CHAPTER II. NATURE’S NOBLEMAN—WALTERMYER.
CHAPTER III. THE APOSTLE.
CHAPTER IV. CLAUDE AND ELLEN.
CHAPTER V. THE PRISONER OF THE DACOTAHS.
CHAPTER VI. WATER!
CHAPTER VII. THE MORMON’S RIDE.
CHAPTER VIII. PRAIRIE FIRE.
CHAPTER IX. TRUE HEART.
CHAPTER X. CANT—A STRUGGLE—A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE.
CHAPTER XI. PARTING—A LONELY RIDE—A NIGHT STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS.
CHAPTER XII. LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS—AN UNEXPECTED GUIDE—REST.
CHAPTER XIII. THE DACOTAH’S CAMP—LOVE’S TRIUMPH.
CHAPTER XIV. WALTERMYER—A CHAMPION.
CHAPTER XV. REVOLT—ALONE ON THE HEIGHTS—TRIAL.
CHAPTER XVI. THE HOMEWARD TRAIL—THE STRANGE MEETING—FOEMEN.
CHAPTER XVII. A DUEL IN THE WILDERNESS—A STARTLING REVELATION.
CHAPTER XVIII. HOME.
ESTHER:
A
STORY OF THE OREGON TRAIL.
CHAPTER I.
WESTWARD.
Our every footstep treads upon a grave! The keel of the snowy-pinioned
vessel but turns a fleecy furrow while plowing its way over the abodes
of death. Earth is but one vast tomb, where sleep, side by side,
commingling their dust, the king and peasant, the master and slave, the
beautiful and the repulsive. Beneath the iron-clad feet of our swift
steeds—beneath the thunder-rush and lightning speed of engines—beneath
the quick, firm tread of business men, and beneath the gentle pressure
of the daintily-slippered feet of lovely women, lie the mouldering
form—the dust of stalwart men and the more delicate clay that was
fashioned by the Master hand into childhood, girlhood, womanhood—beauty.
We turn from scenes of busy life, and enter the deep forest, unthinking
and careless that beneath our footsteps lie the mouldering bones of the
war-painted warrior, beside his broken spear and stringless bow; and, in
another place, the dusky forest-maiden, who once wreathed amid the dull
blackness of her hair the gorgeously-tinted buds and blossoms of the
God-cultured prairie. But so it is. The star that leads civilization
westward shines sadly upon the graves of a people almost extinct—a
people that have been hunted ruthlessly from their greenwood haunts till
every year has seen their graves multiplying thicker and thicker in the
wilderness. Then the Anglo-Saxon comes to plow it up and plant corn
above the dead warriors, stooping now and then to pick up a stone
arrow-head from his furrow, and examine it curiously, as if he did not
know what soil his sacrilegious plow was upturning.
The Indian sees his council fires flicker out one by one, scarcely
rising skyward long enough to gild the ruins of his bark and
skin-covered wigwam, or light up the ashes over his deserted altars.
Yon star that leads westward has no halting-place for him till it sets
on the calm Pacific, writing on its blue waters the history of a people
that have perished.
It was a lovely morning. The sun rose from its nightly course, radiant
with beauty, kissing the dew from the tiny cups of the myriad flowers,
tinging with gold the emerald leaves of the forest, and gilding the
crests of a thousand little billows that were just waking to life in the
shaded pools of the mountain streams. It was a scene of wondrous
loveliness—a scene that the eye might willingly rest upon forever, while
the soul drank in its freshness till satiated with the very excess of
beauty. A scene like that the pen or pencil of man are impatient to
portray. The Master Artist—God! upon the canvass of his own created
world, has alone written it out.
Under one of those picturesque clumps of trees that broke the luxuriant
monotony of the rolling grass-land, a corral of covered wagons had been
drawn up for the night, and now stood with the canvass swaying in the
breeze, circling a snowy little tent which had been pitched against the
trunk of a noble tulip-tree, and stood beneath its deep-green branches
like a great white bird rested on the grass.
The little camp had formed itself late the night before, and the deep
breathing of many a stalwart sleeper came from the covered wagons, while
the guard kept his post yet, but with a weary fall of the body and a
wistful look at the wagons; for he envied the sleepers there with all
the earnestness of a tired man.
In the midst of the stillness, the covering of the pretty white tent
began to flutter, as if the great bird it represented so much were
stirring its plumage; first one curtain was lifted, then another, and
after a little peeped forth one of the most beautiful faces you ever set
eyes on—only the more beautiful because her hair, black as a crow’s
plumage, hung in great undulating waves down her shoulders, just as she
had dropped it, half-braided, when tired of holding its weight in her
small hands. It was a radiant face, rich with health and fine coloring.
Her brown eyes—sometimes black when she was excited, but of a warm,
loving brown now—cast a bright glance out upon the morning, the curtain
fell again, there was a fluttering motion of life within the tent, then
all the canvass was flung back from the front, and as queenly a young
creature as you ever saw stepped out upon the trampled sward. In form
and face the girl was something wonderful to look upon; and now that her
hair was coiled in a raven braid around her head, and her figure was
clearly defined by a close-fitting dress of richly-toned calico, there
was an air of high breeding in her carriage singularly at variance with
the scene around her.
Some clusters of wild blossoms grew within the circle of the wagons
still untrampled and pure. She saw them drooping heavily beneath a rain
of dew, and going up to them, swept the drops off with her hands, thus
taking a morning bath which was half moisture, half perfume.
“Now,” she said, looking around upon the green undulations of the
prairie, “now for a straggle among the flowers. One never gets a lonely
walk when we are on the move. I am tired of being forever cautioned to
keep close to the wagons. Now for the prairie. How the green waves rise
and swell to the morning wind. It is like launching forth on an ocean.
It seems as if one could swim through the grass.”
Esther Morse—this was her name—ran back to the tent and brought forth a
pretty straw hat, very coarse, but so garnished with crimson ribbons
that it had a look of dainty sumptuousness, which she carried away by
the strings. Thus she left the camp, singing as she went, but in a low
voice that harmonized with the gush of bird-songs that swelled through
the morning.
Esther passed the almost sleeping guard, who, tired with his night of
watchfulness against the prowling Utes, was leaning noddingly upon his
rifle. She flashed upon his sight rather as some visitor from starry
climes than that compound of earth we call woman.
“’Tain’t my business, Miss Esther,” he muttered, more to himself than
her, “but who knows what red-skins may be a-watchin over behind them
rocks yender.”
“Never fear for me, Abel Cummings,” replied the girl cheerfully and with
a sweet smile upon her face; “I only want to take a short walk in the
grass. Never fear for me, I will be back long before breakfast is
ready.”
“If ever thar was an angel thar goes one,” soliloquized the man as she
passed him.
And on she rambled, far beyond the usual limits prescribed by camp
regulations. Well might a poetic fancy be lured by such a scene. The
cloud-crowned caps of the Wind River Mountains loomed ghost-like in the
rare, blue air—the sloping prairie around was green in its spring
freshness—the foliage, that marked the river’s tide, glitteringly
bright, and the just rising sun throwing over all its rare and delicate
sheen of golden-vermilion. These before, and above, and around; while
behind, the tented wagons dotted the greensward, looking as if a fairy
caravan had encamped in a new Eden.
Careless of all danger—thinking but of the glorious scene around her,
Esther Morse stepped rapidly over the rolling ground and soon was lost
to sight. Now and then she paused and stooped to examine some dainty
bud, and then, as if anxious to make the most of her time, pressed
forward again. The plash of swiftly-running waters greets her ears, and
soon she stoops over the sparkling tide which came surging over a pile
of rocks. Well might she look in the pool below. Such rare beauty was
never mirrored before in that sylvan looking-glass; the foot of a being
so fit to be the sovereign of the scene never before trod the mossy
brink. She cools her brow with the spray, and the foam-beads flash amid
the blackness of her luxuriant hair. She bends still more closely over
the silvery tide, and can almost count the snowy pebbles beneath. A bird
flits by and she listens to its song for a moment, but to send back a
reply still more sweet. An antelope stays its rapid course for an
instant, upon the opposite bank, to gaze upon her with its pensive eyes,
ere its hoofs, swift almost as light, ring a merry chorus as it speeds
away, buoyant with innocent life. Truly it is a bower of beauty—a very
paradise in the far distant wilderness. The spirit of evil should indeed
forbear to set his foot or leave his serpent trail in a place like that.
Hark! Like the aroused stag, her ear is bent to listen. She holds her
breath and stands poised for flight. Is it the wind playing idly among
the branches—the stir of her father’s train preparing for their onward
march—the rush and thunder of the buffalo herd, or the stealthy tread
and long, shambling gallop of the gaunt, gray wolf? Is it the step of
some one sent in pursuit of her—some one to guard her against
danger—or—and the very thought sent a thrill of fear quivering through
her entire frame—is it, can it be the wily savage seeking for plunder,
prisoners, perhaps scalps?
Little time did she give herself for thought, but with a quick, startled
glance around she turned to go; but with the first step confronted an
Indian girl standing in her very path. To pass her and rush to the camp
before the red warriors could cut her off from the way, appeared to be
her only hope; but even as she hurried past, the skirt of her dress was
caught and retained, while a not unmusical voice whispered, in strangely
broken accents:
“Look. Me no enemy to you. Look! Has the pale-face no thought of the
Laramie? The memory of the white squaw is not true like the heart of the
red one.”
In a moment the swiftly-retreating blood flowed back to Esther’s heart.
She recognized the Indian girl as one whom she had slightly befriended
weeks before.
“The white squaw good to me. She has no forgotten?” asked the Indian
girl, or rather wife, for she was in fact the bride of a dusky chief of
the Sioux.
In the bright sunlight, as she stood there waiting to be recognized,
this Indian woman was the very incarnation of that rare, almost
spiritual beauty sometimes to be found among the daughters of the
red-men. Slight, yet tall, with movements so perfectly graceful that
they approached those of a leopard; with a small foot, whose
richly-ornamented moccasins fell light, almost, as the dew upon the
prairie-blossoms; with long, black hair, knotted with scraps of gorgeous
ribbon, she stood before Esther. Her eyes, large, lustrous and pensive
as those of the antelope, were fixed upon the young girl. You would not
have thought, from the expression at the moment, that they could be
piercing as the sun-gazing eagle, when insult or danger aroused the
slumbering passions of uneducated nature. With that look, and a voice
flute-like and musical, it would have been strange indeed if she could
so soon have been forgotten.
“Yes,” replied Esther, “I remember you well; but what could have brought
you so far from your tribe? You Indian women are not used, I think, to
stray away from your wigwams or leave your husbands.”
“Waupee has no husband,” was the response of the young wife.
“No husband! What do you mean? It is not a month since I saw you the
bride of a great warrior—high in power and famous on the hunting-path.”
“One day there came to the wigwam of the Black Eagle a woman fair as a
white rose. The warrior forgot Waupee, his wife, and his heart turned to
the white rose. Waupee has no husband.”
“Waupee—White Hawk—what story is this? What do you mean?”
“The warrior can not see the moon when the sun is showering its golden
arrows to the earth.”
“Why talk to me in this ambiguous manner? Speak plainly, so that I may
understand.”
“The Black Eagle of the Sioux has feasted his eyes on the beauty of the
pale-face.”
“On me? You can not mean me?”
“The tongue has traveled the trail of truth.”
“But it is folly—madness! He will never see me again. I shall soon be
forgotten, Waupee, and then all will be well with you again.”
“The red-man never forgets.”
“And you have traveled so far—so many long miles, to tell me of this—to
tell me that—”
“The wigwam of Waupee is desolate.”
“But you must have had some other motive. It can not be this alone could
bring you so far.”
“Let the daughter of the pale-face bend her head so low that Waupee can
whisper to her. The woods have ears, the flowers hearken, and the trees
drink in words.”
“What mystery—what new fear is this? Tell me quickly, for my heart leaps
wildly in terror of some danger that you know of.”
“_The Black Eagle of the Sioux is flying swiftly upon the trail of the
pale-face he would have for his mate!_”
“Horror! Even now he may be concealed between me and my father’s camp.
Thanks, thanks, good Waupee, and—”
“Hark!” and the Indian woman laid her ear close to the ground and
listened for some time in silence. Then rising, she continued: “The
earth is thundering beneath the hoofs of swift-running horses, but they
are still afar. Let the daughter of the pale-face hasten to her people,
and never again let her moccasin wander. The eye of the Black Eagle is
keen, his wings swift, his talons sharp, and his heart knows neither
pity or fear.”
“And you, Waupee?”
“The Great Spirit directs me. The poor Indian woman has risked her life
to save you, for you were kind to her. But now—” she started suddenly as
if serpent-stung, and without another word disappeared in the thick
undergrowth.
Left to herself, the white girl paused but for a moment—a single one, as
if to consider her nearest and most secure path to the camp, then darted
off, with the swiftness of a frightened deer. Now and then she listened
intently, while pausing to gather breath, and once, in passing, bent
over the swift-running water that washed the green grasses and tiny
flowers at her feet, attracted, even in her flight, by some unwonted
object.
Was it the eyes of a basilisk that so enchained her? What was the form,
but half hid by the drooping bushes, that robbed her cheeks of their
healthy red and brought a cry of anguish to her quivering lips. Do
demons lave their black limbs in the limpid waters of the mountain
streams, or forms Plutonian sport where the salmon should alone flash
its silver sides?
The waters parted with a turbulent dash, and a dark form arose, dripping
like a water-god, before her. It was Black Eagle, of the Sioux.
“Ugh!” The arms of the Indian were extended, his eyes flashed with the
fires of savage triumph. He gathered her up from where she stood white
as death and frozen with fear, and, as a hawk seizes rudely on its prey,
bore her off.