LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS—AN UNEXPECTED GUIDE—REST.
When the battle between the Mormons and the Indians composing the
company of Black Eagle was at its height, Esther Morse was forced to be
a looker on. Tied firmly to her seat in the saddle, with only her hands
at liberty and with her savage captor at her very side, she dared not
make a movement toward escape. But when the strong arm of the white man
had stricken the red one to the earth, and she was comparatively
unwatched, the brave girl gave her steed the rein, and urging him
forward soon disappeared up the valley.
So intently had the combatants been playing the game of blood that no
one saw her go, knew of her going, or could tell when or whither she had
flown.
Ah! a noble steed was the one that Esther Morse rode that night, worthy
to carry so fair a load. Whirling around the nearest point of rocks, she
paused but long enough to release her limbs from their bonds and prepare
herself in the best manner in her power for easy horsemanship. Then,
without the slightest knowledge of the road she must travel in order to
gain her friends, she hurried on, striking into a downward path that she
hoped would end in the prairie. The fear of recapture was greater in her
breast than death itself; so she rode on recklessly over paths that, at
another time, would have made her heart sink and her head turn giddy.
Many a time she looked anxiously back, thinking that she heard the
clatter of pursuing footsteps; then finding that it was the echo of the
hoofs that were so faithfully and swiftly bearing her on, a faint smile
would ripple for a moment over her face, banishing the stern lines of
anxiety and pain. But these gleams of incipient joy were transient as
summer lightning, for reality stood too near with its stern danger. The
sky was too black, and heavily vailed with clouds, to admit of the
star-light flashing through, unless by chance there might be parting
rifts that permitted a gleam now and then to reveal how dreary her path
was.
Alone in the mountains! Few minds can compass the meaning of the words,
for they know neither of the dangers or the fears that surround a
position so terrible. But that brave rider was thinking only of escape,
and when night and storm indeed settled around her, she awoke as from a
pleasant dream. The companionship of any one wearing the semblance of
mortality would have been pleasant then, for the fearful stories she had
heard and read came back to her mind with terrible acuteness, and in
each shadow darker than the rest she saw the form of a wild beast
panting for her blood. There were wild beasts abroad it is true, but the
storm that drove them to their dens and hiding places—the pitiless rain
that drenched her through and through, was her safety.
Storm? Yes; for the same lurid glare and terrific thunder that appalled
even Waltermyer was sweeping and crashing around her. An untrained horse
would have swerved and been dashed to atoms on the ragged rocks hundreds
of feet below—would have missed his footing and plunged down the gulf,
hurling his rider a shapeless mass to the bottom. It was a terrible
ride—terrible for any one, and how much more so for a feeble girl, lost
in the rocky wastes of the inhospitable mountains and fleeing for her
very life.
The bridle slipped from her grasp. The cold rain and numbing atmosphere
rendered the hand powerless to hold it longer, and while the clang of
the firmly-placed hoofs fell hopefully upon her ears in the lull of the
tempest, she poured out her soul in prayer to Him who holds the earth in
the hollow of his hand.
Up! still up! Oh! how strangely she has missed her road! Not to the
sloping prairie—not to the level paths, where her father’s train was
camped, did she bend her way, but still higher—ever higher, toward the
dizzy summits where the eagle builds its nest and seeks no companionship
save from its kind.
Upward! still upward, where the sure foot of the mountain goat dare
hardly travel, and where the mists hang heavy with death and chilling
dews. Oh! will that rising trail never end? Will the point never be
reached where the foot can no higher press the flinty road—the winding,
serpent-like course that glides along the frowning wall above and
perpendicular precipice below?
A sudden, blinding flash! A glare as if the vail of night had been rent,
and in one unbroken flood let the starry glory through. Then all was
utter blackness! Chilled to the very heart, unable longer to retain her
upright position, she crouches in the saddle, and bends downward until
her long hair, loosened from confinement, mingled with the milky,
wind-tossed mane of the gallant steed. Her arms clasp his arched
neck—she clings to it for life, and, half fainting, with closed eyes, is
borne along—whither?
Whither? The brave horse strains still upon the rocks, but when, where,
will his journey be finished? It is past midnight and the thunder has
ceased. The darkness is terrible, but the flood-gates of heaven are
closed and the drenching torrent has exhausted itself. Shivering,
hopeless, she clings wildly to that drooping neck with the grasp of one
sinking beneath the swell of a strong tide. She feels her clothes
brushing against the stony walls, and shudders, feebly feeling that any
moment she may be swept off and hurled—whither? She dares not
think—dares not dwell upon her fearful situation. The thought thrills
her with horror. Her only hope is centered, next to God, upon the rare
animal of which she has so strangely become possessed—upon his keen eye
and sure foot. If he falters—if his foot should chance to fall upon a
rolling stone or fail to span the yawning chasm, then—what then? She has
no strength to picture the horror that would follow.
On! good steed. On! thou desert-born! A priceless human life is hanging
on those firmly-planted hoofs. On! champion of the prairie, with thy
white mane and tail waving like phantom banners in the darkness. On!
There must be no pause for rest, till that poor shivering creature finds
a shelter. Alone, unguided, horse and rider tread the perilous way, but
with instinct nearly allied to mind, the steed carries his fair burden
patiently, but still upward. There is strength in his sinewy limbs, and
fire in his eyes—swift blood coursing through his veins and courage in
his heart; but beware! The fiends of death are weaving their spells in
the dark valley,—their stakes are set and toils ready to snare thy
unsuspecting feet.
Is it a dream—some phantom of the brain? Can it be that she is losing
the balance of mind, or is it a joyful reality that the path becomes
more level—even downward, and the horse steps more surely and promptly,
as if a firm hand were upon the bridle-rein? Intently, thrilled to the
very heart’s core, she listens, but the hollow tramp of the steed alone
greets her ear. Dare she look? Would she see again the form of her
savage persecutor? Was she once more a prisoner? Alone with him, that
red-browed warrior, the Black Eagle, on the mountain crest, in darkness
and midnight? The thought was death.
Yes; the course is downward! That much she knows. But is she still a
lonely wanderer? Ah! to solve that question might well have tired
stronger nerves than hers, especially when stretched as they had been to
the utmost tension by anguish and fear. But, suspense was not to be
endured. Look she did, but without raising her head. She looked and
closed her eyes, shuddering. An Indian was leading the horse carefully
forward! Her worst fears had proved fatally true; the blackness of the
night was as sunshine, when compared to the terror that seized upon her.
An hour of silence—an hour that had been lengthened out into days by her
agony—then her steed halted. A hand was laid gently upon her shoulder,
as if to arouse her. She sprung wildly to the ground.
“Off!” she exclaimed. “Don’t touch me, for heaven’s sake, or I shall
die!”
The night had broken away from the mountains. The earth was fresh and
fair around her. Leafy pine and feathery hemlock framed the spot on
which she was standing, and dripping with rain, they filled the air with
their resinous odors. Every object was clear to her vision. She took
courage from the growing light, and began to wonder why the Indian she
had so passionately addressed, returned no answer. She turned toward
him—her savage tormentor, whom her very soul loathed—and saw, not the
Black Eagle, but the proud form and clear, calm eye of the mountain
chief, Osse ’o.
Something like a smile lurked in the corners of his clearly-cut mouth,
and flitted over his bronzed features. He spoke to her in the same
measured and musical tones she so well remembered.
“The child of the pale-face is safe. The _gens du lac_ found her
wandering alone in the mountain.” Inadvertently, perhaps, he addressed
her in the language of the Dacotahs, and then, as if remembering
himself, repeated the words in French, and perceiving that she
understood him, continued:
“When the storm was howling its wildest, and the red bolts were
quivering to earth from the bow of the great Manitou, Osse ’o saw his
own white horse flash through the darkness like the horse that shall
bear the warrior when he has passed the dark valley. Osse ’o’s heart
filled with joy, for he knew the steed at once, and was wandering
himself afoot.”
“But I saw you hurled from the precipice,” gasped the girl, gazing upon
the Indian with her strained eyes.
“The great Manitou that gives to the eagle wings can keep his children
from harm. The hounds of death were howling for his blood in the rocky
caves below; he was swinging on a branch as slender almost as the hair
which falls from that head. A white man—one of her own tribe in skin,
but not in heart—raised his fire-weapon, and the bullet hissed as it
passed through his hair.” The Indian removed his otter-cap, and pointed
to a hole in it.
“Good heaven! can this be true? A white man shot at you when you were
swinging over that fearful abyss!”
“There are black hearts among Indians and white men alike. It was the
sachem of the Lake of Salt.”
“The Mormon! Thank mercy it was none of my people.”
“The trail has been long, the night cold, and the girl of snowy skin
trembles like a dove when the hawk is swooping down to wet his beak in
her blood.”
“Yes; I am very, very cold.”
“By that tree, scarred and splintered by the forked lightning, there is
a cave. Let her go and rest within it. Osse ’o will build a fire to warm
her limbs, and bring her food. She must rest. He will watch her while
she sleeps.”
“But you are—”
“A Dacotah!”
“And the Black Eagle?”
“Will never find her. But she trusts no Indian face, she fears Osse ’o.
He means her no harm.”
“No, I do not; but—”
“The tongue speaks, but the heart feels.”
“I will trust you, for you have been very kind to me. Still, you are an
Indian, and a stranger.”
“I am a MAN!” was the proud reply, and taking her hand, he led her,
unresisting, into the cavern of the mountain.
As if touched, insulted, by her doubts, he spoke no further, but hastily
collecting the remnants of a former fire that lay scattered around the
floor, and had been effectually protected from the storm, he very soon
kindled a blaze that was grateful indeed to the shivering girl. Then
leaving her, he hastened to the thicket and soon returned loaded with
fragrant pine-boughs, and after carefully arranging and covering them
with smaller and softer ones, he motioned her to rest. From some clear
spring near the cave, he brought, in a hastily improvised cup of leaves,
a cool draught, and held it to her lips, as one would have given drink
to a child, for he saw that reaction was taking place, and her trembling
hands almost refused their office. From a pouch that hung on the wall,
he took dried deer meat and pounded corn, and after boiling the former
carefully, placed it in her lap upon a plate of bark.
“My horse,” he said, turning to go.
“Oh! forgive me for having doubted you. I was mad with that fearful
ride,” she pleaded, touched to the heart, not only by the care he had
bestowed on her, but by the truly gentle and respectful manner in which
it had been performed, so entirely different from any thing she had
before seen among the Indians.
But he either did not heed or cared little for her words, for he
abruptly left her side, and then, apparently touched by the tears that
had gathered in her eyes, and the sad shadows upon her face, returned,
and almost whispered, in his strangely thrilling voice:
“Let the daughter of the pale chief sleep. Let her banish the black
thoughts from her heart. She would go again to the moving wigwams of her
people. It shall be so. But first she must renew her strength by
slumber. The _gens du lac_ will keep guard, and she may rest safely as
if her mother rocked. When the sun is high, and birds that love the
bright gold of noon are singing their songs of praise to the good
Manitou, then will Osse ’o call her and the trail shall begin.”
“Thanks, a thousand thanks. Yes; I am very weary. But my poor, poor
father.”
“There will be joy again in his heart. Sleep! The herbs of the forest
are sweet as the rose-scented gardens of the East, where the honey-bee
wanders and humming-birds fold their wings in the cups of flowers.
Sleep, lady, sleep; the Wahkan Tanka, the Supreme Spirit of earth, air
and water, ever guards the pure in heart. Sleep.”
With these words the Indian left her. She watched his tall, graceful
form as it passed from the cavern, and was seated at the entrance with
the face turned away. Faint and worn out, she lay down in the couch of
fresh pine-branches and strove to sleep, but wild fancies haunted her
tired brain, and she could not hush them into slumber while the strange
man’s shadow fell across the mouth of the cave. Who could he be, with
the garb of a savage and graceful courtesy which marks the highest
civilization? Truly, he was an Indian, but with that voice, those gentle
words, it was difficult to think of him as a savage. He had been kind to
her as a brother, and evidently meant her well. Or—her heart bounded
again, as if serpent-stung—could all this be treachery? She put this
idea aside. Then the scene changed and she thought of her father, of his
agony at her loss, of his brave heart but aged limbs toiling on the
mountain trail to rescue her, of his patient sufferings and utter
forgetfulness of self. But again she looked and saw Osse ’o still seated
as before, but with his head bowed upon his hands. Could he, also, have
bitter thoughts? Did the heart of an Indian ever feel the fierce
passions that cause the sufferings she was enduring?
“Oh, shame! shame!” almost burst from her lips, as she reflected how
nobly he had acted, and then her folded arms received the aching head,
and she softly wept herself to sleep.