WALTERMYER—A CHAMPION.
“Waal,” exclaimed Kirk Waltermyer, as his good horse floundered along in
the darkness, “of all the rides I ever had this is the beat. I’ve hearn
tell of storms in the mountings, and thought I had seen them, but they
were nowhar compared to this. Whew! how the wind tussles with the
tree-tops and whistles in the gulches. I tell you, this is some! I’ve
half a mind to camp, and would, only—poor little Est! I wonder if the
rain falls as heavily, and the wind soughs as mournfully around your
grave, my poor gal?”
The recollection of his little dead sister, now ever kept in memory by
the name of the young creature he was seeking to save, humanized and
softened his usual rough speech. Still he continued, as if addressing a
companion who could reply, and not his faithful horse, with whom his
one-sided conversation was held. And yet, if the doctrine of the
transmigration of souls were true, might not this matchless steed have
been gifted with the keen perception of some great man whose death the
world still mourns? We know the foolish falsehood of the story, and yet
there exist examples in the brute creation, that, weighed in the scale
of worth, would make many a man shrink into littleness.
“I know some horses, Star,” he continued, “that I wouldn’t ride across
this mountain in a dark night—nary a time. No, not for all the gold in
Shasta. Hello! what kind of a caper is that?”
The horse had come to a sudden stop—so sudden as to shake even his
perfect rider, and stood with braced feet, snorting nostrils, and eyes
flashing fire, immovable in limb as if sculptured from the very rock on
which he stood, and yet his whole body trembling with fear. His keen
sight—far more keen than mortal eye in the darkness—had discovered
something unusual in the path before him.
“By heaven!” exclaimed the startled frontiersman, as his ready rifle was
braced against his shoulder, “if it hain’t an Indian. No, it’s a
creepin’, snarlin’ wolf. No, ’tis a b’ar. No, it hain’t none of them.
It’s—by thunder, I don’t know what it is;” and he swung himself from his
horse, and, bending down, closely watched.
That it was something endowed with life he readily perceived, but what
it was he could not make out. Wolf nor bear ever made those stealthy
motions, or crept thus slowly along. It was very indistinct, and again
he raised his rifle.
“If you be a human, speak,” he shouted; “but if a b’ar or a cowardly
cayote, then I’m arter your scalp, and no mistake. But no, no; I don’t
need it, and such a night is enough to make beast and man brothers. No,
no, I’ll not shoot. Go your way, and if—as I live by bread and buffalo
meat, it’s gone! I’ve traveled many a long mile in my day, and this
bangs all the other doin’s I ever saw. I do think it was a human,
or”—and he raised his hand to his head, as if to be certain that his
hair would not lift his cap off in terror of the thought, and his voice
dropped to a whisper—“or it mought have been a ghost!”
“Yes, it was a speerit,” he whispered, under his breath; “a poor,
wanderin’ speerit, that can not rest quietly in the grave. Poor soul—who
knows but that it mought come back again;” and, for the first time
during the night, his spurs touched his horse’s flank, and with a great
leap the generous brute bounded forward.
But he could not shake the fear from his mind, and he who,
single-handed, would have dauntlessly rode into the face of death, now
looked anxiously around in the quest of something that his better
judgment told him could not exist.
With a feeling of vague terror, Waltermyer still urged his horse on. He
had but one object in view, that was to reach the topmost cliff, and
there, when morning’s dawn transfigured earth, he could command a
boundless view. But the frontiersman had not a heart or mind to linger
on imaginary danger.
Soon the cool breeze swept downward, and wantoned with his wet hair, and
made merry with his draggled garments, and in its freshness his
hardihood returned; even the strain of an old hunting-song hung upon his
lips and struggled for utterance as he rode along.
Clearly above him, through the sharp-cut walls of the cañon, he soon
began to see the stars shine brightly, and, as the golden light came
shimmering down through the leaves, his way became clear, and he urged
his good steed more rapidly forward. Then came the gray of morning, the
hour when the cloudy waves of night are at full ebb, and stand
transfixed, as it were, with golden arrows for a moment, before the
flood of day comes surging from the eastern ocean. In the weird
semi-light he rode blithely on. A foaming rivulet that a few hours
before had held no drop of moisture rolled before him. The whole earth
was refreshed, and he felt the glorious influence.
“Come, Star!” he lifted his horse with hand and rein, and rode boldly
in.
To the very saddle-bow sunk the horse, as he plunged in the stream, and
the foam-beads danced among his tawny mane as his feet failed to reach
the bottom.
“Come, Star! Come, good horse!” and his manly voice rang above even the
roar of the swollen waters.
But spur, and rein, and voice were all needed now, and when the noble
steed reached the opposite bank, it required all his strength and
agility to mount it. His fore-feet rest upon the shelving, rocky
brink—he rears for the leap—he rises light as a bird on the wing—his
hindermost hoofs strike upon the bank, but the insecure footing gives
way—he trembles like a strong man, struggling against a giant in the
wrestling ring.
“Come, Star! Once more, my boy!”
A giant effort, and a giant leap, and he stands trembling on secure
ground, with the water dripping from his glossy hide, and the snowy spot
in his forehead gleaming from amid its blackness—a very blazing star,
looking out from a storm.
A moment given only to rest, to the recuperation of the vast energy he
has just exhibited, and again that tireless horse takes the upward
trail, without a word or sign from his master. But his steps are
checked. Not that he needed rest—not that Waltermyer, kind-hearted as he
was, and even more than tender of his favorite steed, had become
doubtful of his strength; but another vision had crossed his track—a
ghost appeared before him.
“By—!” but he strangled the oath, and beat back the impious word, before
it could find utterance. “Ef it’s not the same thing I saw down below!
And it is—hold! don’t jump, for your life! Stop, I say! don’t do it
here!” and his horse sprung, as if gifted with wings, beneath the sharp
rowel.
Even in the uncertain light, his well-trained eye had discovered that it
was a human being, standing on a rocky shelf full a hundred feet above
him, and preparing to spring from the fearful height. Who it was he did
not pause to think. Enough for him to know that some fellow-being was in
trouble, and bent on self-destruction. In as many seconds the swift
horse stood on the shelf of rock, and Waltermyer leaped from its back
while in full career.
It was an Indian woman, intent on leaping down that fearful height. Her
form was bent, and her arms thrown wildly upward for the terrible leap,
when the frontiersman interposed.
“By—!” once more the oath was unuttered.
“Yes, it’s a woman!” he continued, as the form became limp, and hung
heavily in his arms. “A woman, as I live! May be it’s—” he could not
speak the name, but, turning up the face tenderly, saw in the dim light,
not the white girl he was searching for, but the features of Waupee, the
poor heart-broken wife.
“Pshaw!” he muttered, in disappointment. “It is only a squaw;” and then,
as if ashamed of himself, he smoothed the long, black hair from the
bronzed face, and after laying the poor creature carefully on the
ground, hastened to the stream he had so lately passed, and filled his
cap with water. Returning hurriedly, he bathed the upturned face. He was
a rude nurse, but kind-hearted, and there was something in the utter
helplessness of the wretched Indian woman that took a strong hold upon
his rough nature, and exercised an influence over him a thousand women
under other circumstances would have failed in producing.
“Waal, she’s real pooty, too,” he muttered, between his teeth. “The
pootyest squaw I ever sot eyes on. Who would have thought a red-skinned
gal could look so much like a human? But she’s waking up now;” and he
seated himself by her side, looking at her with eyes full of wonder and
pity.
Like a frightened fawn, the Indian woman started from the rock and gazed
about her. She had been so suddenly snatched from the jaws of death, had
swooned so deeply, that, for a time, she was lost to all surroundings,
and when she opened her eyes, it was like one coming out of total
darkness into the glaring light of day. Anxiously, afraid almost, she
gazed about her—at the coal-black steed—the strong form and face of the
frontiersman, and at the cliff beyond. Then, in all its fearful reality
the scene came back to her, and burying her face in her lap, she sat for
a long time speechless, after the fashion of her people.
“My good woman,” began Waltermyer, anxious to break the silence, and yet
doubtful how or where to commence, “you came mighty near a-fallin’ off
the cliff. And now,” continued Waltermyer, “as soon as you have rested a
little you must git on my horse thar—he’s a good and true one and a
sure-footed—and I will take you to a place of safety, if not home.”
“Waupee has no home,” was the sad response.
“No home? Waal, I might say the same of myself. But I s’pose your home
is like mine—that is, your tribe’s is—any whar, whar the night overtakes
you. But cheer up; I will take you to your tribe.”
“Waupee must not go to her tribe.”
“Not go to your people? Waal, this beats natur’.”
“A moon ago there was light in her wigwam—now all is darkness. Waupee
would have given herself to the dark angels of death. The pale-face
saved her and she thanks him. Once before, when the night was dark, she
saw him.”
“Saw me?”
“Like a serpent she crawled across his path.”
“You did! Waal, I must have took you for a ghost.”
“The red fiends of murder were in her heart. She was seeking her
husband—who turned her out to die, and—”
“The infernal brute!”
“She found him far up in the hills. The sharp knife was in her hand—her
arm was raised—”
“But you could not strike him?”
“She had loved him once.”
“Thank God for that!” In the hour of strife, when the hot blood was
rioting through the heart, the frontiersman could well and willingly
fight his way; but to murder a sleeping man in cold, calculating blood,
was a thought that made him, iron-nerved as he was, shudder and grow
faint.
“The poor wife he had spurned from his wigwam—the bride of but little
more than one small moon—kissed him as he slept, and then turned away
forever.”
“That was right—the varmint.”
“She had nothing to live for. Husband, tribe—all was gone. What could
she do but die?”
“And so he turned you out—a pooty woman like you, did he?”
For a moment, the black eyes of the Indian woman flashed upon his, as if
to learn the meaning of the flattering words he had used, but reading
sincerity and not unmeaning compliment in every feature of his face, she
replied:
“He had seen a girl of snowy skin—and carried her away from her friends
to fill his wigwam, and—”
“Hold your horses, thar. A white gal?”
“Fair as the flowers of spring, with hair like the silk of the maize in
the autumn time—eyes like the blue summer sky—cheeks like the climbing
rose of the prairie, and lips red as the sumac berries, and voice sweet
as the music of spring-waters in the desert.”
“Whar is she now?”
By degrees, he learned the entire history of Esther’s capture—the
wandering—the battle and the escape—all except the death of Osse ’o, for
of that the woman was ignorant—then his fiery heart burst forth in no
measured words. Fierce were the passions that shook his frame, and
bitter would have been his revenge if the abductors had stood before
him. But even in his wildest torrent of words, there came a controlling,
soul-subduing influence. He murmured, “poor little Est,” and restraining
himself, continued:
“I ought to know most of the chiefs at Spirit Lake. Did I ever meet this
Indian?”
“He is known among the Dacotahs as the Black Eagle.”
“Black devil! Yes, I know him, and a blacker-hearted fiend never stole
horses or murdered peaceful emigrants. Waal, waal, his time will come.
But he’s but an Indian arter all, and it’s his natur’, I s’pose; but, as
for that rascally Elder, if ever I catch him, I’ll make him think that
he’s tied to a drove of buffaloes, and they are all kicking him at
once.”
“The tongue of Waupee has traveled the trail of truth.”
“I believe you, gal. Thar hain’t no lyin’ hid in your looks, like a
serpent in the tall sloo-grass. Yes, I believe you.”
“The pale warrior knows all the poor squaw can tell him. He will follow
the trail and the great Manitou will smile upon him. He was very kind to
the poor Indian woman, and she will never forget him. Now she will go.”
“Go? Whar in thunder are you goin’ to?”
“The Manitou will guide her moccasins.”
“But you said you had neither home or tribe.”
“She will make for herself a home in the caves of the mountains, and
wait patiently until the death-angel shall drive away the white-winged
spirit of life.”
“If you do, may I be—! Oh, poor little Est!”
“Where then shall she go?”
“Go? Why with me.”
“The chiefs of the pale-face will laugh at their brother for being kind
to a woman of the Dacotahs.”
“That hain’t the safest kind of business, I can tell you, but I don’t
care for their laughin’. My shoulders are broad, and can carry a pretty
big load.”
“But they will look black on Waupee—will laugh at her wrongs, and
trample her heart in the ashes.”
“Let them do it ef they dare! Let any one, even if he war my brother,
that is, ef I had one, try to crush or hurt the feelin’s of a poor
creature who has been so trampled upon, and Kirk Waltermyer will teach
them a lesson they will remember longer than any thing they ever larned
at school.”
“The pale-face has been very kind, and the daughter of the Dacotahs will
not see him insulted for her sake.”
“Now, you just a-hear. I honor you for your feelin’s, and like you for
your speerit, but I don’t go one step without you. So thar! Ef you have
made up your mind to camp here until doomsday, why, I’ll pitch my tent
too, and Star with me.”
“Has the pale-face thought of what his tribe will say?”
“Tribe be—blessed. Don’t frown, little Est, for that’s no swearin’. I
hain’t any more of a tribe than you have, so just make up your mind to
come along quietly like a good girl, and I’ll soon show you that Kirk
Waltermyer has a heart that beats like a trip-hammer, and always in the
right place. He hain’t any more given to braggin’ than one of your
warriors; but if anybody even dares to question about you, they’ll find
you have got one friend that hain’t to be easily handled.”
“Waupee will go with the pale-face for a time.”
“Waal, I reckon it will be a long time onless you find some better place
to camp in than these desolate mountings. Here, Star,” and he whistled
his faithful horse to his side.
Star came up ready for action. When Waltermyer had drawn the girths
tighter and arranged both bridle and saddle to his liking, he lifted the
light form of Waupee from the earth before she had the slightest
intimation of his intention, and swung her upon the back of the horse
with as little difficulty as if she had been but a feather’s weight. The
hot blood welled up into cheek, brow, and neck of the woman, and shone
ruddy even through her bronzed skin at the action. But the calm face of
Waltermyer satisfied her that all with him was perfect kindness and good
faith, before even his words had reached her ear.
“Thar now, you’ll ride like a princess—though I don’t well know what
they may be. Onyhow, you’re not a-goin’ to walk, while I own a horse. I
know the braves, as they call themselves in your tribe, make you go on
foot while they strut off on thar horses all fiery-fired to death. But I
don’t and won’t! Thar’s no use a-talkin’, it’s just what Kirk Waltermyer
would do for any woman.”
“When the pale-face tires, Waupee will walk.”
“Tires? Waal, ef that isn’t about the richest thing I ever heard. When I
tire!”
“But the horse will grow weary. The trail has been a long one and the
night stormy.”
“My horse grow a-weary? Waal, that’s equil to the other! When he gits
tired I’ll take you in my arms, for not a single step shall a woman walk
on such a trail as this, while Kirk Waltermyer draws breath;” and he
laid his strong hand on the rein and led the way down the mountain.