FOUND AT LAST.
I took a direction nearly due east toward the Black Hills. Near the
middle of the day I reached the shore of a lake. It was a small,
beautiful sheet of water, its glistening surface unruffled by a single
ripple, and I stood a long time gazing upon its placid bosom. The blue
outline of the opposite shore was faintly visible in the distance, and
here and there the green face of a tiny island protruded from its
surface adding greatly to the picturesqueness of the scene.
As I stood looking dreamily out upon this lake, my eyes rested upon a
small speck, just discernible far toward the other side. It was too
small and dark to be an island, and, furthermore, I fancied it was
moving. A moment more satisfied me that it was a canoe crossing the
lake nearly to the point upon which I was standing. So small and black
was it, that for a long time I was tempted to believe it was nothing
but a bird floating upon the surface; but the flashing of the oars in
the sunshine showed its true nature, and I waited anxiously its
approach.
On it came, slowly and steadily, its form gradually increasing as it
approached, until I could discover the outlines of a single man
propelling it over the water. A sudden hope that it might be Nat
himself came over me, but as it came nigher, the dazzling plumes of a
savage convinced me of my mistake. It struck me as a little singular
that the Indian, solitary and alone, should approach so unhesitatingly
a stranger, and I was upon the point of concealing myself; but,
knowing that I must have been seen, and that such a proceeding would
only awaken suspicion upon his part, I remained boldly in view.
A few minutes later and the canoe grated upon the sand a few yards
from me; and, daubed in all the glittering paraphernalia of savage
war-paint and plumes, no less a personage than Nat stepped ashore and
approached me!
I was upon the point of calling out to him, when I saw he did not
recognize me. Since we had last been together my beard had grown
considerably, and my dress was also changed to that of a
semi-barbarous one. I drew my hat down to my eyes, and spoke in a
changed voice.
“A pleasant day this, my friend.”
[Illustration: “No less personage than Nat stepped ashore.”]
“Yes, it is,” replied the same natural, cracked voice.
“A fine country this, too,”
“Yes, that’s so; didn’t expect to see you.”
“And why not, my friend?”
“’Cause ’tain’t often you see a white man in these parts; you’re the
first one I’ve seen.”
“And how is it you are here yourself?”
“Wal, stranger, there’s a long story fastened to that question--a
longer one than I care about spinning at present.”
“You are not a prisoner, I hope.”
“It was some time last fall I got tuk, and I’ve been with them, of
course, ever since.”
“And why have you remained with them so long? It strikes me that if I
had the fine opportunity you have, I should not be long waiting to bid
them farewell.”
“You see, when I landed down here, it was winter, and if you’re any
hunter, as I calculate you are, from your dress, you must know that a
fellow from the States would make poor work tramping a thousand miles
at such a time. So I concluded to wait till spring, and have been
thinking about going for the last month or two, but, somehow or other
I haven’t got started; I suppose ’cause I haven’t had a good start.”
“What were you doing on the lake?”
“I came down this morning to fish, and seeing you on t’other side,
took you to be an Injin fishin’ and so I paddled across.”
“You are allowed considerable liberty, it seems, after all.”
“Well, I have considerable, though it hain’t done me much good so
fur.”
“You wish to return to the States, I presume.”
“I guess I do; I am about as homesick a dog as you ever laid eyes on,
and there’s a gal home that I want to see amazingly.”
At this remark I was compelled to cough several times, to prevent
bursting into a loud, boisterous laugh. I felt like dropping upon the
grass and rolling over and over, and yelling like an Indian. But I
restrained myself, and determined to carry the deception further.
“She most likely has given you up as dead by this time.”
“I’m a little afraid she has, and that’s the reason I want to go down
and tell her her mistake. But I don’t know as it would be any use, by
gracious!” he added, in a desponding tone.
“And why not, pray?”
“Oh, there’s a chap named Bill Hawkins, who thinks he’s mighty smart,
all the time flourishing round there. I’d just like to lay hands on
him once,” and Nat clinched his hands and shook his head menacingly.
Then resuming his natural manner, he added, quickly, and with a sort
of desperation, “I don’t care though. If Sal wants him, she can have
him.”
“That’s it. Take things philosophically is my motto, when you are
compelled to.”
In making this last remark, I unwittingly dropped my voice to its
natural key. Nat started and raised those large, blue innocent eyes of
his, and stared wonderingly at me.
“Did my remark surprise you?” I asked, working harder than I ever did
to restrain my gravity.
“It weren’t what you said, but your voice sounded amazingly like a
person I used to know, and I thought maybe you might be him.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“No; you don’t look like him. He was about your size, but didn’t dress
like you, nor didn’t have such whiskers.”
“What was his name?”
“William Relmond, from New Jersey.”
“William Relmond, from New Jersey,” I repeated, as though trying to
recall some half-forgotten remembrance.
“He used to be called ‘Jarsey’ by Bill Biddon,” added Nat, quickly, as
if to aid my recollection.
“And do you know Bill Biddon, a trapper?” I demanded, eagerly.
“I am of the opinion that I do, being as I have hunted with him a long
time.”
“Ah! indeed. He is an old friend of mine. I saw him some time since,
and he was then in the service of the Hudson Bay Company.”
“Didn’t he say anything about ‘Jarsey?’”
“I’ve hit it now! There’s where I heard the name. Yes; he said a great
deal about him, and he also mentioned a person called Nathan Todd, I
think.”
“I am the man, sir,” responded Nat, with considerable dignity.
“You are! I recall now that he mentioned the fact of your captivity,
although he was more inclined to say you were dead and gone long
since.”
“Bill is a pretty ’cute chap, but he’s mistaken there.”
“Yes; he seemed to cherish a warm friendship for you.”
“You see the way of it was this: Me and Bill Relmond started from
Independence last summer for California. The company we was with ran
away from us, taking my knife and mare with them. So we started fur
Californy on our own hook. We came across this Bill Biddon and changed
our minds, or, rather, Relmond did, and concluded to go on a hunt up
in these parts. Well, we did, and this is the end of that hunt. We
fixed on a place down on the Yellowstone, and would have spent a good
time if it hadn’t been for that Relmond. He was a good fellow, but
betwixt you and me (you needn’t say nothing about it, you know), he
was rather soft, and I had to keep a clus watch over him to prevent
his getting into danger. There used to come some Injins down the
stream in a canoe, and they set his head crazy. It wasn’t the Injins,
though, but a white gal they had. She was pretty, I allow, but he
ought to have knowed better than to chase her as he did; he might have
knowed what would have come of it. We used to go down and watch this
canoe. One day I went a little lower down the stream than he did, and
hid in some bushes beside the water to take a good look at the gal and
the Injins. Pretty soon they came, and as they got along by me, by
gracious if they didn’t start right into the bushes after me! I was so
fast in the roots and limbs that I hadn’t time to git out before they
got right on to me. I then up and blazed away to keep them off, but I
forgot to take aim, and didn’t hit them, and the first thing I knowed
I didn’t know anything. One of them smashed his tomahawk square at me,
grabbed me by the neck, whopped me into the canoe, paddled to the
other side, and made me walk all the way here. I haven’t seen Relmond
or Biddon since, and I should like to know what has become of them.”
“Biddon is safe, of course; and Relmond was a captive, I believe,
awhile, but he managed to make his escape some time since.”
“How do you know that much, I should like to know?”
“Simply for the reason that I am William Relmond.”
Nathan Todd started as if struck by a thunderbolt. His eyes and mouth
opened, his rifle fell unheeded to his feet, and he stared all agape
at me. His face was such an embodiment of wonder, doubt, then
certainty and pleasure, that I gave way completely to my feelings,
and, seating myself upon the ground rolled over and laughed one of
those laughs which rack our whole being, and make us as weak as an
infant. When I again resumed my feet, my old friend approached and
extended his hand.
“What you laughing at? I knowed it was you all the time.”
It is hardly worth time to dwell upon the words which passed between
Nat and myself after my identity became known to him. Of course he
was half frantic with joy in turn, and overwhelmed me with questions
and explanations, and in the course of half an hour we both came to a
full understanding.
I had acquainted Nat with my separation from Imogene, and that she was
waiting for me at “Death Rock.” He knew the place well and without
losing time we hastened forward. He had become acquainted with
Imogene, and had often conversed with her about her lost sister, and
of me, little dreaming that she had ever seen me.
Nat proved his knowledge of the country, for his course toward the
Death Rock was direct, and, ere we had traveled many miles it loomed
up to view. It seemed a long while to reach it, but before dark we
were both conversing with Imogene.
The night was spent within the cave, Nat and I conversing around the
fire, while Imogene, wrapped in our blankets, slumbered unconsciously
beside it. Nat succeeded in catching several fine trout from a small
mountain-stream, and when we resumed our journey, I hardly think three
more hopeful people could have been found in the universe.
Our progress was less rapid than usual, as we feared for Imogene,
although her life had been such as to make her the very embodiment of
health and activity. At night we reached a bend of the Yellowstone,
and camped upon its banks. A fire was again kindled, and while Nat
kept watch, I concluded to take a little rest. He allowed me to sleep
heavily until morning, when I was aroused by one of the most terrific,
unearthly shrieks that ever greeted mortal ear.
“God of heaven! what does that mean?” I exclaimed, springing to my
feet.
“Sounds like the ‘Snorter,’ the engine that I heard on the Boston
road,” answered Nat, rubbing his eyes, and listening.
“Hush!” I admonished, as again that hideous scream burst upon us.
“Wonder if the Pacific Railroad’s built yet?” remarked Nat, with the
utmost _nonchalance_; “or, maybe, some of their engines have run away
from them.”
As I stood wondering and waiting, the gray light of morning commenced
appearing through the forest, and shortly the day dawned. A moment
after, as I was about to awaken Imogene, the awful scream was
repeated, seemingly directly across the river. It was different from a
human voice, but sounded like the cry of a wild animal in extremity of
the direst agony.
As if our terror was still too faint, we now heard the loud ring of a
_bell_, apparently from the very forest.
“What is that?” asked Imogene, pale with horror.
“Heaven knows!” I answered.
“Sounds like the old bell up in Lubec,” remarked Nat; who, singularly
enough, was the least agitated.
“Listen!” whispered Imogene, raising her hand.
Now was heard a dead sound like the distant heave of the stormy sea,
growing stronger and nearer each second, and at intervals that wild,
unearthly shriek reverberated through the forest arches with a horrid
power.
Matters were now assuming such an inexplicable form I began to fear I
was losing my senses. I looked around upon the faces of others; but
no--it was all a terrible reality.
“Look!” spoke Imogene, in a husky whisper, pointing down the river.
I did look and what was seen? There, just rounding the curve of the
Yellowstone below us, burst the broad flaming hull of a steamboat.
For a moment I could scarce believe my senses. Nat was the first to
recover himself.
“I knowed what it was all the time, by gracious! Hilloa, you!”
The latter exclamation was addressed in vociferous tones to the
steamboat; and, fearing lest he might still escape notice, he sprang
into the water and waved his plumes excitedly over his head, yelling
at the top of his voice all the time. We had been seen, however, and
heeded by those on the boat. A small bell tinkled, and instantly the
huge wheel of the steamer reversed, plowing the water into foamy
waves, and quickly bringing it to a stand still. The captain then
stepped from his wheelhouse and hailed us:
“What’s wanted?”
“Supper and lodging,” answered Nat.
“Who are you?”
“White men of course.”
“White men; I see only one, and you’re an Injin, sure as I’m Captain
Garbold.”
I now stepped forward from the shelter of the forest, to which I had
instinctively retreated with the trembling Imogene, upon the
appearance of the boat.
“Ah! who are those?” called the captain, instantly.
“We are whites, as you can readily see, and only ask to be taken to
our friends.”
The captain immediately turned and spoke to several beside him. A few
minutes afterward a small boat put out from the steamer, and Imogene,
followed by myself, stepped into the boat, but Nat lingered.
[Illustration: “Hilloa, you!”]
“Come, hurry, Nat, don’t keep them waiting,” said I.
“_I’m going to remain!_” he remarked, quietly.
“What do you mean?” I asked, in astonishment.
He approached, and whispered in my ear:
“_I’m going to hunt up Irene Merment!_”
“Why----”
“Don’t say anything,” he interrupted, with a smile. “I will do it.
There is no use of trying to persuade me to go with you. My mind is
made up, and has been made up a long time.”
Imogene joined her entreaties with mine, but he could not be made to
change his resolution. Not wishing to detain our friends, I extended
my hand.
“If you are determined to remain, I must now bid you good-by, Nat.
Your determination is so new to me that I can hardly realize it. It is
a hopeless search upon which you are going, I fear. May the One who
has so mercifully watched over all of us, still protect you. If you
ever see Biddon, don’t forget me to him. Good-by.”
“Nor me either,” said Imogene, taking his hand. “I long to see him, to
pour out my heart’s gratitude to him. I hope we shall see you again.”
“Oh! you will, sure. I shall be down in the States one of these days,
and like enough bring a wife with me, and several little Nat Todds, as
good-looking as your heirs will be. You mustn’t think this is a last
farewell, for I know it isn’t.”
We exchanged farewells once more, and then were rowed out to the
steamboat. As we were received on board, Nat swung his plume over his
head, and shouted:
“Long life to you! the fust news you will receive from Nat Todd will
be a telegraphic dispatch from the Rocky Mountains, ‘that he is making
a sensation in that neighborhood.’”
Another and a last farewell, and the eccentric being had vanished in
the forest.
Imogene had no suspicion of the true cause of Nat Todd’s erratic
course, and I judged it best to let her remain in ignorance until Nat
should inform her himself. Whether that time was ever to come or not,
no one could tell; but I had strong hope that it would.
As may be supposed, our advent created an infinite amount of
questioning and wonderment for our new-found friends. The boat was the
steamer “Shooting Star,” which had been sent to trace the Yellowstone,
as far as it was navigable, by a company in St. Louis. They proposed
opening trade in this section, and knowing well the prodigious
resources of the country watered by its tributaries, had sent a
skillful captain and crew to ascertain its character and availability.
This river had, however, been ascended before.
The “Shooting Star” ascended the Yellowstone several hundred miles
further, until brought to a stand still by the rapids in its upper
part. Several days were spent in running up Clark’s Fork, the Big
Horn, Tongue, Powder, and numerous other streams, many of which, as
yet, have received no names though of considerable size. All along the
banks of these gathered crowds of wondering Indians, who surveyed us
with mingled terror and amazement. On two occasions, when halting to
wood, the crew were attacked by them, and one of their number was
slain. At other points they manifested a friendly disposition and
bartered extensively with us.
Finally the bow of the boat was turned home, and on a glorious
morning, in the latter part of June, 1850, we glided into the turbid
waters of the mad Missouri, and a few days later “Shooting Star” sunk
to rest at the wharves in St. Louis. Accompanied by Imogene, I made my
way home as rapidly as possible. As may be supposed, my return was a
never-to-be forgotten day to my friends. The caravan which I had
joined at Independence, had been attacked, a few days subsequent to my
separation from it, by an overwhelming body of Apache Indians. Rumors
reached the States that all had fallen in the massacre, and my
reappearance was like the dead returning to life. The reader, I trust,
can imagine the few remaining incidents. After inducing Imogene to
return to the States, I do not think I should have ever forgiven
myself had I not offered her all the protection within my power. She
was like an exotic at first, taken from a distant clime; but love
works wonders. To-day there are few accomplishments of her sex which
she does not possess. True there was no great romances or mystery yet
to be developed in her history. She had been orphaned when a young
child, in the terrible manner described by the trapper at the
commencement of this tale. I had gained no princess or wealthy
heroine, but simply a _wife_, in the truest sense of the word.
The history of Nat Todd’s adventures and journey to the Rocky
Mountains, together with a further account of Bill Biddon, the
Trapper, and of Irene Merment, the lost sister, will be given the
reader in another volume.
THE END.