University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

As I have, in “Prairie Flower,” described
the solemn ceremony by which the
Mysterious Tribe consign to dust the mortal
remains of such of their number as are
called hence by death, I shall not here repeat
it—presuming that all who read the
present tale, will have perused the other.

The second day from his death, was the
one set apart for the burial of the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains.
Each of my party,
and every one of the tribe was present,
and the funeral rite was conducted in the
most solemn manner. As it had been the
province of the deceased to enact a peculiar
part on all similar occasions, and as
this constituted one of their forms of worship,
it became necessary for the tribe to
select one of their number to fill his place.
The one chosen for the office, which he
was to hold till death, was an old white-haired
Indian, of benevolent aspect, who
at once entered upon his duties, and thenceforth
took the title of “Great Medicine.”

A grave was dug in the valley by the
little stream, and here the deceased was
buried, with all the mournful honors befitting
his station. Great were the lamentations,
and many the tears shed, as his
body was lowered to his last, long, narrow
home—the house appointed for all
living! When his remains had been covered
from the sight of all, and the “Last
Dirge” had been chanted, several Indian
maidens brought and strewed flowers over
the damp earth, and then repeating,
“Sleep in peace, beloved!” each of the
tribe took a solemn leave of the spot, and
slowly and sadly retraced their steps to
the village.

An hour or two later, Prairie Flower
sought me out and said:

“I suppose, my friend, you are anxious
to be on your way?”

“At your earliest convenience,” I replied.

“I do not wish to detain you,” she rejoined;
“but if you can delay another
day, it will greatly oblige me, as I have
much to attend to ere I depart.”

“A day, either way, will make but little
difference,” said I; “and moreover, we
could not expect you to leave sooner, after
what has occurred.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I will
hasten all my arrangements, and at sunrise
to-morrow will be yours to command;”
and she left me to begin her preparations.

In the course of the day, Prairie Flower
informed the tribe what had transpired
relative to herself, and also her present
design. The younger members, who had
always looked upon her as one of themselves,
were much surprised, and all were
very sad at the thought of parting with
one so dear to them. They could not but
admit, under the circumstances, it was her
duty to go; but they made her promise, in
case events should turn up inducing her
to withdraw from them altogether, she
would at least pay them one more visit, ere
she said the final farewell. She then
made choice of three young men and two
maidens to be her companions, and selected
five noble steeds for them to ride,
reserving the little pony to herself.

At daylight on the following morning
the whole village was astir; and having
broken our fast, the horses were caught
and saddled, and ere the sun was half an
hour above the hills, all were in readiness
to start. The parting scene between
Prairie Flower and her friends was very
affecting. She embraced all of her own
sex—kissed the children over and over
again—shook the young men and aged by
the hand—and amid tears at losing her,
and earnest prayers for her safety and happiness,
sprang on her pony and dashed
away, too much affected to witness the
separation between those who remained
and those selected to accompany her. The
latter now took leave one by one; and
though much feeling was displayed on both
sides, yet it was very different from the
farewell of Prairie Flower.

“My friends,” said Huntly, when it
came our turn to depart, “for your kindness
to me, I feel very, very grateful—but
at present, the only return in my power to
make is thanks. Should I ever have an
opportunity to do more, you shall find that
your labors in my behalf have not been
unworthily bestowed. Farewell. If we
meet not again on earth, I trust we may
in a better state.”

Each of our party next proceeded to
shake hands with each of the tribe; and
as soon as this was over, we sprang upon
our horses, and, dashing away, soon joined
those in advance.

I must now pass rapidly over our journey,
as but little occurred on the way of
interest to the general reader. Our provisions
were supplied by our trusty rifles—
we sometimes killing a bear, a deer,
and once or twice a buffalo. Entering the
beautiful South Park—a kind of second
Eden—we pushed forward, and on the second
day reached the head waters of the
South Fork of Platte, down which stream
we continued to St. Vrain's Fort, where
we all arrived without accident. Here I
took leave of Pierre and Black George,
paying them liberally for their assistance,
and pursued our journey toward the Black
Hills, to the very spot where I had first
been introduced to the Mysterious Tribe,
and where, as I learned from Prairie
Flower, they intended making their winter
quarters.

On our way thither, Prairie Flower
threw off much of that reserve which she
had hitherto exercised toward Huntly;
and not unfrequently they rode on together
for miles, engaged in earnest conversation.
The effect of this upon my
friend was very gratifying to me; it seemed
to divert his thoughts from more painful
subjects; and I saw with pleasure that
his pale, careworn features gradually resumed
their wonted appearance, and his
eye, especially, its former luster. Still he
was sad at times—very sad—and then I
knew his thoughts were dwelling upon the
loss of his father, and the afflictions of
his mother and sister. He was naturally
but little given to despondency; and when
in company with myself or another, ever
strove to be cheerful, that he might not
cause us the pain of sympathy.

Sometimes I held long, private conversations
with Prairie Flower; and then she
would ask me over and over again about
her supposed sister and mother--whether
I thought they would be glad to own her--
and more than once made me recount what
little I knew of their history. This was
a theme of which she seemed never to
tire, and oftentimes would be affected to
tears. Then she would tell me how she
had mused over herself, and wondered who
she was—whether she had a mother living—and
if so, whether that mother ever
thought of her. Sometimes she had fancied
herself ignobly born — that she had
been cast off in infancy — and then she
had gone away by herself and wept bitter
tears, and had prayed ardently that she
might be resigned to her fate. She loved
the Indians — among whom, at an early
age, her lot had been cast — to her they
were as brothers and sisters; but still the
knowledge that she was not of their race—
a secret yearning for the fond look and
tender tone of a mother—had troubled her
sorely; and nothing but the consolation of
religion, and the hope of at least meeting
her relatives in a better world, had supported
her through her lonely trials.

Until I heard this from the lips of Prairie
Flower, I had no idea such was the
case, and had believed her contented and
happy in the position where Providence
had placed her, as had all who knew her.
But they, as well as I, had overlooked,
that where mystery clouds the birth of an
individual, the thought of this to a sensitive,
intelligent mind—his or her speculations
upon it—the want of, the yearning
for, more knowledge—must at times render
such, no matter what the outward
seeming, very unhappy. It was this very
thing, perhaps, which had made Prairie
Flower so distant toward my friend, whom
she loved, as I knew, with a passion pure
and holy. She had thought herself unfit
to be his companion, and had nobly struggled
to undo what nature had done — and
oh! what a hopeless and painful struggle
it had been! — what an iron resolution it
had required to carry it out! — and how
many sleepless nights and miserable days
it must have cost her!

At last we reached the village, whereto,
some three years before, I had been borne

from the field of battle in an unconscious
state. What singular associations the
sight of it revived! and how mournful its
present aspect! It was deserted, and silent;
and though most of its rude tenements
were still standing, yet their half
dilapidated appearance, and the general
air of long desertion and decay everywhere
visible, brought to mind Goldsmith's
unrivaled and beautiful poem of the “Deserted
Village.” We rode through the
little town in silence, noting each thing
as we passed—and when we had got beyond
it, Prairie Flower turned, gazed back,
sighed deeply, wiped a few tears from her
eyes, and then urged her little pony forward
at a rapid pace.

A ride of half a mile brought us to a
huge old tree, with a hollow trunk, when
Prairie Flower came to a halt and said:

“My friends, this is the spot designated
by Great Medicine, as the one where I
should find a treasure to me more valuable
than a mine of gold. Beneath that stone
lies all or nothing. Oh! how I tremble,
lest it prove the latter. Heaven grant I
find what I seek!”

“Amen to that!” responded I; and the
whole party dismounted.

Leading the way, Prairie Flower passed
the tree a few feet, and rested her delicate
foot upon a stone of singular appearance.

“Here!” she almost gasped, while her
features grew deadly pale with excitement,
and her frame shook nervously: “Here!”
and she pointed down with her finger, but
could say no more.

Forming a circle around the stone, we
all gazed upon it a moment in silence, and
then addressing Huntly:

“Come, my friend,” I said, “let us
raise it.”

Stooping down, we applied all our
strength to it in vain.

“It seems bedded in the earth by
nature,” said Huntly.

“Oh, no! say not that!” cried Prairie
Flower in alarm. “Say not that, I beg
of you! This is the spot described to me
by the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains. I have
thought of it by day—dreamed of it by
night. I here have rested hopes of which
you little think. Hopes, whose realization
may render me the most happy, as
disappointment would the most miserable
being on earth. If I have made a mistake,
it is a fatal one. A mistake—
But no! no! it must not—must not be!
Help, here, some of you!” she added, addressing
the others. “Be quick! and do
not keep me in this torturing suspense!”

She spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently,
and her manner was very wild. As
she concluded, she clasped her hands and
gazed down upon the rock with a look I
shall never forget. It was the agonized
concentration of hope and fear. As if, in
truth, she feared herself about to lose the
only friend she had on earth. Instantly
Teddy and one of the Indians laid hold
with us, and our united efforts moved the
stone from its foundation. All pressed
forward, and eagerly gazed into the aperture.
Nothing was there, apparently, but
smooth, solid earth. For a moment, Prairie
Flower stood stupefied with amazement
and despair. Then burying her face in
her hands, she sank down upon the earth,
without uttering a syllable.

“Do not despair!” cried I; and bending
down, I felt the earth with my hand.

It was soft, as if it had once been removed.
I hastily dug down a few inches,
and my hand touched a solid substance.
Brushing away the dirt rapidly, I discovered
to my unspeakable delight, a small
wooden box.

“'Tis here!” shouted I, “'tis here!”
and the next moment I had torn it from
the ground, and stood triumphantly holding
it aloft.

My words roused Prairie Flower, who
started to her feet with a scream, caught
the box from my hand, pressed it eagerly
to her lips and heart, and then paced to
and fro, in an indescribable delirium of delight.
At length she became more calm,
and turning to the rest of us, who stood
looking on in silence, she said, in one of
her sweetest tones:

“My friends, you must excuse me!—
but oh! you know not, cannot know, my
feelings for the last five minutes.”

“We can at least imagine them,” returned
I; “and certainly there is no apology
needed. We are only too happy in
discovering the treasure.”

“Ay, treasure indeed!” she exclaimed,
holding the box from her, and gazing upon
it with a singular expression. “Ha!”

she added, “here is something written on
the outside;” and examining it a moment,
she added: “It is the language of the
Mysterious Tribe, and translated, reads,
`Seek lower!”'

“That implies something still below,”
observed Huntly; and stooping down, he
thrust his hand into the loose earth, and
presently drew forth a lump of pure gold,
weighing some three or four pounds.

Great was our astonishment on beholding
this; but it was increased the next
moment by my friend bringing up two
more of nearly equal size and value.
These lumps had no particular shape, and
had the appearance of being broken off
from a larger substance.

“This is strange!” remarked Prairie
Flower, as we all stood examining them;
“and where could Great Medicine have
procured them? There is no gold in these
mountains, that I am aware of—and yet
this seems fresh taken from a mine. And,
by-the-way, this reminds me that Great
Medicine was always well supplied with
gold, though where it came from was always
a mystery to the rest of the tribe.
And see!” she added, giving one of the
pieces a close scrutiny: “See! here is my
Indian name, Leni Leoti, scratched upon
it with some sharp instrument.”

“And on this,” said Huntly, holding
up another.

“And on this,” repeated I, turning over
the third.

“They were intended for you, Prairie
Flower,” observed Huntly, addressing her;
“and together form no mean gift.”

“He was always kind to me, and I loved
him,” rejoined Prairie Flower, artlessly,
her eyes filling with tears.

“But where could so much gold, in this
rough state, have been obtained?” asked
Huntly, turning to me.

A sudden thought flashed through my
mind, and I turned to Prairie Flower.

“Was Great Medicine ever much
abroad?”

“Never far from the tribe, since I first
knew him,” was her answer.

“But the tribe has been roving?”

“Yes, we have seldom spent a year at
a time in one place.”

“Were you ever in California?”

“One season we quartered on a beau
tiful oasis in the Great Desert, as we
termed it.”

“Ha! then there is some grounds for
my conjecture;” and taking Huntly aside,
I recalled to his mind the shiny sand we
had there gathered, and added: “I think
we were right in our surmises of its being
gold!”

“True,” he answered, with a start; “I
remember now, though I had completely
forgotten the circumstance.”

“And so had I, till this revived it.”

“Have you any of that sand with you,
Frank?”

“I have not. Our subsequent perils
drove the matter from my mind; and if
any remained on my person when we arrived
at Sutter's, it was thrown away
with the tattered garments that contained
it.”

“Well, let it go!” rejoined Huntly,
musingly; “let it go! There is gold
there, without doubt — and some day it
will doubtless be the means of great
speculation.”

“This being the case, my friend, suppose
we make another tour, and ascertain
for a certainty? If true, our fortune is
made.”

Huntly looked at me seriously for a
moment, with a very peculiar expression
of countenance, and then rejoined, in a
decisive tone:

“No, Frank! not even a mine of gold
would tempt me to encounter the perils of
such a journey again. Suppose I prove
successful and make a fortune — what
then? What is wealth, after all, that man
should make himself a slave? 'Tis here
—'tis there —'tis gone. Look at my lamented
father, for example! One day he
could count his thousands — the next he
was a beggar; and the grave soon followed
to cover a broken heart. Fortune is not
happiness — therefore I'll pay no court to
the truant jade. Let those have wealth
who crave it; let them worship the golden
Mammon; for myself, let me be happy
with little, and I ask no more. But, come!
I see Prairie Flower and the rest are waiting
us, and we must be on the move.”

Joining the others, we made further
search, but finding nothing new, we all
mounted our horses and set forward —
Prairie Flower in better spirits than I had

ever seen her. Though in possession of
the box supposed to contain all she desired,
yet she absolutely refused to open it, lest
she might be tempted to an examination of
its contents, and thus break her promise to
the dying old man.

Summer had already passed, and the
mortal stroke of old Autumn was even
now beginning to be felt on the mountains.
The trees, which had waved their green
leaves as an accompaniment to the music
of the forest choir, were already changing
color, as if in dread of the steady, onward
strides of their annual, but ever-conquering
foe. The first process of decay had begun
— but so beautiful, that one as he gazed
upon it, though it awakened a solemn, almost
melancholy train of thought, could
hardly wish it otherwise. As we ascended
the mountains higher and more high, the
scene below us became enchanting in its
variety. Far, far away, for miles upon
miles, the eye roved over hill and plain,
while the soul, as it were, drank in the
very essence of nature's beauty. The
atmosphere was cool and clear, and the
sun brilliant, but not warm. In every
direction there was something new for the
eye to rest upon — something new for the
mind to ponder. I beheld distant mountains
rising to the very skies — isolated,
glistening and cold in their lonely grandeur
— as one who has ventured to the topmost
round of Ambition's ladder, and scorns
in his elevation all meaner objects grovelling
in the dust below. I beheld lovely
valleys, as yet untouched by the destroyer,
still bright in their summer garments,
through which purled silvery streams —
the former doomed ere long to put on the
withered shreds of mourning, and the
latter to cease their murmurs in the icy
fetters of the advancing Winter-King. In
short, I beheld hills, and dales, and forests,
and rolling prairies, and rivers, and
rivulets -- all spread before me in picturesque
succession — and all more or less
variegated with the many-hued mantle of
autumn. The scene was enchanting; and,
as Prairie Flower, who with my friend had
also been silently surveying it, observed
with a sigh:

“Most melancholy beautiful.”

But lovely as was the view, I had but
little time for contemplation; for the long
journey before us, and the lateness of the
season, required us to hasten forward, that
we might pass the mountains before the
snowstorms and ice of winter should completely
bar our way. We had yet some
thirteen hundred miles to travel, and, with
everything favorable, could not hope to
reach our destination in less than five or
six weeks. Fortunately our animals were
in good order -- lightly laden — with no
troublesome vehicles creaking and rumbling
after, to delay us with bad roads and
breaking accidents.

Leaving Laramie Peak to our right, we
struck across the Laramie Plains to the
Sweet Water Mountains, and thence descended
to the great Oregon trail, crossing
the Rocky Mountains at the well-known
South Pass. For the rest of the distance,
our road was to some extent a traveled
one, and our progress, with some little
delays very rapid. As nothing of unusual
interest occurred on the route, I shall pass
it over without a record.

On the evening of the first day of November,
1843, we came in sight of the
lights of Oregon City, which we hailed
with three deafening cheers.