pleasures of animal life until man disturbs it. Wishing to change
her position, she moved a branch accidentally, and in the twinkle of
an eye every beaver had vanished; only the disturbed water indicated
that something was beneath; but after a while the water became smooth,
and silence surrounded us again, interrupted only by the woodpeckers
striking the firm bark of the hickories.
Meanwhile the sun had risen above the trees and began to heat
powerfully. Since Lillian did not feel tired yet, we resolved to go
around the little lake. On the way we came to a small stream which
intersected the wood and fell into the lake from the opposite side.
Lillian could not cross it, so I had to carry her; and despite her
resistance, I took her like a child in my arms and walked into the
water. But that stream was a stream of temptations. Fear lest I should
fall made her seize my neck with both arms, hold to me with all her
strength, and hide her shamed face behind my shoulder; but I began
straightway to press my lips to her temple, whispering: “Lillian! my
Lillian!” And in that way I carried her over the water.
When I reached the other bank I wished to carry her farther, but she
tore herself from me almost rudely. A certain disquiet seized both of
us; she began to look around as if in fear, and now pallor and now
ruddiness struck her face in turn. We went on. I took her hand and
pressed it to my heart. At moments fear of myself seized me. The day
became sultry; heat flowed down from the sky to the earth; the wind was
not blowing, the leaves on the hickories hung motionless, the only
sound was from woodpeckers striking the bark as before; all seemed to
be growing languid from heat and falling asleep. I thought that some
enchantment was in the air, in that forest, and then I thought only
that Lillian was with me and that we were alone.
Meanwhile weariness began to come on Lillian; her breathing grew
shorter and more audible, and on her face, usually pale, fiery blushes
beat forth. I asked if she was not tired, and if she would not rest.
“Oh, no, no!” answered she quickly, as if defending herself from even
the thought; but after a few tens of steps she tottered suddenly and
whispered,—
“I cannot, indeed, I cannot go farther.”
Then I took her again in my arms and carried that dear burden to the
edge of the shore, where willows, hanging to the ground, formed a shady
corridor. In this green alcove I placed her on the moss. I knelt down;
and when I looked at her the heart in me was straitened. Her face was
as pale as linen, and her staring eyes looked on me with fear.
“Lillian, what is the matter?” cried I. “I am with you.” I bent to her
feet then and covered them with kisses. “Lillian!” continued I, “my
only, my chosen, my wife!”
When I said these last words a shiver passed through her from head to
foot; and suddenly she threw her arms around my neck with a certain
unusual power, as in a fever repeating, “My dear! my dear! my husband!”
Everything vanished from my eyes then, and it seemed to me that the
whole globe of the earth was flying away with us.
I know not to this day how it could be that when I recovered from that
intoxication and came to my senses twilight was shining again among the
dark branches of the hickories, but it was the twilight of evening.
The woodpeckers had ceased to strike the trees; one twilight on the
bottom of the lake was smiling at that other which was in the sky; the
inhabitants of the water had gone to sleep; the evening was beautiful,
calm, filled with a red light; it was time to return to the camp.
When we had come out from beneath the weeping-willows, I looked at
Lillian; there was not on her face either sadness or disquiet; in her
upturned eyes was the light of calm resignation and, as it were, a
bright aureole of sacrifice and dignity encircled her blessed head.
When I gave her my hand, she inclined her head quietly to my shoulder,
and, without turning her eyes from the heavens, she said to me:
“Ralph, repeat to me that I am your wife, and repeat it to me often.”
Since there was neither in the deserts, nor in the place to which we
were going, any marriage save that of hearts, I knelt down, and when
she had knelt at my side, I said: “Before God, earth, and heaven, I
declare to thee, Lillian Morris, that I take thee as wife. Amen.”
To this she answered: “Now I am thine forever and till death, thy wife,
Ralph!”
From that moment we were married; she was not my sweetheart, she was
my lawful wife. That thought was pleasant to both of us,—and pleasant
to me, for in my heart there rose a new feeling of a certain sacred
respect for Lillian, and for myself, a certain honorableness and great
dignity through which love became ennobled and blessed. Hand in hand,
with heads erect and confident look, we returned to the camp, where the
people were greatly alarmed about us. A number of tens of men had gone
out in every direction to look for us; and with astonishment I learned
afterward that some had passed around the lake, but could not discover
us; we on our part had not heard their shouts.
I summoned the people, and when they had assembled in a circle, I took
Lillian by the hand, went into the centre of the circle, and said,—
“Gentlemen, be witnesses, that in your presence I call this woman, who
stands with me, my wife; and bear witness of this before justice,
before law, and before every one whosoever may ask you, either in the
East or the West.”
“We will! and hurrah for you both!” answered the miners.
Old Smith asked Lillian then, according to custom, if she agreed to
take me as husband, and when she said “Yes,” we were legally married
before the people.
In the distant prairies of the West, and on all the frontiers where
there are no towns, magistrates, or churches, marriages are not
performed otherwise; and to this hour, if a man calls a woman with whom
he lives under the same roof his wife, this declaration takes the place
of all legal documents. No one of my men therefore wondered, or looked
at my marriage otherwise than with the respect shown to custom; on the
contrary, all were rejoiced, for, though I had held them more sternly
than other leaders, they knew that I did so honestly, and with each
day they showed me more good will, and my wife was always the eye in
the head of the caravan. Hence there began a holiday and amusements.
The fires were stirred up; the Scots took from their wagons the pipes,
whose music we both liked, since it was for us a pleasant reminiscence;
the Americans took out their favorite ox-bones, and amid songs, shouts,
and shooting, the wedding evening passed for us.
Aunt Atkins embraced Lillian every little while, now laughing, now
weeping, now lighting her pipe, which went out the next moment. But I
was touched most by the following ceremony which is a custom in that
movable portion of the American population which spends the greater
part of its life in wagons. When the moon went down the men fastened
on the ramrods of their guns branches of lighted osier, and a whole
procession, under the lead of old Smith, conducted us from wagon
to wagon, asking Lillian at each of them, “Is this your home?” My
beautiful love answered, “No!” and we went on. At Aunt Atkins’ wagon a
real tenderness took possession of us all, for in that one Lillian had
ridden hitherto. When she said there also in a low voice, “No,” Aunt
Atkins bellowed like a buffalo, and seizing Lillian in her embrace,
began to repeat: “My little one! my sweet!” sobbing meanwhile, and
carried away with weeping. Lillian sobbed too; and then all those
hardened hearts grew tender for an instant, and there was no eye to
which tears did not come.
When we approached it, I barely recognized my wagon, it was decked with
branches and flowers. Here the men raised the burning torches aloft,
and Smith inquired in a louder and more solemn voice,—
“Is this your home?”
“That’s it! That’s it!” answered Lillian.
Then all uncovered their heads, and there was such silence that I heard
the hissing of the fire and the sound of the burnt twigs falling on
the ground; the old white-haired miner, stretching out his sinewy hands
over us, said,—
“May God bless you both, and your house, Amen!”
A triple hurrah answered that blessing. All separated then, leaving me
and my loved one alone.
When the last man had gone, she rested her head on my breast,
whispering: “Forever! forever!” and at that moment the stars in our
souls outnumbered the stars of the sky.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER VI]
NEXT morning early I left my wife sleeping and went to find flowers
for her. While looking for them, I said to myself every moment: “You
are married!” and the thought filled me with such delight, that I
raised my eyes to the Lord of Hosts, thanking Him for having permitted
me to live to the time in which a man becomes himself genuinely and
rounds out his life with the life of another loved beyond all. I had
something now of my own in the world, and though that canvas-covered
wagon was my only house and hearth, I felt richer at once, and looked
at my previous wandering lot with pity, and with wonder that I could
have lived in that manner hitherto. Formerly it had not even come to
my head what happiness there is in that word “wife,”—happiness which
called to my heart’s blood with that name, and to the best part of my
own soul. For a long time I had so loved Lillian that I saw the whole
world through her only, connected everything with her, and understood
everything only as it related to her. And now when I said “wife,” that
meant, mine, mine forever; and I thought that I should go wild with
delight, for it could not find place in my head, that I, a poor man,
should possess such a treasure. What then was lacking to me? Nothing.
Had those prairies been warmer, had there been safety there for her,
had it not been for the obligation to lead people to the place to which
I had promised to lead them, I was ready not to go to California, but
to settle even in Nebraska, if with Lillian. I had been going to
California to dig gold, but now I was ready to laugh at the idea. “What
other riches can I find there, when I have her?” I asked myself. “What
do we care for gold? See, I will choose some canyon, where there is
spring all the year; I will cut down trees for a house, and live with
her, and a plough and a gun will give us life. We shall not die of
hunger—” These were my thoughts while gathering flowers, and when I had
enough of them I returned to the camp. On the road I met Aunt Atkins.
“Is the little one sleeping?” asked she, taking from her mouth for a
moment the inseparable pipe.
“She is sleeping,” answered I.
To this Aunt Atkins, blinking with one eye, added,—
“Ah, you rascal!”
Meanwhile the “little one” was not sleeping, for we both saw her coming
down from the wagon, and shielding her eyes against the sunlight with
her hand, she began to look on every side. Seeing me, she ran up all
rosy and fresh, as the morning. When I opened my arms, she fell into
them panting, and putting up her mouth, began to repeat:—
“Dzien dobry! dzien dobry! dzien dobry!”
Then she stood on her toes, and looking into my eyes, asked with a
roguish smile, “Am I your wife?”
What was there to answer, except to kiss without end and fondle? And
thus passed the whole time at that meeting of rivers, for old Smith had
taken on himself all my duties till the resumption of our journey.
We visited our beavers once more, and the stream, through which I
carried her now without resistance. Once we went up Blue River in
a little redwood canoe. At a bend of the stream I showed Lillian
buffaloes near by, driving their horns into the bank, from which their
whole heads were covered as if with armor of dried clay. But two days
before starting, these expeditions ceased, for first the Indians had
appeared in the neighborhood, and second my dear lady had begun to be
weak somewhat. She grew pale and lost strength, and when I inquired
what the trouble was, she answered only with a smile and the assurance
that it was nothing. I watched over her sleep, I nursed her as well
as I was able, almost preventing the breezes from blowing on her, and
grew thin from anxiety. Aunt Atkins blinked mysteriously with her left
eye when talking of Lillian’s illness, and sent forth such dense rolls
of smoke that she grew invisible behind them. I was disturbed all the
more, because sad thoughts came to Lillian at times. She had beaten it
into her head that maybe it was not permitted to love so intensely as
we were loving, and once, putting her finger on the Bible, which we
read every day, she said sadly,—
“Read, Ralph.”
I looked, and a certain wonderful feeling seized my heart too, when
I read, “Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and
served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed forever.” She
said when I had finished reading, “But if God is angry at this, I know
that with His goodness He will punish only me.”
I pacified her by saying that love was simply an angel, who flies from
the souls of two people to God and takes Him praise from the earth.
After that there was no talk between us touching such things, since
preparations for the journey had begun. The fitting up of wagons and
beasts, and a thousand occupations, stole my time from me. When at last
the hour came for departure we took tearful farewell of that river
fork, which had witnessed so much of our happiness; but when I saw the
train stretching out again on the prairie, the wagons one after another
and lines of mules before the wagons, I felt a certain consolation at
the thought that the end of the journey would be nearer each day, that
a few months more and we should see California, toward which we were
striving with such toil.
But the first days of the journey did not pass over-successfully.
Beyond the Missouri, as far as the foot of the Rocky Mountains, the
prairie rises continually over enormous expanses; therefore the beasts
were easily wearied, and were often tired out. Besides, we could not
approach the Platte River, for, though the flood had decreased, it was
the time of the great spring hunts, and a multitude of Indians circled
around the river, looking for herds of buffaloes moving northward.
Night service became difficult and wearying; no night passed without
alarms.
On the fourth day after we had moved from the river fork, I broke up a
considerable party of Indian plunderers at the moment when they were
trying to stampede our mules. But worst of all were the nights without
fire. We were unable to approach the Platte River, and frequently
had nothing to burn, and toward morning drizzling rain began to fall;
buffalo dung, which in case of need took the place of wood, got wet,
and would not burn.
The buffaloes filled me with alarm also. Sometimes we saw herds of
some thousands on the horizon, rushing forward like a storm, crushing
everything before them. Were such a herd to strike the train, we should
perish every one without rescue. To complete the evil, the prairie was
swarming at that time with beasts of prey of all species; after the
buffaloes and Indians, came terrible gray bears, cougars, big wolves
from Kansas and the Indian Territory. At the small streams, where we
stopped sometimes for the night, we saw at sunset whole menageries
coming to drink after the heat of the day. Once a bear rushed at
Wichita, our half-breed; and if I had not run up, with Smith and the
other scout, Tom, to help him, he would have been torn to pieces. I
opened the head of the monster with an axe, which I brought down with
such force that the handle of tough hickory was broken; still, the
beast rushed at me once more, and fell only when Smith and Tom shot him
in the ear from rifles. Those savage brutes were so bold that at night
they came up to the very train; and in the course of a week we killed
two not more than a hundred yards from the wagons. In consequence of
this, the dogs raised such an uproar from twilight till dawn that it
was impossible to close an eye.
Once I loved such a life; and when, a year before, I was in Arkansas,
during the greatest heat, it was for me as in paradise. But now, when
I remembered that in the wagon my beloved wife, instead of sleeping,
was trembling about me, and ruining her health with anxiety, I wished
all the Indians and bears and cougars in the lowest pit, and desired
from my soul to secure as soon as possible the peace of that being so
fragile, so delicate, and so worshipped, that I wished to bear her
forever in my arms.
A great weight fell from my heart when, after three weeks of such
crossings, I saw at last the waters of a river white as if traced out
with chalk; this stream is called now Republican River, but at that
time it had no name in English. Broad belts of dark willows, stretching
like a mourning trail along the white waters, could afford us fuel in
plenty; and though that kind of willow crackles in the fire, and shoots
sparks with great noise, still it burns better than wet buffalo dung.
I appointed at this place another rest of two days, because the rocks,
scattered here and there by the banks of the river, indicated the
proximity of a hilly country, difficult to cross, lying on both sides
of the back of the Rocky Mountains. We were already on a considerable
elevation above the sea, as could be known by the cold nights.
That inequality between day and night temperature troubled us greatly.
Some people, among others old Smith, caught fevers, and had to go to
their wagons. The seeds of the disease had clung to them, probably,
at the unwholesome banks of the Missouri, and hardship caused the
outbreak. The nearness of the mountains, however, gave hope of a speedy
recovery; meanwhile, my wife nursed them with a devotion innate to
gentle hearts only.
But she grew thin herself. More than once, when I woke in the morning,
my first look fell on her beautiful face, and my heart beat uneasily at
its pallor and the blue half circles under her eyes. It would happen
that while I was looking at her in that way she would wake, smile at
me, and fall asleep again. Then I felt that I would have given half my
health of oak if we were in California; but California was still far,
far away.
After two days we started again, and coming to the Republican River
at noon, were soon moving along the fork of the White Man toward the
southern fork of the Platte, lying for the most part in Colorado. The
country became more mountainous at every step, and we were really in
the canyon along the banks of which rose up in the distance higher
and higher granite cliffs, now standing alone, now stretching out
continuously like walls, now closing more narrowly, now opening out on
both sides. Wood was not lacking, for all the cracks and crannies of
the cliffs were covered with dwarf pine and dwarf oak as well. Here
and there springs were heard; along the rocky walls scampered the
wolverine. The air was cool, pure, wholesome. After a week the fever
ceased. But the mules and horses, forced to eat food in which heather
predominated, instead of the juicy grass of Nebraska, grew thinner and
thinner, and groaned more loudly as they pulled up the mountains our
well filled and weighty wagons.
At last on a certain afternoon we saw before us beacons, as it were, or
crested clouds half melting in the distance, hazy, blue, azure, with
white and gold on their crests, and immense in size, extending from the
earth to the sky.
At this sight a shout rose in the whole caravan; men climbed to the
tops of the wagons to see better, from every side thundered shouts:
“Rocky Mountains! Rocky Mountains!” Caps were waving in the air, and on
all faces enthusiasm was evident.
Thus the Americans greeted their Rocky Mountains, but I went to my
wagon, and, pressing my wife to my breast, vowed faith to her once more
in spirit before those heaven-touching altars, which expressed such
solemn mysteriousness, majesty, unapproachableness, and immensity. The
sun was just setting, and soon twilight covered the whole country; but
those giants in the last rays seemed like measureless masses of burning
coal and lava. Later on, that fiery redness passed into violet, ever
darker, and at last all disappeared, and was merged into one darkness,
through which gazed at us from above the stars, the twinkling eyes of
the night.
But we were at least a hundred and fifty miles yet from the main chain;
in fact, the mountains disappeared from our eyes next day, intercepted
by cliffs; again they appeared and again they vanished, as our road
went by turns.
We advanced slowly, for new obstacles stood in our way; and though we
kept as much as possible to the bed of the river, frequently, where
the banks were too steep, we had to go around and seek a passage by
neighboring valleys. The ground in these valleys was covered with gray
heather and wild peas, not good even for mules, and forming no little
hindrance to the journey, for the long and powerful stems, twisting
around, made it difficult to pass through them.
Sometimes we came upon openings and cracks in the earth, impassable
and hundreds of yards long; these we had to go around also. Time
after time the scouts, Wichita and Tom, returned with accounts of new
obstacles. The land bristled with rocks, or broke away suddenly.
On a certain day it seemed to us that we were going through a valley,
when all at once the valley was missing; in place of it was a precipice
so deep that the gaze went down with terror along the perpendicular
wall, and the head became dizzy. Giant oaks, growing at the bottom of
the abyss, seemed little black clumps, and the buffaloes pasturing
among them like beetles. We entered more and more into the region of
precipices, of stones, fragments, debris, and rocks thrown one on the
other with a kind of wild disorder. The echo sent back twice and thrice
from granite arches the curses of drivers and squealing of mules. On
the prairie our wagons, rising high above the surface of the country,
seemed lordly and immense; here before those perpendicular cliffs,
the wagons became wonderfully small to the eye, and vanished in those
gorges as if devoured by gigantic jaws. Little waterfalls, or as they
are called by the Indians, “laughing waters,” stopped the road to us
every few hundred yards; toil exhausted our strength and that of the
animals. Meanwhile, when at times the real chain of mountains appeared
on the horizon, it seemed as far away and hazy as ever. Happily
curiosity overcame in us even weariness, and the continual change of
views kept it in practice. None of my people, not excepting those
who were born in the Alleghanies, had ever seen such wild regions; I
myself gazed with wonder on those canyons, along the edges of which the
unbridled fancy of Nature had reared as it were castles, fortresses,
and stone cities. From time to time we met Indians, but these were
different from those on the prairies, very straggling and very much
wilder.
The sight of white men roused in them fear mingled with a desire for
blood. They seemed still more cruel than their brethren in Nebraska;
their stature was loftier, their complexion much darker, their wide
nostrils and quick glances gave them the expression of wild beasts
caught in a trap. Their movements, too, had almost the quickness and
timidity of beasts. While speaking, they put their thumbs to their
cheeks, which were painted in white and blue stripes. Their weapons
were tomahawks and bows, the latter made of a certain kind of firm
mountain hawthorn, so rigid that my men could not bend them. These
savages, who in considerable numbers might have been very dangerous,
were distinguished by invincible thievishness; happily they were few,
the largest party that we met not exceeding fifteen. They called
themselves Tabeguachis, Winemucas, and Yampas. Our scout, Wichita,
though expert in Indian dialects, could not understand their language;
hence we could not make out in any way why all of them, pointing to the
Rocky Mountains and then to us, closed and opened their palms, as if
indicating some number.