LOST MARION.
“Injuns thar! Come on, boys!” cried Nat, as he dashed away at the top of
his speed.
Vic and Kent followed, leaving the quaking Scip behind, and soon arrived
at the edge of the wood, in view of the emigrants, who were running
hither and thither in the wildest confusion and alarm.
A group of girls stood near, crying hysterically.
“What’s up?” cried Wild Nat, bounding into the center of the confused
camp.
“The Indians have carried off Marion!” sobbed one of the girls, while
the others huddled together with frightened faces, and fearful glances
toward the darkening woods.
“How?” “When?” “Where?” were questions asked, simultaneously, by the
excited men, who at length drew from the frightened girls the following
facts:
Marion Verne, in company with half a dozen other girls, had been
strolling about in the grove, and tempted by the beauty of the scene,
and the lovely and varied flowers that constantly met their view, they
had wandered further into the woods than they had intended, or thought
they were doing.
Noticing at last, that it was growing dusk, they turned to retrace their
steps, when a small band of savages sprung from the bushes, and seizing
Marion, who was a little in the rear of the others, disappeared in the
woods before the poor girl could hardly comprehend her fearful
situation. The other girls ran crying in the direction of camp, and had
only just arrived there when the men came up.
It was now deep darkness, and for a moment every one stood irresolute,
trying to think what to do. Wild Nat was the first to speak:
“It never’ll dew tew stan’ here an’ think about it,” were his first
words. “While we’re thinkin’, the reds are actin’, an’ ef we stan’ here
idle long, we’ll run a good chance to be in the gal’s place.”
“Fact,” said Vic Potter; “tharfore, fix yerselves tew welcome the
painted devils.”
For a while the emigrants worked with a will, and half an hour later
every thing was in the best possible shape for defense.
Guards were stationed every few rods, on every side, and Wild Nat took
his stand on the side from which the most danger was apprehended.
Vic occupied his time in standing sentinel, and occasionally taking the
rounds of the camp, to see that every man was in his place, and every
thing as it should be. But the long night wore wearily away, and the
morning dawn came, showing the wide prairie and woodland, from which the
light was fast dispelling the shadows, but no signs of the dreaded
enemy.
“It’s about as well for _them_ thet they didn’t tackle us,” said Wild
Nat.
“It’s about as well for _us_, I guess,” said one of the men. “We are
only sixty, all told, and there is no doubt hundreds of the Indians.”
“Wal,” said Nat, shutting one eye and aiming a tobacco-spit directly at
the tip of a small dog’s tail, “it’s jist as well for _them_, anyhow,
for thar’d be ’bout two dozen less ‘live an’ kickin’, at this present
speakin’, on _my_ account merely.”
“Do you think you could dispatch that number in _one_ fight?” asked
Kent, smiling at the trapper’s remark.
“I’m equal to an indefinite an’ unkalkulated number of ’em,” responded
the trapper, “an’ answer in the place of meat-vittals an’ drink to ’em.
I kalkerlate,” he added, squinting along his rifle-barrel, and waiting
to draw a fine sight on a large eagle overhead—“I kalkerlate thet I save
about five hundred bufflers every year by removin’ thar nateral enemies,
which ain’t qualified, so to say, to live on any thing but buffler, an’
what they git for the hides. Thet eagle’s tew fur off tew shoot, ain’t
he?”
“Laws!” said Scip, who stood near, listening in wonder to the trapper’s
words, “did ye ever kill enny Injuns, sah?”
The trapper turned, and drawing his tall, ungainly form to its full
hight, gazed on the negro in dead silence for a few moments, evidently
too much astonished to speak, at this exhibition of ignorance and
apparent incredulity.
“Africa,” he said, solemnly, after an impressive pause, “did ye ever eat
any pertaters?”
“Reckon I hab,” said Scip, with a broad grin, “’bout forty bushels a
year.”
“Wal,” continued the trapper, planting his rifle down solemnly, and
gesticulating with his left hand, “I reckon thet for every pertater ye
eat, I hev knocked down, tipped over, dragged out, sculped, mewtilated,
an’ otherwise disfiggered, one dozen Injuns. An’ I’m good for as menny
more.”
During this address, Scip stood listening, with the grin on his black
face gradually expanding, until, as Vic told him, his “mouth war in
danger of runnin’ inter his ears,” and when the trapper finished
speaking, he stood silent for a moment, evidently thinking how to
express an opinion without giving offense. At last he broke out with:
“Sah, am dar any Injuns left?”
“Plenty of them,” responded Nathan; “they’re thicker’n skeeters in
August.”
“Wal, den,” said Scip, after a moment, “I don’t b’lieve ye ever killed a
dozen for every tater I eat. What did ye do wid dar sculps, jest tell
dis chile dat, will ye?”
Vic came up before the trapper had time to reply, and called him away to
participate in a council, the result of which was that the train lay by,
while twelve of the best men, led by Wild Nat, were to take the trail.
After considerable trouble this was found, and traced for about thirty
rods, where the captors had evidently joined a party of nearly or quite
two hundred. From there the trail was so cleverly covered that when,
after going a short distance, it struck a sandy tract, only partially
grassed, it broke into three sections, thus baffling pursuit for a
rescue.
The men returned to camp, when it was decided that pursuit was simply
impossible; and with gloomy forebodings and sad hearts, the
emigrant-train prepared to move on. During these preparations, Wayne
Kent stood a little apart in silence, his usually bright, frank face
overclouded and troubled.
Wild Nat stood near, watching the breaking up of the camp, one elbow
leaning on the saddle that covered the back of a large mustang, which he
had procured from the train, and the other hand holding “Roarer,” as he
termed his rifle.
When every thing was ready, Vic shook hands with Wild Nat, saying:
“As I didn’t engage tew guide the train only jist through the pass, I
dare say ye’ll see my ugly picter some time in the course of a month.
I’m kalkerlatin’ ter trap up this way somewhar.”
“Come up on Deep Creek an’ ye’ll find me,” said Wild Nat; “the beaver is
so thick thar, thet they cover the ground, an’ thar tails lap by a
piece. I’m bound for thar, at this present speakin’.”
“Will you take me along for company, Nat?” asked Kent, suddenly. “If you
want a companion, I will act in that capacity. I have some curiosity to
try a trapper’s life.”
“Take ye along?” said the trapper. “In course! Yer as welcum as the
posies, my boy, an’ I hain’t enny kind o’ doubt but what, in _time_,
ye’ll git tew know a thing or two about Injuns. All ready tew go?”
“Yes,” was the response; “all ready, and waiting.”
Bidding the emigrants good-by, the two men rode away, and were soon out
of sight of the long train of white wagons left behind. For some time
Kent was silent and thoughtful. He was thinking of Marion Verne, and
wondering what her fate was. A desire to find, or at least be near her,
had led him to stay with Wild Nat, rather than any great love for
trapping, though it was curiosity to try life in the wilderness that led
him to leave his home in Ohio and join the train. It was there he first
saw Marion Verne, an orphan, who, in company with one of her mother’s
sisters, was going to California. His musings were suddenly brought to
an end by Wild Nat exclaiming:
“Thar’s suthin’ off yender. It’s Injuns tew, but they don’t see us. I’ll
snatch ’em bald-headed if they cum close enough.”
“The party appears to be a very small one,” said Kent, rising in his
stirrups to look at the distant object, which was so far off as to look
to him like an indistinct mass, which might be buffalo, or Indians, or
whites, though Wild Nat declared it was a party of seven Indians.
“My eyes are purty considerable sharp,” he said, in answer to Kent’s
wondering remark, concerning the keenness of his vision. “In fact, I
never yit saw the man who could see as fur as I could. Them Injuns are
goin’ off north. I’d like tew have a chance to sp’ile sev’ral of thar
purty picters. Blarst thar karkasses, anyhow!”
“Nat,” said Kent, suddenly, “what makes you feel so bitter a hatred of
the Indians?”
“Beavers!” ejaculated the trapper, “I should think I’d hed _reason_.
Younker, ten year ago I hed a little cabin an’ a wife an’ tew children.
I war livin’ peaceably an’ mindin’ my own consarns. One night a band of
Injuns come, took me prisoner, an’ butchered my wife an’ children afore
my very eyes. Then they burnt my cabin, an’ took me off for torture. I
got away the second night, an’ left seven dead red-skins as part pay.
Since then, I’ve been an Injun-hater, an’ I’ll lift the head-gear off of
every red devil thet I cum acrost.”
The trapper relapsed into silence, and spoke no more until they came
upon several buffalo, feeding at some distance from the main herd. One
of these the old trapper shot, and, after securing a considerable
quantity of the meat, they again rode on, and sunset found them near
Deep Creek, a small stream that had its source in the mountains, and
after making a winding course for many miles, was finally lost in the
Sweetwater river.
Wild Nat halted at a little distance from the stream, among a thick
growth of timber.
“Guess we’ll stop here. Tie yer hoss an’ I’ll show ye my den. This ar’
’bout as nice scenery as ye generally find. This stream hurryin’ along
over the stuns, an’ the woods here, an’ the mount’ins up thar—I can’t
see how any one can like the towns. Give _me_ the wild peraries, an’ the
woods, an’ mount’ins, an’ git away with yer towns an’ cities! Here,
foller me.”
The two men turned back from the stream, and pursued a narrow, deep
ravine, extending back toward the mountains that towered above them; the
sides of which were covered with luxuriant bushes and wild vines tangled
about them, often forming impenetrable thickets.
Among these the men advanced, the trapper leading the way, and neither
of them aware of the dark face that looked after them from a thicket of
bushes, nor the pair of malignant eyes that followed their movements
with such keen scrutiny.
The trapper continued up the ravine the distance of ten rods, and then
thrusting aside the thick vines from one side, removed a large stone,
revealing a small, dark opening. Into this he crept, hastily calling
Kent to follow. The young man obeyed, and in an instant the stone slid
into its place, and the twisted vines, relieved of its support, fell
down over it, effectually concealing all trace of the opening.
A moment after, the bushes, a few yards off, parted slowly, and the
dusky face became visible. For many minutes the glittering eyes gazed
about, and then a look of disappointment succeeded the previous one of
triumph. After remaining in silence for a short time, the savage
cautiously ventured forth. He had lost sight of the men and was trying
to regain the lost clue. Stepping carefully forward, he bent down and
earnestly examined the ground. But he was foiled; the ground betrayed no
print of footsteps. After searching vainly for some time, the baffled
Indian turned and strode away, shaking his tomahawk in futile rage at
the silent covert behind him.