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A FORTUNE HUNTER;
OR,
THE OLD STONE CORRAL.
A Tale of the Santa Fe Trail.
by
JOHN DUNLOE CARTERET.
Cincinnati:
Printed for the Author.
1888.
Copyrighted, 1886.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Nature's Blank Page--The Old Stone Corral--The Lost Treasure
of Monteluma--Camp-fires--The Warlow and Moreland Families--The
Camp on the Cottonwood--A Tale of the Camp-fire 7
CHAPTER II.
Colonel Warlow's Story--Bruce Walraven--The Heiress of
Monteluma--The Vale of Mexico--Bandits--The Rescue--The
Web of Destiny 19
CHAPTER III.
Breakfast on the Plains--Colonel Warlow's Story
Continued--Bruce Walraven's Creed--Blood-drenched Malvern
Hill--The Dim Crest of Orizaba--Roses and Thorns--The
Wealth of Monteluma--A Cask of Gold--The Casket of
Gems--The Overland Journey--A Dark Tragedy 29
CHAPTER IV.
Colonel Warlow's Story Continued--Los Angeles--A Friend
in Need--A Storm on the Pacific--Shipwreck--Under the
Waves 48
CHAPTER V.
Colonel Warlow's Story Continued--Alone--The Castaway--The
Golden Gate to Home Sweet Home--Acapulco--Roger--The
Isthmus of Panama 57
CHAPTER VI.
Colonel Warlow's Story Continued--The Tropical Groves
of Cuba--The Coffee Plantation--A Blooming Christmas--The
Tomb of Columbus--The Roses and Passion-flowers of
Cuba--The Warm Hearts of Home--Ah! Such a Day can never
come Again--Snow-drifts, Sleigh-bells, and
Sweethearts--Mary, etc. 71
CHAPTER VII.
Colonel Warlow's Story Concluded--The Wool-picking--The
Squire's Harrow--Wedding Bells--Profit and Loss--The
Spectre of the Stone Corral 79
CHAPTER VIII.
The Monotony of Frontier Life--New Homes--Voting
Bonds--The Grasshopper Raid--Back to the Land of the
Mother-in-law--Grim Famine's Shadow--The Flood--A
Strange Weird Sight 87
CHAPTER IX.
A Raging Torrent--The Crows' Nest--An Aerial
Family--"Kansis oR buST" 100
CHAPTER X.
The Picnic--A Biled Vest--A Dark-eyed Maid with her Sweet
Guitar--Mora Estill--Fishing, etc., but Principally the
Latter--"We have met before"--The Gray Spectre--The
Mystery-wrapped Grave of the Hill-top--Rough as a
Farmer--Transmigration of Souls 108
CHAPTER XI.
A Western Call--Mystery--The Call lengthens into a Western
Visit--Spring Chicken and Mystery 126
CHAPTER XII.
False Riches--A Young Fortune Hunter--The Santa Fe
Trail--Searching for the Gold of Monteluma--The Serpent's
Warning Rattle--The Stare of Death--The Gray Spectre 144
CHAPTER XIII.
A Western Wheat-field--A Visit to Estill's Ranch--A
Skeleton in the Estill Closet--An Art Critic who was "Beef
to the Heel"--Very Undairy-like--A Trace of Mystery 159
CHAPTER XIV.
Phantoms of the Past--That "Unspeakable" Rob Warlow--The
Running-gears, if you please--The Clouds thicken--A
Glimpse of the Past 179
CHAPTER XV.
The Mysterious Trail--The Secret Cell--A Voice from
the Past--The Journal of Ivarene 194
CHAPTER XVI.
The Web of Mystery--The Gems of Monteluma--A Scene of
Bewildering Beauty 203
CHAPTER XVII.
The Red Gold of Monteluma--My Father's Doubloons--The
Phantom--A Million of Treasure 211
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Course of True Love--The Cattle-king's
Daughter--Flirtation and Practicing--"Your Music makes me
Home-sick"--A Dubious Compliment--A Western View of Classic
Music--Schubert's Serenade, in which Rob has the "Cheek"
to assert that he can recognize the very Bar in that
Masterpiece, where the Old Man turns the Bull-dog loose--A
Couple of Idiots--Where Grace's Fingers itch to pull
Cliff's Ears--A Lover whose Lip hangs Very Low--That
Contemptible Thing, a Fortune Hunter 220
CHAPTER XIX.
A Strange Theory--Our Bodies may be tenanted by Souls
that have lived before--Farewell, my Native Land--A
Glimmering Circle of Phantom Warriors--A Haunted Spot--The
Crossing of the Santa Fe and Abilene Trails--The
Picnic--A Scene that was too Rich for my Blood 239
CHAPTER XX.
My Long-lost Gold--A Hero who dripped at the Nose like a
Hydrant--An Embarrassment of Riches--The Mirage--The Valley
of the Smoky Hill--The Iron Mound and Soldier's Cap--The
Mennonite Colony--A Gigantic Land-sale--Eagle Beak--The
Wailing Wolf of the Hill-top--A Strange Creed--A Stately
Mansion--The Grave-lights of Antelope Butte--A Comforting
and Seductive Theory--We may be re-born and live again to
enjoy the Happiness lost by Death 259
CHAPTER XXI.
The Skeletons on Antelope Butte--The Serene Wedding Morn
at the Stone Corral--We Live Again--Wedding
Festivities--The End 285
A FORTUNE HUNTER:
OR,
THE OLD STONE CORRAL.
Chapter I.
The sinking sun threw its amber beams over the wide valley, rolling
hills, and the dim buttes, wreathed in the blue haze of distance and
looming with vague outlines in the wavering shimmer of the evening
mirage.
A silvery stream, half hidden by fringing trees, wound through the
prairie valley, but was lost to sight where a lofty butte shouldered
boldly down from the highland on the south, as if to catch a view of the
Eden-like landscape that dreamed below, while far away to the north a
line of galloping hills bounded the vision, their mantles of tender
green dappled by the shadow and sunshine of the fleecy clouds that
floated overhead. On the south the level prairie melted away into the
limitless distance, clothed in the tender grasses and flowers of early
spring-time, while on every hand stretched away the horizon-bound
prairies of the Western plains.
A wide meadow-land, made perfect by the hand of nature, but lacking that
soul and animation which human occupancy alone can impart to any scene.
No homes are visible; nothing but the blank page of nature, waiting to
be written over with the histories of the people, which, something
whispers to me, will soon invade this peaceful scene, over which now
broods the unnatural calm of utter solitude.
Out beyond that blue line of hills, which flame up in the east, is
raging the fierce conflict which we call civilization; but the shock and
din, the roar and turmoil of the mighty battle die fitfully away long
before reaching the quivering line of that dim horizon. I stand alone
upon the crest of a breeze-kissed hill, listening to the moan and
whisper of the wind sighing through the grasses at my feet, or the notes
of a meadow lark, thrilling and sweet, as it flits by.
To the westward, on a lofty knoll, are visible the broken arches and
ruined walls of the Old Stone Corral; rank vines now veil the loop-holes
where once had flashed forth the leaden death-messenger for many a
savage warrior that had tried to storm the impregnable inclosure, which
had been built as a place of refuge for travelers on the Santa Fe Trail,
that here crossed the Cottonwood on a stony ford. A giant elm, centuries
old, stood amid the ruins, its drooping boughs of feathery spray weeping
like a fountain of verdure over the spring that welled out from among
its roots, then went gurgling away, a purling brook, to join the narrow
stream in the valley.
The river here at the ruins had nearly encircled the hill on which they
stood, and after half embracing the knoll in its timber-fringed course
had wound away down the valley, but where the groves grew in masses of
darkest green, there the stream had widened to miniature lakelets that
flashed like silver in the slanting sunbeams.
On a low mound near by I see a great stone, like a rude monument, and
drawing near I can barely decipher this dim and weather-worn
inscription, carved on the red sandstone:
Erected to the Memory
OF
FIFTY-THREE VICTIMS OF THE CHEYENNES,
AUGUST 22, 1849.
NAMES ALL UNKNOWN.
Here is a dim, dark tragedy, buried within this grassy knoll, but within
these pages all the mystery which haunts the flower-bespangled hillock
will be cleared away. A difficult task indeed; but without those graves
my story would never have been written.
I stand silent and thoughtful, gazing out over the tranquil landscape,
which had once witnessed a scene of revolting horror here on this quiet
spot; but all is peaceful now, the only sign of life visible being the
long file of antelope that hurry by from the north. Halting on a lofty
headland, they pause a moment, stretching their graceful necks to gaze
back along their pathway, then with loud snorts wheeling and swiftly
fleeing away.
At this moment the distant sound of hoofs was heard, becoming
momentarily louder; then a group of riders dash up on their sleek,
superb horses, and draw rein at the rude monument.
"It must be here, Clifford, at this low mound," said one of the riders,
a graceful girl of seventeen, with nut-brown hair and blue eyes.
"Yes, Maud, I recognize the knoll from father's and Uncle Roger's
description. It was uncle who carved this inscription upon the stone,
little dreaming then that we should all come here a quarter of a century
later to secure a new home," replied a youth of near twenty years;
handsome, golden-haired, and symmetrical, with eyes of pansy blue, and a
look of pride and good birth about him which showed plain through the
dust and tan of a long journey.
"Ah, dear Bruce and Ivarene! how sad to end their romance with such a
tragedy!" said Maud tearfully, as Clifford dismounted; then, as he
helped her to alight, they stood for a moment in mute sorrow while
deciphering the inscription upon the stone.
"Maud, it is hard to believe that the heiress of grand old Monteluma,
with her millions of gold and gems at command, who wedded noble Bruce in
the great cathedral before the dignitaries and ambassadors of half
Christendom with a pomp and splendor new to even luxury-steeped Mexico,
is sleeping with her husband in the silence of this lonesome grave,"
Clifford said in a tone of deep sadness.
"Oh! how vivid the picture returns, of the silken and lace-robed
heiress, who threw back the gilded lattice of her window, and with
pearls glinting, and rubies burning in her raven hair, smiled as her
handsome lover, in his uniform of gray and gold lace, swung himself up
to her window by the passion-vines and fuchsias, that rained a shower of
purple, white, and rose on his sunny hair. I can almost see the
love-look in his blue eyes yet," said Maud with a flood of tears, as she
leaned against the rude monument and covered her face with her hands.
"I have sometimes fancied that they escaped; for there was no one left
but father to inquire, and you know how long he was covered with the
stones of that old wall, remaining delirious for months after Uncle
Roger found him," said Clifford, "and that million of their gold and
gems, with father's store of gold, I have often fancied, Maud, was
hidden near here; for there has never been a search made since the
terrible massacre."
"That looks so improbable, Clifford. If the savages murdered them for
plunder, as they certainly did, then it is idle to think that they would
have left anything of value behind. Even the jewels would have been
fought for, as savages are very fond of glitter and splendor," Maud
replied.
"Yes, that very disposition of theirs to wrangle over their booty has
given me a hope that the leader might have buried the gold, for the
reason that it would have been impossible to carry away a ton of coin
without first dividing it. I shall make the search at any rate, though
it does look like a forlorn hope," he added with a sigh.
"Miss Warlow, there seems to have been a great tragedy enacted here in
the past," said a young man of near Clifford's age, who had been
silently regarding them from a distance, in company with a
flaxen-haired girl, younger than Maud, who still sat upon her horse by
his side.
"Yes, Mr. Moreland, and it nearly concerns us; for our father, here on
this spot, once lost a great fortune, and at the same time those two
friends of whom we have been speaking. This all was long before Clifford
and I were born; but father has told us so often of the tragedy that the
names of Bruce and Ivarene Walraven are dear and sacred to us all," Maud
replied.
"Oh, Ralph! I wonder if Colonel Warlow would tell us the particulars of
that terrible affair?" said the younger girl.
"It would be doubly interesting here upon the closing scene of the
tragedy," the young man replied.
"Will you ask your father, Maud, to tell us to-night?" the young girl
inquired eagerly.
"Yes, Grace: it will help to while away our first Sabbath here, which
will be a lonesome day to-morrow," Maud made answer as they remounted
and rode down to the stream to water their horses.
"What a lovely camp-ground!" exclaimed Grace. "Shall we not stop here,
Ralph?"
"Yes, sister, if the others are willing. It is not only a fine camping
ground, but it is more: This is a grand home-land, or will be when we
select our 'claims,' Monday. I never before have seen a more beautiful
or fertile valley than this."
Soon a long line of white covered wagons and a comfortable carriage
appeared, coming down the Santa Fe trail, which wound its travel-worn
course over the hills from the north-east; and where solitude had
reigned but an hour before there now re-echoed the sounds of a busy
camp, and ruddy fires leaped and sparkled, about which female forms
flitted to and fro, preparing their evening meal. But while all was
bustle and animation within the camp, a solitary figure could be seen
standing at the long grave, bowed in an attitude of silent grief.
As he walked slowly back within the glare of the camp-fire, it was
apparent that he was a man past middle life, of grave and dignified
appearance; the lines of care, on his still handsome face, were deepened
as if by grief as he seated himself by a tree, away from the glare of
the light.
As he sat thus--lost in reverie--Maud came softly by, and, passing her
hand over his hair in a caressing way, said:--
"What a lovely country this is! I am charmed with it already."
"Yes, Maud, my daughter, it is a fertile and picturesque region; but it
will be hard to inure myself to living on this spot, for it is haunted
by very bitter memories."
"Oh, it is sad, indeed, to think of the fate of Bruce and his graceful
bride; but we will deck their grave with flowers, and I shall never
cease to grieve for them," she said, dropping a kiss on her father's
cheek, then hurrying away to the camp-fire.
He was roused from his gloomy reverie, a few minutes later, by his wife,
who came to his side, and, as her hand rested fondly on his shoulder,
she said, in a sweet voice of womanly sympathy, in which could be
traced a sub-tone of strength and resolution:--
"George, dear, this is no time for repining; instead we should feel
happy and grateful that we have found such a delightful country as this
in which to select our future home. Oh, this valley is more beautiful
than even my wildest dreams had ever pictured. I had felt apprehensive,
husband, that your impressions of this place had been colored by your
youthful enthusiasm of twenty, and own that I had made ample allowance
for the quarter of a century which has passed since then; but it is
certainly the most charming spot I have ever beheld."
"My dear, brave wife," he replied joyfully, "you lift a heavy burden
from my heart; we will select a home near here early Monday morning, and
begin building at once. I shall leave the selection with you, Mary,
however."
"Oh, we are too late," she replied, with a cheerful smile. "Robbie has
found the spot already; he has just returned from down the valley, where
Scott Moreland and himself had driven the stock, and they report having
found a perfect paradise. They are both boiling over with enthusiasm,
and are bareheaded, having left their hats hanging on trees to mark the
location of their respective 'claims,' and when I left the camp-fire
they were inveighing against the injustice of a law that would not
permit fifteen-year-old boys to take a 'homestead.'"
In a more cheerful mood the couple now sought the camp-fire, which was
surrounded by more than a dozen persons of both sexes, all animated and
happy over the termination of their long and toilsome journey.
The two who have just entered the circle are Colonel Warlow and his
wife, while the handsome youth of fifteen, with hazel eyes and auburn
hair, which has a faint tinge of red, that accounts for the reputation
he has earned within the Warlow circle, is Robbie, their youngest; while
that golden-haired young Adonis, who, in a fit of grave abstraction,
sits leaning against a tree, his white and tapering hands clasped about
his knee, the firelight glimmering over a small and well-shaped boot
resting on the round of his chair, is their oldest son, Clifford, whom
we have met before; while Maud, their only daughter, is easily
recognized as she flits about, busy and graceful.
Next we see the family of Squire Moreland, from the valley of the
Merrimac--the squire himself being a representative Puritan, plain and
grave; his wife, a type of the live and thorough-going New England
woman, deeply imbued with the "thingness of is," able to discuss apples
or algebra, beans or baptism, or in fact any subject down to zymology.
Then Ralph, principally to be recommended for being "general good
fellow." Next in their family is Scott, quiet and grave, addressed by
Rob Warlow as the "Young Squire;" and their only daughter, Grace, in
whose make-up there is more than a faint spice of the tomboy.
Colonel Warlow's family had left their old Missouri home, the tobacco
and hemp plantation on which the children had all been born, and,
having met the Morelands on their rout, bound for that indefinite
region "out West," they had journeyed on together to this spot,
attracted by Colonel Warlow's remembrance of its great beauty and
natural fertility, which had deeply impressed him when he was here a
quarter of a century before.
Learning, at Council Grove, that the valley was open to homestead entry,
they had hastened on, miles ahead of other settlements, to locate here
on a spot that was beyond the utmost limit of civilization.
Soon the hungry travelers were seated at the cloth that was spread on
the downy buffalo-grass, and were partaking of the broiled quail and
antelope steak, the appetizing odors of which now pervaded the whole
camp; but as the company ranged themselves about the tempting repast,
Maud and Grace retired to a seat by the fire, declaring as they did so,
that they would not sacrifice their precious lives by sitting at a table
with thirteen other sinners.
"Give us a song, then," cried some one from the table, at which Grace
sprang up and brought Maud's guitar from the carriage, and soon the
sweet strains,
"Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chains have bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me,"
re-echoed through the tranquil valley. As Maud's tender soprano mingled
with the luscious alto of Grace's voice the listeners almost forgot the
tempting feast spread before them, and cries of "Bravo!" "Encore!"
etc., greeted the close of the pathetic song, which was wholly lost, as
to its sentiment, upon the younger members of the company.
"Pass the hat," cried Bob, whereupon Grace handed her sunshade around
among the laughing group, but after inspecting the collection, she said
with an air of contempt:--
"A wish-bone and five bread-crusts! Why, a _prima donna_ would starve on
such a meagre salary. I've a notion to play Herodias's daughter and
dance off your heads;" and when Maud struck up a lively fandango, she
shook her curls in a threatening manner, and then whirled off into an
amazing waltz.
Jeers and hoots from the boys resounded at her last _pas seul_, and
Clifford's voice was heard in the gay tumult saying: "Mademoiselle dis
Grace must have learned her step at an Irish wake."
"Let us no longer serve an ungrateful public," said Maud, as they sat
down to the table, where their gayety chased away all traces of care or
sorrow. When the meal was finished, Maud and Grace begged Colonel Warlow
to relate his early history. Their request was eagerly seconded by the
other members of the company, who were anxious to learn the particulars
of that tragedy, hinted at by the inscription on the mound, and how he
came to be connected with the actors in that terrible drama, and to lose
a great fortune on that spot so long ago. Then the colonel, after
sitting for a few moments wrapped in serious thought, replied that it
was a long story, and would require more than one evening to relate all
the particulars of that great tragedy, that would always be fresh in his
memory as long as life endured.
The company reminded him that it would be rather lonesome on their first
Sabbath, and entreated him so eagerly that at length he consented; then,
as the firelight leaped and sparkled, and the beams of the rising moon
silvered the waters of the stream, moaning and fretting over the stony
ford, they all gathered about the colonel, still and expectant. The
quavering scream of a lone wolf died out on the hills in a plaintive
wail; then only the faint whisper of the wind sighing though the willow
was heard, and the colonel said:--