University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
LOST ON THE PRAIRIE.

We had followed the road, and were now about two
miles beyond the town, on an open prairie, which, in a
northerly and westerly direction, extended for miles,
occasionally relieved here and there by what I may term
an open wood, or a kind of grove clear of underbrush.
To reach the residence of Clara's aunt by the nearest way,
we should, according to her account, have turned off to
the left, about a mile back, and made a bee line for a
certain cluster of trees, which, some half a dozen in
number, surrounded a clear spring of cold water, and were
distant about three miles.

“But it does not matter riding back,” she said; “I
think I see the spot from here; so we will set off
across the plain; and at a little quicker pace, too—for I
had almost forgotten the illness of my aunt.”

We did so accordingly—galloping over a smooth,
luxuriant prairie, where the wild flowers, of rainbow hues,
vied with each other in beauty, as they rose above the
green, velvet-like turf. As Clara was to be guide, I rode
by her side, without asking any questions concerning
the way, but occasionally conversing with her on other
matters. I had noticed a clump of trees on leaving the
road, toward which we were directing our steps; and supposing
that Clara knew the direct route to our destination,
and that we were now going right, I thought nothing
more about it. In something less than an hour, we found

ourselves near the grove; when Clara, giving a quick,
eager glance toward the trees, exclaimed:

“Ha! I have made a mistake!—this is not the spring!”

“Well, that can matter but little,” I replied, “if we
have kept the proper direction.”

“I fear we have not,” she said, quickly; “and a slight
variation would take us far out of our way.”

We rode up to the grove, which was on slightly rising
ground, and consisted of numerous trees, clear of underbrush,
standing in orchard-like regularity, and covering a
space of a hundred yards in length by fifty in breadth.
The ground here was moist, and the vegetation rank—the
grass, still green, coming nearly to our stirrups—though
there was no regular spring. I have rarely seen a grove
so beautiful, even when nature has been aided by art.
Here, side by side, grew the ash, the cypress, the sycamore,
and the oak, in majestic beauty—their numerous
branches interlocking, as if in a fraternal embrace—and
their different-hued foliage commingling in picturesque
harmony. Vines were twined around the huge trunks of
some; and some three or four were draped with the
Spanish, or long moss; which, of a dark silver gray color,
drooped over them like a veil; and, partially concealing
their foliage, gave them a solemn, sombre, funereal aspect.
This curious vegetation, I believe, is peculiar to Texas—at
least I have seen it nowhere else; and somehow it always
reminded me of a beautiful woman in mourning—it has
something so attractive and sad in its appearance. It is
much seen on the bottom lands, near the large rivers, but
seldom in other places.

We stopped our horses in the shade; and the soft
breeze, as it stole through the leafy arches, and fanned our
brows, felt delightfully refreshing; for, although October,
we had found it very warm riding in the noonday sun.

“How beautiful!” I exclaimed, as I glanced around the
grove, and then ran my eye over the flowery plain, which
stretched away on every hand for miles, and, in one or
two directions, extended beyond my range of vision,
apparently bounded by the blue horizon.

“Yes, it is very beautiful,” replied my fair companion,
with an anxious look; “but I can scarcely enjoy the
scene, for fear I have lost my way.”

“I think you need give yourself no uneasiness,” I
replied; “for surely, in this short distance, we cannot have
varied much from our proper course.”

“Enough, at least, to perplex me,” she rejoined; “for,
having varied from the right path at all, I know not how
to regain it.”

“Nothing is easier: we have only to retrace our steps
and try again.”

“But think of the delay! and I am so anxious to reach
my aunt's.”

“Well, as you know the point of compass, I think it
would be risking very little to go forward as we have
begun.”

“Let me see!” said Clara, thoughtfully. “From the
spring, I should shape my course in this direction (pointing
with her finger); and that would take me to a woodland,
about five miles distant, near which is a little knoll,
from the summit of which can be seen the village where
my aunt resides. Now yonder is a woodland, which, in
appearance, and that of the country round—distance, too,
considered—I think must be the point I wish to reach.”

“From your description, I should judge so,” I replied.

“We will ride forward to it on a venture,” she rejoined;
“for I dislike the idea of turning back.”

We accordingly set off again, at a fast canter; but it
was an hour, at least, before we reached the woodland—

proving that the distance was greater than Clara had
calculated on. When we did reach it, it was only to be
sadly disappointed—for it was not the spot of which she
was in search. She looked alarmed.

“Good heavens!” she cried: “now, in truth, I fear we
are lost!”

“Not so!” I replied—“for it is easy to find our way
back.”

“Well, that seems the only course left us: but only
think what a loss of time!—and our horses will be completely
fatigued: see how they pant now:—we must have
come ten miles, at least.”

“But surely,” I pursued, “it must be needless to go
back; we cannot be far from the right course; yonder is
another woodland—perhaps that is the one we seek.”

After some further discussion, we decided to ride forward
to the spot I pointed out; and, if still wrong, we
would retrace our steps. It was about three miles distant,
and we reached it in less than half an hour—but it
was not the place we sought.

There seemed nothing better to be done now, than to
turn back and go the ground all over again; and reluctantly,
dispiritedly, we began the task.

But, for some reason—perhaps because we had got a
little bewildered in our repeated efforts to get right—and
perhaps, too, because these numerous groves, dotting the
broad prairie as islands do the sea, have such a striking
resemblance to each other at a distance—we even failed to
keep our course back, but strayed off to spots we had not
before visited; and in less than two hours after setting
out on our return, we were as much lost as if we had been
in a wilderness a hundred miles from human habitation.

The first sensation of being lost on a prairie, or in a forest,
is terrible; and, if any thing, this terribleness I think

increases, as time passes, and you find every effort to extricate
yourself from your awful situation prove unavailing.
That feeling of helplessness, loneliness, utter desolation and
despair, which succeeds each vain attempt to right yourself,
will make the stoutest heart quail, the strongest nerve
quake. Death stares you in the face, if you dare to look
into the future—and death in its most grim and ghastly
and hideous form! Death is appalling at all times—for
nature instinctively shrinks back from it; but even death
has its degrees of terror; and one of the most striking is
that which comes in the form of starvation—afar from the
sound of a human voice—afar from all that can give you
a faint hope of rescue. The thought of dying alone—
without one consoling word, one sympathetic look, one
parting adieu from those you love—and to know that your
fate will ever remain unknown, an agonizing mystery to
your friends—that your flesh will become food for ravenous
beasts, and your bones will be left to whiten in the
desert,—the thought of all this, I say, will make your
frame quiver, and your blood almost curdle in your veins.
And then, as you shudderingly contemplate this vision of
horror, to have the phantom of bloody violence step in
before it, and seem to warn you not to count on even these
brief hours—or, in other words, to reflect that long before
exhausted nature may loose her hold on your immortal
spirit, the teeth of some prowling beast may suddenly despatch
you over the fatal bourne—in no degree softens the
aspect of the frightful picture. And if to all this be added
the like doom for another, whom you prize even beyond
life itself—and to save whom, from the fate described, you
would almost willingly undergo it alone—the case becomes
one of mental anxiety almost beyond the strength of reason
to bear.

Oh! man—alone on the prairie, in the forest, or on the

ocean—surrounded only by the works of the Almighty
hand—what is he? He who elsewhere boasts of knowledge,
of greatness, of power—what is he here? How
small, how infinitesimally small, does he now appear unto
himself! and how insignificant, when compared with the
vastness of all around him! He beholds nothing but the
works of Almighty God; and feels that his own knowledge,
however great, is not even as a shadow to a substance to
that which could construct Nature and fix her eternal
laws; that his greatness is a nothing in infinite space;
that his power is less, far less, than the weight of an atom
to a universe. And yet this same man, in another place,
and under other circumstances, dares, it may be, through
infatuated conceit, to argue against the perfection of creation—to
impiously question the wisdom and justice of
the God who made him! Oh, folly! human folly! the
glaring exhibition of the frailty of the lowest order of
being made in the image of Jehovah!

Such were some of my reflections, as, with my half-distracted
companion, I dashed over the prairie, from place
to place, under the terrible sensation of being really lost.

But though much alarmed, my fears had not yet reached
that point at which hope takes flight and leaves one to
despair. No! I felt we were lost; but I doubted not we
should ultimately find the road, of which we were now in
quest, and be able to gain the home of Clara in safety.

And why we had not yet found it, is a mystery, which,
to this day, I am unable to solve. Surely, we had ridden
far enough, and more than far enough, to have reached it,
even allowing for the variation of several points from the
course pursued on leaving it. Could it be possible that we
had touched on some of the very woodlands we were seeking,
without recognizing them? It might be so; for when
one has become bewildered about his way, places the most

familiar have such a different appearance that he knows
them not.

When we first turned back to retrace our steps, so confident
was I of going right, that I would have wagered my
life against a trifle that I would not vary twenty paces
from striking the road where we left it. And yet hours
had passed since then, more miles had been gone over than
we had first traversed, and now I knew not where we were.
Our animals, too, were fatigued; and Clara was so frightened,
that it taxed all my powers of reasoning to keep up
her spirits so as to enable her to sit her horse. As if to
make matters still worse, the sun, which had all along
shone out bright and clear, now became obscured by
clouds, which floated up from the west, and I no longer
had even that guide to tell me what direction I was pursuing.

At length we reached a woodland, larger than any we
had before seen, which, gradually rising above the prairie
around it, sloped off to the westward, with a small purling
stream of pure water meandering through the centre. This
woodland was about a mile in length; and on leaving it,
the brook pursued its course through a slight valley, where,
in the loamy soil, it had cut a channel for itself some
twenty feet in depth. Fatigued and disheartened, we halted
under the trees, and for a brief time silently gazed
upon each other. Clara, pale and frightened, was the first
to break the silence. Wringing her hands, in the agony
of despair, she exclaimed:

“Oh! Mr. Walton, what is to be done now? We are
lost! we are lost! and may never behold our friends
again. Oh, merciful God, protect us!”

“Do not despair!” I said, assuming a cheerful tone,
though in truth my heart almost died within me. “We

shall certainly be able to find some habitation, if we
pursue any one course far enough.”

“And how long think you our horses will hold out,
without rest and refreshment?” she returned. “See how
they droop now!”

“Rest and refreshment they must have,” I replied;
“and what better place for both than this? Here is grass
in abundance, and here is water; let us dismount and give
them an hour to graze—by that time they will be able to
bear us many a mile with ease.”

“But an hour will bring us hard upon night,” said
Clara; “and oh! what will become of us then?” and she
fell to weeping bitterly.

I endeavored to tranquilize her—but for a long time
without success. At last she grew calm; but it seemed
the calmness of despair, rather than hope. I assisted her
to dismount, and seated her under a large oak, near which
a spring bubbled up clear, cold water. Having watered
the horses and turned them loose, I constructed a sort of
cup, of fresh leaves, and gave Clara to drink.

“Would to Heaven,” I said, as I handed it to her, “I
could give you to eat also! but unfortunately we took no
food with us.”

“Starvation!” returned Clara, looking wildly into my
face: “Starvation! yes, that is it—that will be our doom!
Oh, Heaven! what a fate!”

“Nay, Clara, do not make matters appear worse than
they are,” I rejoined; “for I pledge you my solemn word,
I can supply you with food for a month, should such a
thing be necessary, though it may not be so palatable as
I could wish.”

“How?” she cried—“how can you get food here?”

“I have my pistols with me, and can shoot game when
it comes near enough.”

“Then you think it will be a month ere we find our way
back to my father's?” she pursued, in the same wild
manner.

“No, I think no such thing, Clara—for I trust you will
see your father ere to-morrow night.”

“To-morrow night!” she repeated, slowly: “to-morrow
night!” And then quickly: “But to-night? what of
to-night?”

“Why, unless we are so fortunate as to find some habitation
soon, I fear we shall be obliged to pass it in the
open air.”

“Oh! good heavens!” almost shrieked Clara, as if the
idea had struck her for the first time: “we shall be torn
to death, and devoured by wild beasts!”

“No! I will build a fire and keep them off—you shall
sleep as securely as in your father's mansion.”

“Sleep?” she repeated: “why mention sleep to me?
Think you I can sleep with the doom of death impending
over me? Oh, great Heaven, what will become of us?
what will become of us?”

I saw my fair companion was gradually getting more
and more nervous; and unless I could rouse her from the
weight of despair that was settling down upon her, I
feared the loss of reason might be one of the consequences.

“Clara,” said I, gravely and sternly, “you are the
daughter of a pioneer and soldier—but to hear you talk,
one would suppose the blood of a coward ran in your
veins.”

The effect produced by my words was what I had hoped
it would be. She quickly started to her feet, and with
glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, exclaimed:

“None but a coward would insult a lady unprotected
and in distress.”

“Nay, I meant not to insult you, Clara,” I replied;

“but you must yourself admit, that neither your language
nor your conduct, for the last three hours, has been
that of a heroine.”

“Indeed, sir! Well, you, I must say, have been
exceedingly courageous, considering there has been no
danger to try your nerves,” she returned, haughtily.

“Exactly, Miss Moreland; there has been no danger;
there is none to be apprehended; therefore your gloomy,
desponding words have been out of place.”

“Very well, sir! I will trouble you with them no
more.”

“Come, come,” I said, “we must not be angry with
each other. If I have said any thing to wound your feelings,
I can honestly avow I have done it with the best of
motives. In the way you were going on, you bade fair to
do yourself an injury, and I took this course to prevent
it.”

After some further conversation of a like nature, the
anger of Clara disappeared, leaving her far less despondent
than before. I no longer had any fear for her
reason.

“I know I am a foolish, timid girl,” she said; “I
always was; it is my nature, and I cannot help it; though
I have sometimes thought, that in the moment of real danger,
should such be my misfortune, I might perhaps show
more courage than one who has only known me under
other circumstances would naturally expect from me.”

“I doubt it not,” I replied; “for the bravest are not
always those who exhibit the most courage at the first
approach of peril; nor are the cowards always to be found
among those who tremble and turn pale at the first alarm.
But, honestly now, I see no good reason why we should
get frightened at our situation. True it is, we have lost
our way; and it is probable we shall have to undergo

much that is disagreeable—and, it may be, suffer some
hardships, ere we get back to Houston—to say nothing of
your disappointment in not seeing your aunt, and the
alarm that your friends will feel, if they by chance learn
of our mysterious disappearance: but beyond all this, I
have not much apprehension; and if we only had wherewithal
for a couple of meals, I think I could even pass the
night in tolerably good spirits.”

“For myself,” replied Clara, “I could not eat; and
were the most tempting viands now before me, I would
not taste a morsel. But what do you propose? what is
now to be done? The sun is not more than an hour and
a half above the horizon, and it behooves us to think about
preparing to pass the night.”

“Now, Clara, you speak to the point, in the right spirit;
and it gives me pleasure to see that you are likely to
adapt yourself to the circumstances without any vain repinings.
Since finding this stream, the idea has struck me that
it may be well to follow it. It will, I think, lead us to a
larger stream—perhaps the Brazos; and once that is
found, we are sure soon to reach some settlement where
we can procure food and a guide.”

“But suppose,” suggested Clara, “it should, instead,
lead us deeper into the wilderness, and further from
human habitations?”

“We must run our chance, of course; but I know of no
better plan, since I do not know the country at all.”

“Well, Mr. Walton, do as you think best—I leave it all
to you.”

This being settled, and having waited a sufficient time
to refresh our horses for another long ride, should we find
it necessary, I caught and bridled them, and we set off
down the bank of the little stream.

When we reached the open prairie—through which, as

I have said, the rivulet flowed in a deep channel—the sun
was within half an hour of setting. This I knew by my
watch—for the sun itself was so obscured by clouds, that
its position in the heavens was not discernible. These
clouds, though dark and thick, did not appear very humid;
but I thought them precursors of a storm; and I felt
deeply anxious to find some shelter, where Clara at least
could be protected from the rain.

For miles in the direction we were going, an open prairie
lay before us; but in the extreme distance we could
see the line of a forest, extending away to the right and
left as far as the eye could reach. Knowing that the bottom
lands of the large water courses were in general heavily
timbered, I now felt my spirits revived by the hope
that we might be approaching a river; and if so, I doubted
not we should soon discover some habitation.

Our anxiety therefore to reach the wood, ere night
should fairly set in, may readily be imagined—and we
urged our horses over the ground at their fastest pace.
But after putting miles between us and our last stopping
place, without seemingly drawing any nearer to the forest,
I became painfully aware in how great a degree I had miscalculated
the distance.

The truth was, we had first beheld this line of forest
from high ground—which sloped off so gradually in every
direction, that to us it appeared entirely level—and it
would have been no easy matter for any one to realize that
we stood more than a thousand feet above the objects at
which we were aiming: yet such was the fact.

Could we have passed over this portion of country under
pleasant circumstances, I should have been enraptured
with the scene. Although at a season of the year when
our northern forests put on the variegated hues of autumn;
and the flowers, that have charmed us through the heats

of summer, begin to fade and disappear; it seemed as if
Nature had just received the recuperative powers of gentle
Spring, and was charging every thing with a fresh new
life.

Never before had I seen so broad a field, so filled with
beautiful flowers. Millions on millions of every kind, of
every hue, spread over the teeming earth. Here were
dahlias of every color, from snowy white to dark crimson;
trumpet flowers of the three genera; geraniums, heartseases,
lupins, lilies, honey-suckles, anemones, jessamines,
golden rods, passion flowers, primroses, violets, ladies-slippers,
and many others of whose names I am ignorant.

The sun had now fairly set, and the shades of advancing
night were gradually stealing over the earth. Insects
began their evening songs, night-hawks rose and swooped
in the upper air, and bats flapped their wings around and
above us; while more than once the howl of some distant
wolf came floating on the breeze, causing our horses to
snort with fear, and Clara to ride closer to my side, with
maidenly timidity.

Although the moon was at the full, I knew that the
dark clouds, which now stretched across the heavens from
west to east, would render her light very feeble; and as I
contemplated the long stretch of plain before us, ere we
could reach even the shelter of the woods, I began to regret
that we had quitted our last stopping place, where I
could at least have collected fuel for a fire while the light
of day remained, and made other preparations for passing
the night with some degree of safety, if not comfort. For
a few minutes, I had serious thoughts of turning back; but
when I reflected that it would be dark before we could
reach the woodland, I thought we might as well continue
our course, and perhaps something better would turn up.

Accordingly we rode on at a fast gallop, keeping near

the bank of the stream, of which we had resolved not to
lose sight. Night now came on very fast; and to increase
our discomfort, it began to lighten in the west, and soon
after we could hear the faint rumble of distant thunder.

“Oh, it will be awful, if we have to pass the night ex
posed to the fury of a tempest!” cried Clara, in alarm.

“We may find a shelter,” was my only reply, as I
quickened the speed of our horses.

We had ridden perhaps a mile further—and perceived
with dismay the rapid advance of the storm, from whose
fury there seemed to be no means of escape—when, looking
away to the left, I fancied I saw a dark spot on the plain.
The light was too dim, and the distance too far, for me to
make out what it was; but thinking it might be a rock, a
tree, or a cluster of bushes, either of which might afford
some little protection, I determined to ride toward it. We
had not gone many rods in this direction, when (joy inexpressible!)
from the centre of this dark object we beheld
the faint gleam of a light.

“Thank God!” I exclaimed, rapturously, seizing the
hand of my fair companion—“we are at last drawing
near something human.”

Clara returned the pressure of my hand in silence, and
wept for very joy. A few minutes later we rode up to this
dark object, which we now discovered to be a bushy knoll,
in the centre of which stood a small hut or cabin, through
one of whose crannies streamed the light that had caught
my eye. What the interior of this singular structure,
standing thus isolated, might contain, I could form no
idea; but even if the abode of desperadoes, I thought it
better to throw ourselves on their hospitality, than bide
the perils of the night on the open plain.

I therefore hallooed at once; but getting no answer,
and hearing no movement within, I repeated my call; and

this meeting with a like success, I dismounted, and pushing
through the bushes, applied my eye to a crevice.

I beheld a small apartment, containing nothing that
could be called furniture. A rough kind of a slab
bench or table stood before me, and on this was a horn
cup, half full of grease, from which projected a burning
wick. This was all I could distinctly make out; and
returning to Clara, who still sat on her horse, trembling
with hope and fear, I informed her what I had seen,
adding:

“I cannot conjecture what sort of a human being or
beings tenant this abode, nor whether we shall be welcome
or not; but under our circumstances, I think it best not
to be fastidious, nor to stand on ceremony. Come, let us
enter.”

Had there been any alternative less fearful than that
of passing the night on the prairie, Clara would have
embraced it; but as it was, she tremblingly alighted.

Fastening our horses to the bushes, I took her hand,
and we proceeded to the hut. The skin of a wild beast
hung at the entrance in place of a door; and pushing this
aside, I led the way into the interior, my companion following,
her delicate frame quivering like an aspen.