MIMOSA.
When Wil Hamilton, in all the strength of his young manhood, started
out with Major Powell’s expedition, he was full of enthusiasm over his
anticipated adventures.
Not a thought of danger or a suspicion of the terrible ordeal which
lay before him entered his mind or cast a shadow over the bright hopes
which animated him.
He believed that the experiences which were to come would be of
inestimable value to him in his future career, and to be permitted to
make one of the great explorer’s company was an honor which he could
not forego.
His voyage from Glasgow to New York was delightful, for the weather was
all to be desired, and he found many a pleasant _compagnon de voyage_.
He proceeded to Chicago, where the major and the remainder of his
company were awaiting him, and they started out at once for the
unexplored region of the Colorado.
All went well until that fatal evening, just as the sun was going down,
the party passed along the brow of a precipice toward an open space a
little beyond, which they had seen with their glasses, and which they
had fixed upon as their halting-place for the night.
No one thought of any especial danger--they had been in many places
even more perilous than that, and not a fear for their safety had
disturbed them--and no one dreamed of the fearful calamity about to
overtake one of their number.
Wil had dismounted from his pony and was leading it along the narrow
path, having more care for the animal than for himself.
He never knew how it happened that he came to be so near the edge
of the precipice, nor how he could have become so heedless; but he
suddenly stepped upon a rolling stone, lost his hold upon the bridle
of his horse, felt himself plunging down--down with frightful velocity
through the deepening gloom--and knew no more until long afterward
he awoke to find himself in a strange, wild place and surrounded by
strange, wild faces.
He learned afterward that his fearful fall had been broken midway by
a tree which grew almost at right angles out of the rocks, and whose
dense foliage had probably been the means of saving his life.
For one terrible moment he had hung suspended among its branches, then
his form had slipped from among them and dropped into the chasm below.
Two Indians were lurking there among the brakes and brambles which grew
there rank and green.
They had been tracking the exploring party all day, whether from
motives of plunder or curiosity was never ascertained, but they had
known of a path which wound about the base of the precipice--an easier
and less dangerous one--and thus it was that day they were hiding
there at the moment he shot over the summit, yet they made no sound,
no effort to save him. They saw him as he hung so helplessly among the
branches of that tree, and were as motionless as statues until, in less
time than it could possibly be told, he dropped limp and senseless
among the brakes at their feet.
Then they bent forward, expecting to find him dead. But there were
signs of life about the unfortunate man, though he was badly scratched
and bruised, and, without doubt, very seriously, if not fatally injured.
A few swift gestures, a few brief sentences, spoken with Indian
caution, and they stooped, gathered up their helpless captive and bore
him swiftly and noiselessly from the spot.
His hat had fallen almost where he had lain; a little farther on his
handkerchief, which was in the lower side-pocket of his coat, caught
upon some bushes as they bore him away, and these two articles were all
that remained to tell the story of his awful plunge, thus giving rise
to the conjecture that some wild animal had dragged him to its lair and
there devoured him.
The path at the base of the precipice was a winding one, and the
Indians, with their burden, had long been out of sight when the
horrified party above recovered themselves sufficiently to seek for
their comrade.
They could see nothing from the brow of the precipice, for daylight was
fast departing and everything in those mysterious depths was shrouded
in gloom.
But once aroused to a sense of their duty, they made their way with all
possible dispatch down the other side of the mountain and forced their
way into the cañon to search for Wil’s body. They had no hope that they
should find him living, but they hoped at least to find his remains and
give them Christian burial.
They found the spot where he had fallen among the brakes and brambles,
for they were broken and displaced, and there were marks of blood. His
hat was found, and at some distance from it, as they searched with
blanched and anxious faces, they picked up his handkerchief, but the
body of their comrade had most mysteriously disappeared.
In that wilderness, where they supposed there was not a human being
besides themselves, it was but natural that they should arrive at the
conclusion which they did, and after a long and fruitless search for
the lair of the supposed despoiler, they were obliged to leave the
place, though it was with sorrowful faces and heavy hearts that they
did so.
But less than five miles away there was an Indian camp, and thither
poor Wil was borne as rapidly as the roughness of the ground and the
state of his helplessness would permit.
Great astonishment and curiosity were manifested by the tribe when
their scouts returned, not laden with deer and game, as they had
expected, but bearing instead a human body, and that of a paleface.
The “medicine-man” was immediately called to attend to him; an
examination was made into the white man’s injuries, and an arm and leg
were found to be broken, while his body was badly bruised, and it was
feared that there might be internal injuries which would prove fatal.
He was taken to a wigwam, where his broken bones were not unskillfully
set and bandaged, and his bruised body anointed with some compound
known only to those rude people; and then he was laid upon a
comfortable couch of skins, a watcher was placed beside him, and then
nothing more could be done for him but to wait until consciousness
should resume its sway, or death should extinguish the spark of life
which still remained in him.
It was several days before he came to himself sufficiently to realize
anything of what had happened to him, and then he was greatly surprised
to hear all about him strange voices speaking an unknown tongue, and to
find himself guarded by a stately, grave-visaged red man.
He questioned him regarding his situation, but the Indian could not, or
pretended he could not, understand anything that he said.
All his wants and needs, however, were most kindly attended to; he
was nourished with delicious broths, made from venison and wild game;
cooling drinks, prepared from some kind of fruit, were always on
hand, and some one constantly near to wait upon him, while the doctor
of the tribe paid him daily visits, examining into the state of his
injuries, rubbing and anointing him in a most thorough manner, and then
departing, uttering a series of grunts, satisfactory or otherwise, as
the case might be.
Thus several weeks passed by, and Wil was chained to that couch of
skins by weakness and his broken limbs.
It was very tedious, very trying, to be thus bound, not only hand and
foot, for a weight had been attached to his foot to keep his limb in
a proper position, but to be tongue-tied, also. He was anxious, of
course, to communicate with his party, for he knew that they must be in
great distress on his account, but it was impossible, for not a word or
a gesture which did not pertain to his bodily comfort was apparently
comprehended, and there, in the heart of the wilderness, miles and
miles away from any signs of civilization, he was obliged to bear his
helplessness with what patience he could.
He was sore and lame from the crown of his head to the soles of his
feet; the condition of his broken leg would not admit of any but a
reclining position, and with nothing to pass away the time, or no one
to speak a word to him, it is not to be wondered at that he grew
heartsick and almost discouraged.
One day he lay in his wigwam alone, thinking sadly of home and home
friends, longing for the sound of his father’s hearty voice, for the
touch of his mother’s hand upon his fevered forehead, and a smile of
affection from his beloved one, and feeling very rebellious over his
hard lot, when he suddenly became conscious that a pair of sharp, black
eyes were peering in upon him from between the curtains of his wigwam,
and evidently watching him with the keenest interest.
He made a gesture of impatience and turned his face away, for he was in
a mood to have the slightest thing irritate him, and it was unpleasant
to be thus spied upon and examined as if he were some natural curiosity.
But the object of his aversion, instead of disappearing upon being
discovered, parted the curtains and stepped boldly within his tent.
It was a young Indian, of perhaps twenty-five years, tall, straight as
an arrow, and graceful in every movement of his lithe body as a young
forest tree.
His face was bright and intelligent, and beamed with a kindly
expression as he gazed down upon the helpless man before him, while
the profusion of wampum which he bore proclaimed him to be a person of
considerable importance in the tribe.
Wil did not attempt to speak to him, for he believed that it would be
as useless as his previous efforts to make himself understood, but to
his surprise the young man addressed him in very good English.
“Is the paleface better? Are his wounds healing?” he asked.
Wil was so delighted to hear his mother-tongue once more that his face
brightened like magic, and he answered with all the courtesy of which
he was master:
“Yes, thank you, I am better, though, of course, I am still helpless on
account of my broken bones.”
The young Indian bowed gravely, while his keen eyes seemed to be
studying the worn, though still handsome countenance of the stranger.
“The paleface may be thankful that he is here, even with broken bones,”
he said, briefly.
“That is so,” Wil answered, heartily, “and though I would much prefer
to be with my own friends, yet your people have given me very kind
care, and I am very grateful.”
The young brave’s face relaxed a trifle, as if the appreciative words
had pleased him.
“I have been very lonely,” Wil continued, “for I could talk with none.
I am glad to find some one who speaks the English language.”
Again the brave merely bowed in reply.
“How far are we from a white settlement?” Wil inquired, anxious to
learn something regarding his situation.
The Indian frowned slightly.
“Ten days’ march for the red man, fifteen days’ march for the
paleface,” he replied, tersely.
Wil sighed heavily. That meant many, very many miles from civilization.
There was no help for him, except from some such quarter, and he might
be in the hands of a band of hostile savages.
“Would one of your braves carry a letter to the nearest post office for
me?” he asked, after a moment of thought.
“Ugh? Isn’t the paleface comfortable?” the Indian demanded, with a
quick flash of his eye.
“Oh, yes, as comfortable as possible under the circumstances; but my
friends will be very anxious about me, and I wish to relieve them of
their suspense.”
“Paleface use big words; poor Indian no see,” was the somewhat scornful
rejoinder. “But,” pointing to the bandaged arm, “how can he make a
letter?”
“Oh, I could manage with my other hand to let them know that I am not
dead, as I know they must believe me,” Wil said.
The brave shrugged his shoulders.
“Ugh, too warm for Indian to go to village, and the chief goes north as
the sun gets higher.”
“North? Does that mean farther away?” Wil asked, with a sinking heart.
“It means to the heart of the cool forest, where the hot sun does
not burn, where the trees are greenest and the wild bird’s songs are
sweetest,” assented the Indian, with kindling eyes; then turning
abruptly he left the tent.
Wil saw nothing of him again for more than a week, and he began to fear
that he had offended him by his request; but one morning he appeared
to him as suddenly as before, bearing in his strong hand a quaint
little basket, made from the bark of the white birch, and filled with
delicious strawberries, which he silently presented to him.
Wil thanked him with his brightest smile, then with tact lured him to
talk for half an hour or more, while he ate his berries.
He said not a word this time about sending letters to his friends, for
he feared to drive him away as before, and instinctively feeling that
it was a subject which would have to be handled with great delicacy.
“Perhaps they expect to obtain a large ransom by detaining me thus,” he
thought, and resolved that he would do all that he could to hasten his
recovery and regain the use of his limbs, for in his present crippled
state he could not hope to escape from his captors, even if a favorable
opportunity should offer.
In conversing with the young Indian, who, he learned, was the only son
of the chief of the tribe, he told him what the object of the party
with which he was traveling at the time of the accident had been; he
told him that they were studying the formation of rocks and minerals,
together with flowers and plants, and he was surprised to see with how
much interest he listened to him.
But he was even more surprised by the practical use which he made
of what he had heard, for one morning shortly after he brought him
a hunting-pouch filled with a variety of stones, some of them quite
valuable specimens of different kinds of ore.
He was delighted with them, pointing out their peculiarities and
explaining something of their formation in a way that interested
the young brave greatly; and after that he had an abundance of
specimens, both mineral and botanical, and the next month or two passed
comparatively rapid.
By the end of that time he was able to get about a little with the
aid of a rude crutch which had been fashioned for him and some one to
steady his feeble steps; and thus he began to mingle with the tribe
whose captive he had become.
He found every one kindly disposed toward him and willing to wait upon
him or run at his lightest bidding, but he was conscious that he was
constantly watched.
He was never left alone, and as he grew stronger and better able to
help himself some member of the tribe always accompanied him wherever
he went, and it was evident that they did not intend to allow him even
the smallest chance to elude them.
He finally asked Arrow--for that was the name of the chief’s son--why
he was not allowed to communicate with his friends.
The face of the young man at once grew dark.
“Indian very poor,” he said, sullenly; “white man drive, drive him away
from his hunting-grounds until nothing left; a little corn, little
venison, and no gold to buy. He take care of paleface now more than
three moons; give him back arm, leg, strength, and when the white
man’s friends send gold, he can go.”
“Is that all?” Wil exclaimed, eagerly. “Why did you not tell me this
before? You shall have gold; you deserve to be paid for all your care
and kindness, and I should never have thought of going away without
paying you handsomely for what your people have done.”
“Ugh,” Arrow grunted, but there was a strange look in his keen eyes.
“How much gold do you want?” Wil asked, vainly imagining that perhaps
he might have enough by him to purchase his freedom and a guide to some
town.
“When the paleface is ready to pay one thousand American dollars to the
chief, my father, then perhaps Arrow may get leave to take him back to
his people,” was the wary answer.
Wil flushed hotly.
A thousand dollars was a large sum, a very unjust amount to demand. A
hundred would have been liberal remuneration for the care and attention
he had received.
He had a letter of credit for three times the sum Arrow mentioned, but
unless he could take it to a bank in some large city it was as useless
as so much blank paper to him.
Perhaps, however, if he could make his captors understand this they
might allow him to go with an attendant to draw the money, and then,
once under the protection of his own people, he would feel at liberty
to name the sum which he should pay them.
He tried to explain the matter to Arrow, and to persuade him to go with
him to draw the money.
“Why not send Indian alone?” the young man asked, cautiously,
and viewing the, to him, meaningless characters of the letter
contemptuously.
“Because the banks will not pay money to any one but me, and not then
until I write my name in their books.”
A cunning gleam shot into the red man’s eyes.
“That is not gold or silver!” he cried, scornfully. “White man never
pay poor Indian anything. He say ‘pay,’ but when he enters the wigwam
of his own people--they strong, Indian weak--and they drive him back
into the forest empty and hungry.”
Again the hot blood mounted in Wil’s face at being thus suspected.
“But I tell you I want to pay you handsomely. I should be glad to give
you money now if I had it, and if you will go with me I will promise
that no harm shall come to you, and you shall not be driven back empty
and hungry. I know this is not gold,” he added, touching his letter,
“but it will bring me gold when I take it to a bank.”
But Arrow shrugged his shoulders, a derisive smile still curling his
lips.
“White men all cheats,” he said, laconically and with sullen obstinacy,
and Wil saw that some other plan would have to be devised for his
liberation, but he was nearly heartsick and discouraged.
Shortly afterward, as he lay upon his couch of robes, thinking dismally
upon his situation, and wondering what would be the end of it, he was
disturbed by a slight noise at the entrance of his wigwam.
Glancing up somewhat impatiently he saw to his surprise a delicate,
oval face, the face of a young and beautiful girl, looking wistfully in
upon him.
He could see nothing but her face, with its coal-black eyes, with their
straight, smooth brows, its rosy cheeks and scarlet lips.
Glad of anything to break the monotony of his life, he beckoned to her
with his hand, saying in a gentle tone:
“Come in if you like.”
The curtains parted at his invitation, and an Indian maiden of
seventeen entered and stood before him.
She was slender and graceful as a young sapling, her form was perfect
and fully developed, and she had hands and feet such as a London belle
might have envied. Her complexion was not nearly as swarthy as the
majority of her tribe; her features were delicate and regular, and Wil,
as he looked upon her, wondered at her beauty.
Her hair, instead of hanging straight and limp about her cheeks, as the
Indians usually wore it, had been gathered back and tied with bright
ribbons, thus showing her small, well-shaped head to advantage.
She wore a short robe of some light skin, elaborately embroidered with
wampum; the moccasins upon her little feet were made to match it,
and--wonderful departure!--her lithe limbs were actually incased in
stockings, a thing unheard of before among that savage tribe.
She was a bright, dainty creature, and in her hands she held a bunch of
brilliant flowers, trophies of a long and diligent search.
“The paleface is lonely,” she said, in a low, musical voice, and
bending a glance of compassion upon his sad countenance.
“Yes, I am lonely,” Wil sighed. “But who are you?”
“Mimosa--Arrow’s sister,” she answered, simply.
“I have never seen you before,” Wil said, wondering where she had been
all the time.
She shook her head and showed her white teeth in a dazzling smile; then
drawing herself up with a proud gesture, she returned:
“The daughter of the chief was told she must not see the paleface.”
“Then how does it happen that you are here now?” he asked, in surprise,
and wondering at her correct language.
Again that dazzling smile, and the color deepened in her cheek.
“The chief has gone toward the rising sun. Arrow hunts the deer in the
forest, and the squaw sleeps in the wigwam,” she said, in a tone of
veiled defiance.
“You mean that you have stolen away to see me while no one can know
it?” Wil said, looking amused, and admiring this graceful little savage
more and more.
She nodded an assent; then taking a step forward, she half knelt before
him and held out her beautiful flowers to him.
“You are very kind,” he said, sitting up and taking them from her.
“Where did you gather such lovely blossoms?”
“Yonder where the eagles make their nests,” she replied, with a gesture
to indicate the mountains above them.