THE HOMEWARD TRAIL—THE STRANGE MEETING—FOEMEN.
Esther Morse slept long and refreshingly. When she awoke, a single
glance at the form seated still at the entrance of the cavern brought
all the circumstances of the present back to her mind, and she arose,
flinging aside the heavy hunting-shirt with which the Indian had
protected her from the chill.
“The daughter of the pale-face has slumbered well,” said the Indian,
rising and coming toward her.
“Yes, oh! how much I have to thank you for—and you?”
“When the maiden slumbers the warriors keep watch.”
“But you robbed yourself of your garments to protect me. How very, very
kind.”
“The red-man is accustomed to the cold breath of the mountains and does
not feel it,” said the Indian, turning away.
Hunger is a rare luxury after all. The researches of Ude or Soyer have
never found any thing to rival it. No _epicurean_ dainties can match the
exquisite pleasure found in its gratification. A night in the mountains,
drinking in the very breath of life—the pure, clear, bracing air—a
breakfast hot from the glowing embers and a draught of water from the
icy brook, are worth more than all the exquisite dishes that ever man
invented. It needed no urging, therefore, for the girl to satisfy the
cravings of her keen appetite. In after years she might feast from
silver and crystal spoons on tables groaning with costly luxuries, but
that delicious breakfast from the rude brick plate—the smoking venison,
and the ruddy flakes of the spotted trout—the mountain bivouac and the
mountain appetite—was never to be equaled in her life again.
When Esther had completed her repast, Osse ’o stood leaning against the
entrance of the cave—the rocky pilaster that upheld the giant but
irregular rustic arch above, and listened to the story of her captivity.
Briefly, at his request, she gave the painful particulars, for it was
necessary that he should know them in detail in order to form his future
plans. A lightning flash of the eye—a stern compression of lips—a sudden
swelling of the thin nostril, and a heaving of the breast, alone
betrayed the indignation that was passing within. His figure remained as
motionless as the rock against which he leaned.
“The sun is well up and the streams have run themselves low—the leaves
are dry and the moss no longer slippery,” was his response, when she had
concluded, without in the slightest manner alluding to what he had just
heard. “Osse ’o knows well what trail the white man will travel.”
“But my father—my dear, dear, father!” exclaimed the girl. “He could not
have followed me.”
“The trail of the daughter must be straight as the crow flies to the
moving wigwams of her people. When she is in safety, Osse ’o will find
her father—or die.”
“Die? oh! not that. You have been so kind—so like a brother to me.
Surely there is no danger to you.”
“The way may be long and the trail winding. When the girl of the
pale-faces is ready, we will go.”
“Ready? Now, this instant. Come, I have no fear.” She placed her hand in
his as she spoke, and smiled as he clasped it in his hard palm.
For a single moment only the Indian held it in his tight grasp, then he
uplifted it slightly as if he would have raised it to his lips, but with
a grave sadness in his eyes he checked the impulse, slowly releasing his
grasp, and turned toward his horse that stood ready prepared for the
march. He offered her his foot as a step from which she could mount the
horse.
What a game of living cross-purposes was playing then in the mountains?
Waltermyer, a white man, had become the protector and guide of an Indian
woman. Osse ’o, a Dacotah, was performing the some services for a white
girl. Black Eagle and his followers were hunting for Esther, and the
Mormon seeking for them. All traveling, in reality, blind paths—pursuing
the end of a trail that was shifting every hour—seeking each other as a
baffled man might search for a name written in sand on the sea-shore.
With his hand upon the bridle-rein, the Indian walked almost by Esther’s
side, cheering and guiding the horse. When the narrow trail caused her
to shrink back from the dizzy brink on one side until she brushed the
perpendicular wall of rocks on the other—when the descent became
steep—when the path was cumbered with loose stones—when an overhanging
branch threatened to sweep her from the saddle—when the rocky bed of the
_arroya_ was deep and the current strong—when more than usual danger
lurked around her in any form, he pressed still nearer, warned her of
the danger in deep, earnest whispers—whispers whose undertone was more
like the lower notes of a flute than a human voice—and held her firmly
with his strong arm.
All that is beautiful in human tenderness was concentrated in these
guarding cares. In her gratitude and her admiration, Esther forgot every
thing which might have revolted her at another time.
“See!” said Osse ’o, as he paused to breathe his steed for a moment.
“Far off toward the setting sun are your father’s wagons—the pale-man’s
traveling home. Like little rifts of snow they lie whitely in the
distance.”
“So near? Let us hurry on. Each moment seems a lifetime till I reach my
father.”
“The trail winds round the mountains like a serpent, and even this good
horse must rest. Within an arrow’s shot below, though it takes miles to
reach it, is a huge rock level at the top. A thousand warriors could
camp upon it, and yet find room for more. There I will build a fire and
rest. Then Osse ’o will guide the girl of the pale-faces to her father.”
Without giving her an opportunity to reply, he led the horse rapidly
forward until they reached the plateau he had briefly described.
To the very center of this camping-ground, where it abutted against an
abrupt precipice of immense height, he led the horse and assisted her to
dismount. The wide table-rock lay stretched before them in every
direction; he had chosen this position because he could not be suddenly
attacked while occupying it, nor could an enemy approach undiscovered.
There was no danger of an ambush or surprise there. After freeing his
horse from his equipments, that he might browse freely, he commenced
preparation for the noonday repast.
Hardly however had he gathered the light wood, a task in which Esther,
glad of exercise after her tedious ride, blithely assisted, when the
sound of a horse coming down the path on the opposite side from which
they had entered upon the rocky plain startled them, and while the girl
fled to the concealment of the bushes, Osse ’o hastily snatched his arms
and prepared to defend her. A cheerful, ringing voice followed the
hoof-tramp they had heard.
“Come, old feller, don’t be going to sleep. A half-a-dozen rods further,
and you can roll in clover. Whew! it has been an orful long trail
though. Come on and—” here the speaker came in full sight of the plateau
as he spoke. Instantly changing both his manner and his voice, he
continued:
“Ef thar hain’t one of them blasted red-skins! I only hope it’s that
cus—blessed Black Eagle! Maybe thar won’t be a scrimmage then,” and his
rifle was at his shoulder. “By thunder, I know that are horse; it’s the
only one I ever saw that could range with my black. Hullo! Show your
hand, stranger—friend or foe?”
The Indian dropped his rifle, and holding out his hand, palm foremost,
in token of amity, slowly advanced.
“Ef you’re the rightful owner of that horse, you must be Osse ’o.”
“And you Waltermyer!”
“Just as true as shootin’. Give me your hand, old chap. Here, Waupee,
jump down, it’s all friendly. I didn’t know at first but that there
mought be a chance of a fight, but it’s all right now. But I say, Osse
’o, what in the name of goodness brought you here?”
“Let my brother wait and look,” and proceeding to the bushes, after a
very brief explanation to Esther, Osse ’o led her forward.
Waltermyer dashed forward and grasping the hand of the white girl, shook
it with enthusiastic warmth, exclaiming in his deep, trumpet-like voice:
“Just speak one word, beauty. Just say that your name is Esther and I’ll
be happy as you please.”
“That certainly is my name. But why do you want to know?”
“Come here, Waupee;” and he lifted the Indian from his horse’s back and
placed her by the side of the white girl. “There you are; now get
acquainted.” The two females greeted each other kindly, while the happy
frontiersman was stripping his good steed and shouting:
“Three cheers for you—and you—and all of us. I know the hull story, Osse
’o, and so do you, I suppose, only I can’t surmise how you came to be
here, any more than you can how I got to the shelf. Come, gals, stir
about and let’s have a little somethin’ to eat. I am as ravenous as a
b’ar in the spring-time; more’n that, I want to git down on the perarer
where it’s smooth sailin’ before sun-down.”
Ready hands make quick work; and it was not long before that
strangely-arranged quartette were seated upon the low rock, satisfying
their hunger. Not much time did it require either for them to be fully
conversant with the history of each other’s wanderings and meetings.
The tramp of a horse startled the whole party at last.
“What in thunder is up now?” shouted Waltermyer, snatching his rifle and
springing to his feet.
“The Mormon!” replied Osse ’o.
“Black Eagle!” whispered the Indian woman; and seizing Esther by the
hand she almost dragged her into the concealment of the bushes.
“Twin devils!” exclaimed Waltermyer, loosening his pistols in his belt
ready for instant service, and whistling to his horse he drove him back
toward the perpendicular rocks.
No further words issued from the already compressed lips of the Indian;
but after he had, also, placed his horse by the side of black Star, he
took his position near Waltermyer and awaited the issue that was forced
upon them.
There was silence long enough for the heart to throb scarce a score of
times, and then, at the same instant, Black Eagle rode upon the plateau
from one side, and the Mormon entered on foot from the other.