thought of, nothing talked of, but our fortunate
adventure, and the speedy prospect
of gaining what we sought. Time, distance,
everything was overlooked; and
when the sun went down, it appeared to us
the day had been by half the shortest of
the season. But very different was it with
our horses, which were so exhausted from
hard riding, that serious fears were entertained
lest we had ruined them. But a
thorough rubbing down, and an hour or two
of rest revived them; and we at last had
the satisfaction of seeing them crop the
plentiful blade with their wonted gusto.

I slept none that night; in fact did not
lie down; but most of the time paced the
earth to and fro before the fire-light, anxiously
praying for the dawn, to resume
our journey. My companions, however,
slept soundly; for they had far less to
think of than I, and moreover were sorely
fatigued.

At the first blush of morning I roused
them, and again mounting we set forward.
As both Pierre and Black George knew the
country well, we lost no time by going out
of the way, but took the nearest and safest
course to the point described. A ride of
four hours brought us to the brow of a
hill, looking down upon a fertile valley,
where, joy inexpressible! we beheld a
village of temporary lodges, and a few Indians,
whom I instantly recognized as
belonging to the anxiously-sought tribe.

“Hurray! we've got 'em—I'll be dog-gone
ef we haint!” cried Black George.
“Hurray for us, beavers, sez I! and a
quart on the feller as is last in!”

Uttering yell after yell, as wild as those
of savages, we spurred down the hill with
reckless velocity, each one striving to lead
the rest and be first to reach the goal of
our present desires. Had the tribe in
question not been peaceably inclined, this
proceeding would have been dangerous in
the extreme, and a shower of rifle balls
might have changed our joyous shouts to
cries of pain and lamentation, or put us
beyond the pale of mortality. Our rapid
and tumultuous approach alarmed our
friends, and men, women, and children
came running out of their huts, with fear
depicted on their faces. Among them were
two figures that fixed my attention; and
from that moment I saw nothing but
Charles Huntly and Leni Leoti, till my
gallant beast stood panting in the center
of the crowd.

“Charles!” I exclaimed, as I leaped
from my steed, my brain fairly reeling with
intense emotion; and staggering up to
where he stood, bewildered and confused,
I threw my arms around his neck and
swooned in his embrace.

When consciousness again returned, I
found myself lying on a mat in a small
cabin, hastily constructed of sticks and
skins, and my friend standing by me,
chafing my temples, dashing cold water in
my face, and entreating me in the most
piteous tones to arouse and speak to him.
There were others around, but I heeded
them not. I had neither ears, nor eyes,
for any but my friend. My first glance
showed me he was altered, but not more
than I had expected to find him. His form
was somewhat wasted, and his pale features
displayed here and there a line of grief
and suffering which I had never before seen.

“Frank,” he cried, “for God's sake
look up, and speak to me!”

“Charles!” I gasped.

“Ha! I hear it again — that dearly
loved voice!” and burying his head upon
my breast he wept aloud.

In a few minutes I had completely recovered
from my swoon; but it was a long
time before either of us could master his
emotion sufficient to hold conversation.
We looked at each other, pressed each
other by the hand, mingled our tears together,
and felt, in this strange meeting,
what no pen can describe, no language
portray. We had literally been dead to
each other—we who had loved from childhood
with that ardent love which cements
two souls in one—and now we had come
to life, as it were, to feel more intensely
our friendship for the long separation.
The excess of joy had nearly made us
frantic, and taken away the power of
speech. At last we became more tranquil,
when our friends who had been present,
but almost unnoticed, withdrew and left
us to ourselves.

“And now, Frank,” said Huntly, looking
me earnestly in the face, his eyes still
dimmed with tears, “tell me the news.
Have you been home?”

“I have not.”

“Ah! then I suppose you know nothing
of our friends!”

“More than you imagine,” and I turned
away my head, and sighed at the thought
of the mournful intelligence I was about
to communicate.

“Indeed!” said Huntly. “But why
do you avert your face? Has—has anything
happened?”

“Prepare yourself for the worst, dear
Charles!” I said, in a tremulous tone.

“For the worst?” he repeated. “Great
Heaven! what has happened? Speak!
quick! tell me! for suspense at such times
is hard to be borne; and our imagination,
running wild with conjecture, tortures us,
it may be, beyond the reality.”

“In this case I think not.”

“Then speak what you know — in Heaven's
name, speak!”

“Promise me to be calm?”

“I will do my best,” replied my friend,
eagerly; with a look of alarm, while his
frame fairly trembled with excitement, and
his forehead became damp with cold perspiration.

“Your father, dear Charles!” I began.

“Well, well, Frank—what of him?”

“Is—is—no more. The sod has twice
been green above him.”

“Merciful God!” he exclaimed, throwing
his hands aloft, with a look of agony I
shall never forget; then covering his face
with them, he groaned as one in the throes
of death.

For some time I did not disturb him,
thinking it best to let his first grief take its
course in silence. At length I said:

“Come, my dear friend, rouse thee, and
be a man! Do not give too much sway
to your sorrow! Remember, that in this
world we all have to die — that we are
doomed by the immutable laws of nature
and the decrees of an over-ruling God, to
part from those we most dearly love! But
it is only for a time. God is wise, and
good, and does all things for the best; and
it is only a short time at the longest, ere
we in turn shall depart to join them in a
life beyond the reach of death. Cheer
up, dear Charles! and look upon your
father as one who has done with the cares
and perplexities of life, and made a happy
change. I know how dearly you loved
him—I know the trial to give him up is
most painful — and from my very soul I
sympathize with you in your affliction.
But, my dear friend, we have other duties
than to wail the dead; for the living demand
our attention; and you have friends
still left you, equally near and dear, who
stand in need of your most iron energies.”

“Alas!” he groaned, his face still hid
in his hands—“dead! dead! dead!—and
I — his only son — far, far away!” He
paused, and trembled violently for a few
moments, and his breath came quick and
hard. “But you are right, dear Frank,”
he said, at length, slowly raising his face,
now sadly altered. “You are right, my
friend! We know such things must, do,
and will take place; and we should, to
what extent we can, be philosophers all,
and strive to be resigned to God's will.
It is terrible, though—terrible—to lose a
beloved parent, and not be at hand to hear
his parting words, nor see him set forth on
that journey from whence none ever return.
But I—I—will strive to bear it—to at least
appear calm. And now, dear Frank—
my—my—I fear to mention who—lest I
hear more painful, heart-rending tidings.”

“You mean your mother and sister?”

He grasped my arm nervously, partly
averted his head, as if in dread of my answer,
and answered almost inaudibly:

“I do.”

“Be not alarmed, dear Charles! I left
them well.”

“Left them well?” he repeated, in surprise.
“Did not you tell me you had not
been home?”

“True! neither have I.”

“Then where did you see them, and
where are they now?”

“I will answer your last question first.
They are now in Oregon City.”

He gave me a deep, searching look,
such as one would bestow upon a person
whose sanity he had just begun to question.

“I do not wonder you look surprised,”
I added: “but listen ere you doubt;” and
I proceeded to narrate, as briefly as I
could, how I had met them near the South
Pass of the Rocky Mountains, and under
what singular circumstances; how I had
soon learned of their misfortunes, both in
the loss of their dearest friend and their
property, (which latter seemed to affect
Charles less than I had expected;) how
I had there met the Unknown, been warned
of danger by Prairie Flower, and what
followed; how I had subsequently accompanied
the party to Oregon; how I had
proposed to Lilian, been accepted, and on
what conditions; and how I had at last
been led to set off in search of my dearest
friend, and what had happened on the
journey. In short, I gave him condensed
particulars of all that had occurred since
we parted, not forgetting my night search
for him, and the effect of his loss upon me
at Los Angelos.

He listened attentively throughout, occasionally
interrupting me with questions
on points of more than usual interest, or
where, in my hasty narration, I had failed
to make the matter clear to him.

“Strange! strange!” he said, when I
had done; “very, very strange is all
this! It looks improbable — seems impossible—and
yet I do not doubt your
word. So, then, I am not worth a dollar?”

“Do not let that trouble you, Charles!
While I have money, neither you nor your
friends shall want.”

“I know it, Frank,” he said, pressing
my hand warmly; “I know it. That, at
present, is the least of my concern. And
so you have seen the Unknown? and she
is called Eva Mortimer?” He mused a
moment, and added: “Well, this is more
singular than all. Frank, we must set out
for Oregon immediately!”

“As soon as you please. And now tell,
me something of your own adventures.”

“Alas!” sighed he, “after the painful
news you have communicated, I feel

myself unable to enter into particulars. I
will give you something in brief, for I know
your curiosity is excited. In fact, I will
give you the outline of my story, and anon
will fill it with detail.”

“Proceed.”

“At the time we separated to follow the
wounded goat,” he began, “I hurried
around the foot of the mountain which you
were ascending. In my haste, I missed
the path, and had spent some time in
searching for it, when suddenly I found
myself surrounded by half-a-dozen guerillas,
who, it seems, were in waiting here for
the return of a larger party, momentarily
expected, when all designed an attack upon
some merchants coming in from Santa Fé.
A single glance showed me resistance
was useless, and I surrendered myself a
prisoner. They seized and began stripping
me of everything valuable, when it occurred
to me I could let you know my situation,
and I accordingly shouted as if
calling to a party of my friends. The
next moment I was seized and gagged,
when the cowards, fearful I suppose, this
precaution had been taken too late, (for a
cheer from you was heard in answer,) and
that they might be attacked soon, if they
remained where they were, began to sneak
away, taking me with them.

“When they had rendered themselves
safe, by penetrating farther into the mountains,
they kept quiet till night, and then
sallied forth to the rendezvous, where they
joined the others, in all some twenty persons.

“A consultation was now held, whether
I should be put to death, or taken along
and sold into slavery. The latter was
finally adopted, and Gonzalez, the chief,
took me under his charge. Taking the
great Spanish trail, we set off toward Santa
Fé, traveling mostly in the night and
lying by through the day, often in ambush
for some unfortunate wayfarers, who, in
the encounters that sometimes ensued, generally
lost both money and life. My dear
Frank, I could describe events which have
passed before my own eyes, that would
make your hair stand with horror; but
but these are almost irrelevant to my story,
and so I shall omit them.

“It was a strange fancy they had formed
of selling me into slavery, and I could
never rightly comprehend it. It could not
have been for the amount I would bring—
for that was small, in comparison to the
trouble I must have cost them in guarding
me from escape. No! I am inclined to
think it the result of a whim—perhaps of
the chief—who ever treated me with as
much leniency as I could expect, or have
dared to ask for. Still I was made to do
menial services, and used as a slave; and
it might have been my life was preserved
for this; for save myself, the party had
no servant. O! how it made my blood
boil at times, when I thought what I
had been, and what I was! and how I
groaned in secret, to think what must be
your feelings, and the feelings of my
friends, should the latter ever hear of my
fate! But I still had hope; I was still
alive; and I struggled to bear up manfully,
and be resigned to my lot till Providence
should favor my escape.

“The first hundred miles I was forced
to proceed on foot—the robbers having no
horses but what they rode themselves.
Sometimes they traveled fast, obliging me
to keep them company, and in consequence
I suffered most severely. At last one of
the band got killed in an affray, and his
beast was assigned to me, which proved a
great relief.

“One day the chief informed me, that
if I would take the oath of his dictation, I
might join the band and have my freedom—or
rather, the freedom of a robber.
I declined his offer, in language so decisive
that he never after repeated the proposition,
and I continued as before, a slave.
But I must avoid detail.

“At last we reached the Sierra de los
Mimbres, where the band divided—the
chief and a few followers taking me down
to San Domingo, where I was offered for
sale. Not meeting with success here, he
continued down through the several villages,
and, in short, to the very hacienda
whither you and another (God bless you
both!) traced me. Had he failed here in
disposing of me to Pedro Lopez, I do believe
he would have put an end to my
existence.

“After much quibbling, the bargain
was at last struck, and I became the property
of Pedro Lopez. I shall now pass
over the period of my slavery—the most

unhappy one of my life. True, I was
treated better than my companions, and,
on the whole, suffered much less physically
than mentally. But still I knew myself
a slave—knew I was degraded; and
the thought of my position—that thus I
might be doomed to spend my days—
nearly drove me mad. Sometimes evil
thoughts would enter my head; and then
I would half resolve to kill my master and
take the consequences, or put an end to
my own being. Then hope would revive,
that something might turn up for my deliverance,
and I would strive to labor on,
resigned to bide my time. Thus a year
rolled around, when one day Pedro Lopez
came to me and inquired if I were contented
with my situation! At first I
thought he was mocking me, and I half-raised
a garden-tool I had in my hand
to dash out his brains. He must have
guessed my intention from my looks; for
he took a step back, and bade me be
calm and give him a civil answer. I replied
by inquiring if he would feel contented
to be a slave in a foreign land?
He shook his head, and said he would not
—that he had felt for my situation from
the first—and that that was the cause of
my being treated better than my companions.
He then told me, that as I had ever
behaved myself with propriety, and as he
had been offered a fair ransom by a small
tribe of Indians, if I felt disposed to go
with them he would give up all claim to
me. A thought flashed upon me, that
possibly this might be the tribe of Great
Medicine, and I begged to see them. My
request was granted, and, the first glance
showed me I was right in my conjectures;
and uttering a joyful cry, I rushed outside
the gate, to where they were assembled
before the walls of the hacienda.

“Frank, it is impossible for me to describe
my feelings then. Life, liberty,
everything joyous, seemed bursting upon
me at once, and my brain grew dizzy with
the exhilarating, intoxicating thoughts. I
hugged the first Indian I met; I danced,
capered around, shouted, laughed, cried—
in short, did everything extravagant to
give my overpowering feelings vent. For
an hour or two I was insane with joy, and
my reasoning powers as bewildered as
those of a lunatic. At last I began to
grow calm; and then I went around to
each of my old friends and shook them by
the hand, thanked them with tearful eyes
and trembling voice for my deliverance,
and received their congratulations and
caresses in return.

“But where was Prairie Flower? As
yet I had not seen her. I made the inquiry,
but could get no direct answer.
Some shook their heads, others said she
was not here, and others again that she
was away. Finding none would answer
me, I concluded they had a sufficient reason
for their evasion, and dropped the
subject.

“When everything had been satisfactorily
arranged, and I became reasonably
sobered down, we all set out toward the
north. A horse had been provided for
me, and all were mounted—the females,
of whom there were several, mostly on
mules.

“Some three miles from the hacienda,
we reached a heavy wood. Entering this
about a mile, we made a halt by a spring.
While watering the animals, I heard a distant
rustling of the bushes and the tramp
of more horses. Presently an airy figure,
gaily attired, and mounted on a coal black
Indian pony, burst through a dense copse
near me, followed by five dusky maidens,
and rode swiftly up to where I was standing
by my steed.

“`Prairie Flower!' I shouted; and the
next moment she was on her feet, and her
hand clasped in mine.

“`O, the emotions of that moment
Time seemed to have turned his wheel
backward, and years of toil, and grief, and
fatigue, were forgotten. Passions, which
had slumbered, or been half-obliterated
by other events, were again awakened and
wrenched from their secret recesses; and
I saw her as I had seen her three years
before, and felt all I had then felt, but in
a two-fold sense.

“As for Prairie Flower, she was pale and
exceedingly agitated. She grasped my hand
nervously, gave one searching glance at
my features, and burst into tears—but did
not speak. Then she sprang away from
me a few paces, dashed the tears from her
eyes, and returning with a bound, asked
me a dozen questions in a breath: `How
I had been? Where I had been? If I

were well? If I were glad to get my liberty?
and so on; and wound up by adding:
`She was rejoiced to see me, and hoped
I should be more fortunate hereafter.'

“Throughout our first brief interview,
her manner was wild and her language
almost incoherent — which, so different
from anything I had seen, surprised and
alarmed me. She would ask a question,
and then, without waiting an answer, ask
another and another, or make some remark
altogether irrelevant. At last, with a
hope that I would now be happy, she informed
me that she could see me no more
that day; and before I had time to reply,
she skipped away, sprang into her saddle
and was off—followed by all the females
of the tribe, and some half a dozen of the
other sex.

“This proceeding perplexed me not a
little. I asked several the meaning of it,
but they only shook their heads, and I
was left to ponder it over in secret.

“We pursued our way slowly toward
the north, and I saw nothing of Prairie
Flower, nor of those who had accompanied
her, till about noon of the succeeding
day, when she again joined us, with
the balance of the tribe, among whom
were some women and children I had not
before seen, which led me to infer there
had been two camps, and this supposition
was subsequently confirmed by Prairie
Flower herself.

“My second meeting with Prairie Flower
was very different from the first. She
was calm, constrained, and I fancied cold;
though somehow I was led to think this
rather forced than natural. She was polite,
civil, and agreeable; but all that passionate
enthusiasm of the preceding day
was gone. She did not speak with freedom,
and her words seemed studied, and
her sentences regulated by previous
thought. In fact, she seemed to have
relapsed into the same state as when we
first were guests of herself and tribe.
There was either something very mysterious
about this, or else it sprang from
one natural cause—and my vanity, it may
be, led me to infer the latter. If she
loved me, her actions were easily accounted
for; if she did not care for me, why
had she taken so much pains, as her own
lips revealed, to hunt me out?

“In course of conversation which ensued,
she narrated how she had met you
— under what circumstances — and how,
urged on by a sense of duty, she had at
once set off with her tribe in the hope of
learning something more of my fate.
Fortune favored her; for while on her
way south, she met with an old mountaineer,
who gave her tidings of a cheering
nature. As her adventures have been so
much like your own, Frank, I shall not
enter into detail. Enough that she was
successful in finding me, and that I am
here.

“Day after day, as we traveled north,
I had more or less interviews with Prairie
Flower; but though she ever treated me
with respect and politeness, she always
studied to avoid familiarity.

“At last we reached the present spot,
where the tribe have encamped for a few
weeks, or until the fishers and hunters
shall have laid in a supply of provisions,
when they intend proceeding farther north.
From Prairie Flower having seen you
where she did, I inferred you had gone
home, and every day have been intending
to follow. But somehow, when the time
has come to start, I have again put it off
for another twenty-four hours, and thus
have been delaying day after day, for what
purpose I hardly know myself. I believe
I have been held here by some charm too
powerful to break, and now that you have
come I am glad of it.”

“And that charm,” said I, as my
friend concluded with a sigh, “is Prairie
Flower.”

“It may be,” he answered, musingly.
“She is so strange—I do not know what
to make of her. She is not an Indian—I
feel certain of that: but as to who she is,
I am as unenlightened as ever. Do you
really think she loves me, Frank?” he
asked suddenly, rousing himself and fastening
his eye earnestly upon mine.

“How can I answer?” I said, evasively.
“But I know of one that does, Charles.”

“You mean the Unknown — or rather,
Eva Mortimer?” he rejoined, musingly.

“I do. I have already delivered her
message, sufficient to assure you of the
fact; and she is certainly one worthy of
being loved.”

“It may be,” he sighed, and there

was a time, Frank, such intelligence would
have made me happy. But now — (he
paused, shook his head, and mused a moment)
— now it is not so. When I first
saw Eva, I had never seen Prairie Flower;
and ere the germ of a first passion had
been brought to maturity, the tree was
transplanted to another soil, and the sun
of another clime, although it did not change
its nature, ripened it to another light. Or,
to drop all metaphor,” he added, “Eva was
the first to arouse in me a latent passion,
which doubtless a proper intercourse would
have warmed to a mutual attachment; but
ere this was consummated — ere I even
knew who she was — without a hope of
ever seeing her again — I departed, and
have never beheld her since. She touched
some secret chord in my breast, and I
dwelt on her memory for a time, and loved
her as an unapproachable ideal, rather
than as an approachable substance. I
loved her—or fancied I did—rather that I
had nothing else on which to place my affections,
than for any substantial cause.
In another I afterward found a resemblance
which arrested my attention, and
changed the current of my thoughts. The
singular manner in which we were thrown
together—our daily interviews—my gratitude
to her as the preserver of my life and
yours—her generosity—in short, the concentration
in her of every noble quality—
the absence of all others—gradually drew
me to Prairie Flower; and ere I was aware
of it myself, I found her presence necessary
to my happiness. At last we parted,
as you know how, and I strove to forget
her; but, Frank, though I mentioned her
not to you, I now tell you, that I strove a
long time in vain. By day and by night,
in a greater or less degree, did she occupy
my thoughts; and it was only when misfortunes
fell upon me that her image gradually
gave place to more trying thoughts.
But our second meeting — an additional
debt of gratitude for deliverance from
slavery—has done the work; and I now
feel I can love none but Prairie Flower.”

“Then you are really in love, Charles?”

“I am; and I fear hopelessly so.”

“I fear so too,” sighed I. “But where
is Prairie Flower? I must see and thank
her from my heart.”

As I spoke, the subject of our conversation
glided into the rude lodge, and stood
before me.