University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
RETURN TO CAMP.

The camp had now become comparatively still,
the different fires were gradually dying out, and most
of the tired wayfarers had retired to rest, some under
cover of the different wagons, and many in the open
air, with only a blanket spread on the earth for a bed,
and a stone, a log, a saddle, or whatever was at hand,
for a pillow. A few were still strolling about outside
of the wagons, keeping watch over the horses, mules
and cattle, which were getting their fill of the luxuriant
grass along the little valley of the rippling
stream, and which were soon to be driven in and picketed
close around the camp. The night was warm
and close, with scarcely a breath of air stirring; and
though cloudless overhead, a thin haze, gradually
thickening with vapors rising from the earth, permitted
only the brighter stars to be dimly visible, and
betokened the final eclipse of all.

Among those still astir, I found Mr. Phillips. He
was sitting, a la Turque, on the ground, by his wagon,
smoking his pipe, and repairing some portion of a
harness by the light of a lantern. As I had had little
conversation with any one save Adele, owing to my
depressed state of mind after shooting Loyola, I now
approached him, for the purpose of making some important
inquiries.

“Well, my friend,” he said, in a kindly tone, looking
up from his work as I drew near—“how is it
with you now?”

“I feel much better, I thank you!” was my reply.
“I have had some conversation with Adele, of an
important nature, and have just come from looking
in upon the wounded ruffian—for I cannot call him,
after what I have just witnessed, by any gentler term.
If it be true, as some physicians assert, that ill-temper
is a sign the invalid is in no immediate danger of
dying, then I think his life might be insured at a very
small per centage.”

“You found him savage, did you?”

“Yes, savage is a very good term; unless, in applying
it to him, it scandalizes the natives of this
region;” and I proceeded to give an account of his
late brutal treatment of Adele.

“Poor girl!” said Phillips, sympathetically; “I
wish she were beyond his reach!”

“How is it,” I inquired, “that you permit such a
brute of a man to travel in such respectable company?
for all the rest of you, that I have seen, appear to have
human feelings.”

“Why, the fact is,” answered Phillips, “though we
travel together, for mutual protection against our common
enemy, the Indians, we are all separate traders,
each man owning his team and freight, which he disposes
of to please himself. I say all; but I should
except some four or five families, now going out to
Santa Fe with us, for permanent settlement. I am

one that have been in this line of trade for a couple
of years. About a year ago, this Loyola, whom we
first saw in San Miguel, begged the privilege of being
allowed to join us. Some objected; but on a vote
being taken, the decision was in his favor. He
brought this girl, whom he calls his daughter, with
him; and with the exception of sometimes treating
her rather harshly, and being, now and then, especially
when he has been drinking, sullen, savage, and
quarrelsome, he has behaved himself pretty well, and
kept within the rules and regulations by which we
are governed. With a man's private affairs, if he
does not intrude upon and disturb his neighbors, our
general law has nothing to do—our motto being,
`each one mind his own business;' and though few
of us like Loyola as a man—and all of us more or
less pity the poor girl, who is kept under the most
savage restraint, not being permitted to speak to any
one without the consent of her father—yet, according
to the code which binds us together, no one has a
right to interfere in his domestic matters.”

“And does not common humanity authorize you
to interfere, when a poor, innocent girl is the recipient
of a ruffian's blows?” inquired I, with some
asperity.

“I never knew him to strike and knock her down
before to-night, and I think you will admit he is pretty
well punished for that.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and I am now inclined to believe
he got no more than he deserved.”

“So I have heard several say already. If you had
not punished him severely, Mr. Rivers, you may rest
assured he would have met the proper chastisement
from other quarters, and that is why your act is
viewed so leniently. If he recovers, he will have to
carry himself pretty straight hereafter, or he will find
himself expelled from the company. Even as it is, I
have heard several declare, that if he is to be permitted
to travel with us, they will withdraw. I do
not know how it will be. With the exception mentioned,
Loyola is not a bad travelling companion.
He has his good points. He never meddles with his
neighbors' affairs, and a better Indian fighter it would
be hard to find. Last winter, when we were attacked
by the Camanches, he fought like a hero; and with
rifle, pistols, and knife, killed four, and wounded two
more, besides chasing the others, when they fled,
further than any other white man dared to venture.”

“I should suppose he would make a good fighter,”
said I, “and good Indian fighters are valuable. Do
you know anything of his history?”

“Nothing—he is not communicative.”

“Is the girl, Adele, generally supposed to be his
daughter?”

“We know nothing to the contrary—though I
have heard many express their doubts.”

“And rightly, I judge. At all events, as I have
taken a deep interest in her, I shall endeavor to see
her again, and make some further inquiries, whether

he like it or not—that is, if others of your party
have no reasonable objections.”

“Loyola will have objections, you may rest
assured; and you will have to be cautious, or your
life may be the penalty. I believe he would shoot
the man who interferes in his affairs, as he would a
dog.”

“There are two that can play at that game,” said
I, “as he already knows to his cost. But I will be
cautious; and if others do not intermeddle, I think I
can manage the matter very safely. And now, my
friend, give me a candid, straight-forward answer.
Should I ascertain that Adele has been removed from
her friends—and I can, through her, find any clue to
them, and wish to restore her, with her own consent,
—do you think any of your party, save Loyola himself,
would object to my taking her away?”

“Why, if satisfied of your intentions being perfectly
honorable—as I doubt not they are—I do not
think any one would; because, should the girl desire
to leave, that would be her own business; but it
would be better that none of our party rendered
you any assistance; for I have seen enough of
Loyola, to know that he would be a dangerous man
to tamper with.”

“I will ask no help beyond my own friends; and
nothing shall be done to compromit any of your
party; and as to my intentions toward the poor girl,
if I do not mean her well, in every respect, may my
tongue wither, and my eyes refuse me sight!”

“I see how it is!” rejoined Phillips, with a smile
of meaning; “it is already whispered about that you
are in love with the girl.”

“Is it so?” returned I, with a start of surprise;
for though I had been drawn to Adele in an unaccountable
manner, I had never once thought of her
in such a connection: “Then tell your friends they
labor under a mistake. I never was in love in my
life; and if I know myself, I am not now; but I
have much sympathy for her, and I will do her a
service if I can—though my feelings are rather those
of a brother than a lover. I have just left home to
see something of the world in the wilderness, and do
not intend to fall in love for ten years to come—five,
at least.”

“Say what you will, Mr. Rivers,” returned Phiilips,
with a pleasant laugh, “you could not convince the
women to the contrary—and they are pretty shrewd
in matters pertaining to the heart. However, it is
none of my business; though I venture to say, that
you might fall in love with a less attractive girl, judging
from the little I have seen of her.”

“Pray do me the favor to undeceive your lady
friends in this respect,” said I. “And yet,” I added,
after a moment's reflection, “it may, on the whole, be
best to let them think as they do.”

“I think it will,” laughed Phillips; “at least, I
am certain nothing I could say would change their
opinion; for I have seen enough of the sex to know,
that if a woman has once fairly got a crotchet in her

head, all the reasoning powers of man, or angel,
would not be sufficient to drive it out.”

I continued my conversation with Mr. Phillips for
some half an hour longer; and I found him, as I have
shown him, a shrewd, intelligent man, with pleasing
conversational powers, and an education superior to
the majority of Western traders. He informed me
that he was originally from one of the Eastern States;
that he had been a merchant in St. Louis; but having
failed in business, he had adopted his present mode
of life in order to get another start in the world, and
liberally educate his two boys, both of whom were now
at college. His wife, by her own choice, accompanied
him in his hard, perilous journeys back and forth
across the plains; which at times made his travels
more pleasant to him; and at others, especially when
surrounded by danger, caused him extreme anxiety.
He said he thought if he could get safely through
another year, with the same good fortune in trade
that had hitherto attended him, he would be able
to start again in business in St. Louis, where he could
have all the comforts of a happy home. I wished him
success, with all my heart. He dealt partly in dry goods,
and partly in teas, coffee and sugar—on all of which
he made enormous profits—generally selling out at
Santa Fe, and getting his pay in cash, or furs—which
latter were even better than cash, because he realized
on them a second profit on his return to the States.
Most of those with him were Missourians—each, like
himself, trading on his own account—and, like himself,

most of them at home were men of some standing.

“Well,” he said, at length, “it is time for us to turn
in, for these hot days we must start early. I have
no tempting accommodations to offer you; but I can
lend you a blanket, and show you the soft side of a
turf; and to such accommodations you must get accustomed,
if you continue your journey over the prairies.”

“I kindly thank you!” said I; “but I am still too
much excited to sleep; and I think I will make
another effort to find my own camp; it certainly cannot
be far from here.”

“By-the-by,” he rejoined, “was your camp a little
south of the regular trail?”

“Yes, about a quarter of a mile, in a very pleasant
woodland-bottom, on the bank of a little stream.”

“Had you a tent?”

“Yes!” I returned, quickly.

“Then we passed it about half an hour before sundown.
I saw the tent, and called attention to it. It
is about a mile and a half, or two miles, east of here.”

“Then I can certainly find it,” said I, joyfully;
“and I must find it to-night; for my friend will not
sleep till I return; and one night's loss of sleep will
unfit him for to-morrow's journey.”

“Well, if you think you had better go, I will not
try to detain you, for I appreciate your feelings; but
you scarcely tasted of your supper; so, for fear of
accidents, I shall insist on your taking some food
with you.”

I gladly assented to his proposition, for I now began
to feel a very keen appetite; and he hastened to procure
me a large slice of meat, and one entire corn-cake—apologizing,
at the same time, for not having
anything better to offer me.

“And now,” he said, giving my hand a hearty grip
and shake, “I will bid you good-bye, with the hope
that we shall meet again. You will probably overtake
us—for we travel slow with teams—and I think
your heart and Adele will hasten the meeting. And,
my friend, should it chance that Loyola does not
recover, do not be too much cast down! You acted
on the defensive; and there is not one of us, probably,
that would not have done as you did under
the circumstances. If we have any human right
more than another, it is the right to protect our own
lives, by our own strong arms, in this wild, lawless
country; and even in the settlements, you could not
find a jury that would not, in your case, even had the
man been killed outright, bring in a verdict of justifiable
homicide. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye, and God bless you, for proving yourself
a friend in need!” I replied; and I spoke in a
tremulous voice, and left him with tearful eyes.

On quitting the kind-hearted Phillips, I crossed over
to Loyola's wagon, to take one parting look at the
wounded man, and perhaps speak another word with
Adele. While we had been conversing, one after
another had betaken themselves to rest; and only
here and there a person could be seen stirring; while

all the fires had gone out, or were smouldering in
their own ashes. I approached the wagon cautiously,
and stealthily, and quietly looked in. Loyola was
lying on his left side, apparently asleep; and poor
Adele, sitting on a box, with her back against a bale
of goods, was nodding with drowsiness, though evidently
struggling to keep herself awake, probably
because she had been ordered to do so by her tyrannical
master. I wished to say a parting word to her,
but did not think it prudent to speak, and so withdrew
as stealthily as I came.

Loyola's wagon was near the runlet or creek, which
was the proper outlet to the camp; and springing
over the tiny stream, I ascended the opposite slope,
and once more found myself upon the broad, beaten
trail. Here I remembered I had left my rifle at Phillips'
wagon, and went back for it. He had just returned
from looking at his animals, and was in the
act of crawling into his vehicle. I exchanged another
good-bye with him, and hastened away. Once more
over the little stream, and upon the trail, I proceeded
to load my rifle, and then set off eastward upon a run,
so anxious was I to reach my camp and relieve the
distress of my friend.

The night had now become quite dark. The rising
vapors had completely veiled the heavens, and, stretching
along the earth, like a cloud, had wrapped a close
mantle around every object; so that the speed with
which I had ventured to start, was suddenly checked
by an obstruction, over which I went headlong, but

fortunately without breaking a bone, or seriously injuring
my rifle. On gathering myself up, I came to
the conclusion, that the race, in this case, might not
be to the swift; and that the slightest variation from
the trail, would be likely to detain me from my friend
till morning, to say nothing worse; so I resumed my
route at a very slow walk, and allowed my mind to
run over in haste the events of the day.

And a most eventful day it had been to me. I had
travelled twenty miles into a new country; had seen
a trifle of wilderness life and sport; had quarreled
twice; had been lost once; had three times narrowly
escaped with my life; had shot a man, perhaps mortally;
had received a brief trial and acquittal; and
last, though not least, had, according to the opinions
of some, fallen in love with a young and beautiful
girl, whom I had for the first time beheld within the
last three or four hours.

But was the inference, which had been drawn from
my actions, a correct one? Was I in love with Adele
Loyola? I did not think so. True, I had taken a
strange interest in her; had felt peculiar sensations
in her presence, which I had never before experienced
in the presence of one of her sex; and I still regarded
her, now that she was absent, as one of the brightest
links in the chain of my existence; as one whom I
was bound to snatch from a tyrannical master, and
to succor and protect; but did it follow that I was in
love? Was the feeling I had for her other than
brotherly sympathy? other than I might have felt

toward another similarly circumstanced? Love!
what was love? I knew nothing about it. I had
never been in love in my life. I had always supposed
it to be the passionate desire of two persons, of
different sexes, to unite their fates and fortunes for
the journey of life. Had I any such desire with regard
to Adele? No! Had she any such wish or
thought with respect to myself? Probably not. Did
I wish to marry at all? and more especially the object
of my present solicitude? No! Then how could I be
in love? I was not. It was only mere fancy on the
part of those who knew nothing of my nature.

Besides, when looking forward to an event which
might possibly happen in the course of my life, though
not yet for years, I had set up an ideal being in my
mind—an ideal which I had never as yet seen in
human form—an ideal as unlike Adele Loyola as any
other of her sex. Then why think of love in connection
with her? Pshaw! what folly! Who was
she? I did not know: she did not know herself. I
was interested in the mystery, of course; interested
in her as an unfortunate being; interested in serving
her, so far as lay in my power; interested in seeing her
made happy; interested in wanting and retaining her
good opinion: but it was the interest of a brother
rather than a lover, or else warm friendship and
ardent passion had not the marked distinction I had
always supposed.

Thus I pondered, as, with slow pace and weary
limbs I pursued my course—the deep cart-ruts of

the road, or trail, being sufficient guide to my steps,
even though I could not perceive an object a foot
from my eye. At length, on calculating time and
progress, to the best of my ability, I came to the
conclusion that I had advanced about far enough
eastward to be on a line with the camp of my friend;
but as I could see nothing in any direction, I began
to feel renewed uneasiness, lest after all I should be
compelled to pass the night away from him. Once
more I bethought me of my rifle, and discharged it;
but the fog lay so dense around, that the report did
not go far, and I listened in vain for an answering
sound. I still kept moving slowly forward, and
presently the rippling sound of water caught my ear.
I now fairly shouted for joy. That this was the
stream on which my companions were encamped, I
really believed; and if so, I had only to enter its
bed, and follow it up, for a quarter of a mile, to find
them.

Fifteen minutes more put me out of suspense, and
filled my heart with joy; for I now beheld the light
of a fire; and, sitting beside it, his elbows on his
knees, his face buried in his hands, was the figure of
my friend. I approached him stealthily, and placed
my hand on his shoulder. He looked up with a start,
and a flash of joy brightened his pale, sad features.

“Why, Roland!” he exclaimed; “my friend! you
have come at last—God be praised!” and springing to
his feet, he threw his arms around my neck, and
wept like a child.