CANT—A STRUGGLE—A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE.
Though stunned by his fall, and covered with wounds, fortunately for him
not of a serious character, the Mormon was lifted by his companions from
the poor horse that had been killed by the fall—a noble brute sacrificed
to save the life of a far less noble man—and laid upon a shelving rock.
No remedies were at hand, save the gushing water that bubbled from the
base, and the flask that he always carried with him; but the stimulus,
liberally supplied, soon restored him. Not a single thought did this man
give to his truly providential escape—not one word of thanks to the God
whose hand had saved him from a sudden and horrible death—a literal
crushing out of brain and heart—a total annihilation of body!
“Where’s my horse?” was the first question that passed his lips.
“Dead.”
“The brute! to fall, and nearly crush me, when I was so near—”
His tongue had almost betrayed him into the revelation of his secret;
but he checked it in time, and continued:
“The prophet of the Lord was saved for the great work, and it is
requisite that he be up and doing. Bretheren, in this day’s work you can
see one of the miracles written of on the ten golden plates—one such as
only those on whom the mantle of the Prophet Joseph has fallen.”
Were there ever blasphemous words like these uttered in a situation so
painful? Was there ever man who had just faced a violent death capable
of such hypocrisy?
“Yea, of a verity,” he continued, “we must be up and doing; for is it
not written that we should let our lights shine? The horse has been
given to the buzzards of the valley, but the spirit that is within man
rises superior to the accidents of the moment. It is for him both to
will and to do—to suffer and grow strong. Bretheren, give me a little
more of the drink that is medicine in the hour of pain! Bretheren, the
book revealed to the martyr Joseph teaches that the grossest sin of
earth is disobedience, and shall never know the joys and privileges of
the Latter Day Saints. Anathemas shall be heaped like coals of living
fire upon the heads of the Gentiles who disbelieve! The keys of the
kingdom were given to the rulers; they hold them in their hands, and woe
be to him who disobeys! Into outer darkness shall they be cast who
hearken and yet murmur!”
How much longer he would have indulged in this kind of sermonizing it
would have been difficult to determine, had not one of the listeners,
possessed of more courage and less blind belief than the others,
interrupted him:
“Take my horse, Elder; he is sure-footed and strong. It is past noon,
and unless the band moves on, we shall not only be caught in the
darkness, but lose all chance of overtaking the Indians.”
At any other time the Mormon would have been sorely displeased with the
interruption and advice; but now he thought only of gaining the prize he
had ventured so much for, and eagerly caught at the proposition.
“It shall be as you say; and when the hour comes that our journey is
finished—when the lamb of the Gentiles that has been carried away by the
wolves of the Sioux shall again be restored unto her people—when her
soul is secure in the fold of the saints, then will I further instruct
you in the tenets of the Prophet, whose spirit was translated from the
earth.”
“Mount, then, and—”
The sound as of some large body rushing through the air, tearing through
the slender bushes, struggling for life on the side of the rocky cañon,
fell upon their ears, and the foot of the Mormon was stayed as he placed
it in the stirrup. Different far from the fall of the huge stones was
this strange noise; and for a moment they all stood doubtful and
terrified. Urged on, however, by the Elder, they at length advanced. As
they turned the point ahead, the body of an Indian, swinging directly
over the ragged rocks, suspended by a slender root, and with fully a
hundred feet between him and the bottom, met their appalled gaze.
“There is one of your red-skins,” cried Elder Thomas, “punished for his
crimes even while on the earth!”
“Shall we not try to save him?” asked one of his companions.
“It is not given unto the Lord’s anointed to stoop to that which is
unclean.”
“But he is a man, and will be dashed to atoms.”
“He is an Indian.”
“But you will not let him hang in that awful way? See I the root to
which he clings is parting! The earth is breaking away from around it;
and then—great heavens! he is—”
“No, not gone! and yet it would be monstrous to leave him in such
danger. I, even I, will save him, as did the Gentiles the Prophet
Joseph!”—and snatching a rifle from one of his nearest followers, he
raised it, and fired.
The report, and the swift whizzing of the bullet as it cut the air,
awoke the countless echoes of the rocky cañon with grand reverberations;
and the smoke, lifting like a fleecy vail, showed them that the Indian
had disappeared. A stone, loosened from its scanty earth-bed, most
probably by his fall, rolled down to their very feet; but what had
become of the swarthy form that a moment before hung above the abyss,
suspended, as if by a thread.
“The ravens will find him in the holes of the rocks,” said Thomas,
coolly returning the rifle to its owner, and without bestowing the
slightest attention on the horror that ran through the group at this
unnatural murder.
“And now, bretheren, not forgetting the glory of the Prophet, let us
hasten onward and save the dove from the snares of the savage fowler.”
Strange, indeed, would it have been if sadness and silence had not
followed a brutal murder like this. As Thomas led the way, the remainder
followed, not only dumb with astonishment, but sorely grieved that one
they had looked upon with such reverential love, should not only stain
Christianity and manhood, but even common humanity with a crime so
terrible—that the saint should disappear in the murderer, and the
garments of regular succession from the immaculate Joseph should be
steeped in crime. Ah! could the blinding scales but have fallen from the
eyes of “the faithful” everywhere, how soon Salt Lake would be a city of
ashes, and the “beautiful valley” again a wilderness. When the _true
religion_ is stripped of cant, hypocrisy, forms and idle ceremonies, how
beautiful in its simplicity will the journey be that the soul must
travel to reach the gardens of eternal sunshine, and purity, and love,
beyond “the river.”
A small white flag, waving in advance, instantly fixed the attention of
the party. It was a strange symbol in that lonely place, and much more
so when held, as it was now, in the hands of a lone Indian. All except
the Elder stopped in astonishment, doubtful how to act, but he
recognized in the bearer his ally the Black Eagle, and instantly
commanding a halt, proceeded on foot to ascertain the meaning of his
appearance.
“Has my white brother,” began the Indian, as soon as the other was at
his side, “seen the body of a Dacotah lying among the rocks?” Certain as
he was that no one could have fallen like Osse ’o, without being dashed
into a thousand atoms, yet he wished to assure himself of the fact by
ocular proof. He even desired to pay the last rites of burial to the
corpse, knowing well that it would be to his own benefit, and stand
between him and suspicion with the tribe by whom the chieftain was more
than loved.
“I saw an Indian hanging by a root from the precipice, and was going to
help him, when all of a sudden he fell, and was crushed at the foot of
the rocks.”
Black Eagle could not well doubt the story, for, base as he was, the
Indian would have scorned to leave his worst enemy in a situation so
terrible. The savage would have rescued him, even if an hour afterward
he had sought his scalp, and therefore had no suspicion of the white
man. If he had dreamed of what had passed, the lone rock upon which they
stood would have been the theater of a second crime, and the first
murderer would have executed fearful vengeance upon the second.
“It was Osse ’o of the Dacotahs,” he continued, after his careful
scrutiny of the Mormon had ceased. “We were standing together upon the
cliff. He was looking over the prairie—the rock was treacherous and
broke from under him. He fell before the arm of his brother, Black
Eagle, could save him.”
“Well, it’s to be regretted.”
“He has gone to the happy hunting-grounds. The swift canoe has ferried
him over the dark waters of the river of death, and his song is heard in
the flowery prairies of the Great Manitou.”
“May he rest in peace! And now, about the girl?”
“Has my pale brother been trying strength with the giant bear of the
mountains?” was the evasive question, as the Indian glanced at the torn
garments of the Mormon.
“No; my horse fell with me—that’s all. But the girl?”
“The trail upon the steep hillside is not for the warriors of the
pale-face. The Manitou gave them to his red children. Their foot is
sure—their horses trained to the rugged path.”
“Well, well, I’ve no time for words about it. Have you brought the girl
as you promised?”
“Has the pale-face brought the yellow dust that his people have made a
great Manitou? Has he remembered the gold?”
“Yes; let me but get the girl into my power, and it shall be yours.”
“Will he let his red brother look upon the gold? It is bright as the
sun, and he longs to see it shine.”
“When I see the girl, then—”
“Look!” and the Indian led him forward a few steps and pointed into a
little valley, apart from the main one, and closely screened by high
rocks.
“Surely it is the Lily of the Valley,” exclaimed the Mormon, clasping
his hands. “Mounted upon a milk-white steed, she cometh to gladden the
soul, as sweet waters doth the thirsty earth. She is fair as the Cedar
of Lebanon, and the—”
“Gold!” interrupted Black Eagle.
With reluctance, the Mormon doled out half the required sum. It was hard
to part with it, but harder still to give up the vision he had indulged
in so long.
“Is the tongue of the pale-face crooked? Are his eyes dim that he can
not see? Have his fingers forgotten how to count?” asked the Indian,
somewhat savagely.
“No, no, it is all right. When—”
A shrill whistle rung through the valley, and Black Eagle cut the
explanation short.
“My brothers call. The Black Eagle will lead his warriors out of the
little valley into the broad road. Then let the pale-face come and get
the young squaw for his wigwam.”
“Come and get her?”
“Did he not so tell the red sachem?”
“True, I had forgotten. Mind your men don’t fire. I have told my men not
to shoot. Let there be a sort of a sham fight, and as soon as I have got
the girl, you can come quietly to me, and I will pay you even more than
I promised.”
Without another audible word the Indian departed, but his thoughts were
the embodiment of treachery. The white man had gold—should it not be
his? The girl was fair—should she not fill his wigwam far away by the
margin of Spirit Lake? The companions of the Mormon should only play
with their weapons—should his be so careful? They were the enemies of
his race—should not their scalps hang in the wigwams of the Dacotahs?
Ah! it was a great temptation for a savage warrior, and little faith
could be put in his promises when red gold, and rich plunder, and a
snowy bride, were luring him to the accomplishment of the very things
his nature panted after.
The Indian to the fragment of his tribe, and the white man to his
companions, and again both parties proceeded, each leader giving a far
different version of the meeting, and each one shaping it to suit his
own ends. A scant mile, and they were brought into full view—neither
rock, tree or hill obscured their vision.
“There they go, the cowardly thieves,” shouted the Mormon, as he waved
his little troop on.
“There come the false warriors of your tribe,” whispered the Black
Eagle, in the ears of the shrinking, yet hopeful girl—shrinking from him
and hopeful of rescue. “Yes, like wolves, they come, but let the maiden
beware. The knife of the Black Eagle is keen-edged and his tomahawk
heavy—his bow-string is strong, so is his arm. Let her not try to leave
his side, or—”
The shouts of the Mormons urging on their steeds, and the desperate rush
of the spur-driven brutes, admitted of no further threatening. The ranks
of the Indians were formed to resist the attack, and their arrows flew
thick as hail, but, purposely aimed too high, passed over the heads of
the white men. So also was it with the bullets of their adversaries. It
was soon front to front, and hand to hand, and seemed more like a
bloodless tournament—a base and senseless imitation, gotten up as a
foolish aping of the chivalry of olden times, than the meeting of two
races that ever have and ever will be enemies. But this rough play could
not long continue without arousing fierce passions—fierce hands
clutching the ready weapons in earnest. One of the Mormons, more
powerful and better mounted than the rest, succeeded in breaking the
ranks of the Indians, and gaining the side of Black Eagle, who had
remained in the rear to keep guard over the girl. It was Elder Thomas
who should have been there—he was to have been the savior, and loud he
commanded his impetuous follower to turn back. Possibly, he was unheard
in the din of the, as yet, bloodless strife. At any rate, he was
disregarded, for the brawny Mormon saw the girl and dashed to her side,
perfectly regardless of all the opposition that attempted to stay his
course.
“By heaven!” he shouted, “it’s the very gal that we used to see, and
that sung so sweet to us at Laramie. Down with the cursed red-skins,
boys! Give them no quarter, the infernal brutes!” and his pistol-butt
struck the Black Eagle full upon the skull, and leveled him to the earth
in a moment.
Vain now were all attempts at control. A fierce blow had been struck; a
chief of the Dacotahs hurled from his horse. In less than a minute,
knife and pistol were doing their deadly work. Wildly pealed the fierce
battle-cry of the savage; loudly and clearly it was answered by the
challenge of the white man. The innocent trial of strength had been
changed, quick as thought, into the fearful tumult of the battle-field.
Now, death’s dark hounds must lap their fill of human blood!
But it was of short duration. The superior skill, strength and weapons
of the white man could not long be withstood, and, with many wounded
though none killed, the Indians withdrew, commanded still by the Black
Eagle. The chief had been but stunned for a moment, and soon separated
himself from the _melée_. But it was to find himself standing face to
face with Elder Thomas, both effectually cut off by the combatants from
the girl. The narrow valley denied them footing on either side, and
when, at length, they had succeeded in drawing off their followers, they
looked in vain for milk-white horse or snowy prisoner! They had
vanished, as if the earth had swallowed them.
In sullen silence the parties of the white and red-man separated, but
each with dark thoughts of revenge at heart. Ah, many a peaceful
traveler has paid, with life, the price of that day’s work. Many an
unwary man has been shot from behind rocks and trees—has died with the
poisoned arrow festering in his side; or, worse perchance still, been
robbed of all, and left to lingering death by starvation. And many a
red-man, too, has been shot down in very wantonness—has fled from his
burning wigwam, and seen all he loved perish, literally butchered by
bullet and flame, like sheep in the shambles. Yes, the Oregon trail is
beaten down hard as iron with the hoofs and wheels of the thousands of
emigrants, but so, also, is it lined upon the map with blood.