"My boy, it is a sad day for us all when you leave the home nest. We
shall miss you more than I can express," said the colonel at length.
"Ah! I had hoped to see you settled near us in our old age in this grand
country. Clifford, I have seen a great many regions on this continent
famous for their beauty and fertility, but this is the only place that I
have ever seen where I would be perfectly content to live and die. You
have yet to learn that 'distant hills' are no greener than those of
home, and you will travel the wide world over and find no other place to
compare with this, my son. I have been thinking to-day, Clifford,"
continued his father, as he pushed his plate of untasted food back on
the table and folded his napkin--"that if I had only a tithe of the
fortune that I once lost on this spot, it might be enhanced an
hundred-fold at the great land-sale Monday; for I learn by to-day's
_Times_ that the Mastodon Bank has failed, carrying down in its collapse
all the parties who had the lands condemned for sale, so now they are
unable to bid at the auction, and hundreds of thousands of acres will be
sold at a few cents an acre without competition. Oh, I realize that it
is bitter, indeed, to be poor, my boy, for it is only your ambition that
drives you from us," and, rising, he paced back and forth with bowed
head, while Mrs. Warlow's tears flowed unchecked as she thought of the
long, dreary years that might drag on before her beloved boy returned.
The Warlow family were never demonstrative. There was always a
matter-of-fact regard for each other; but this moment of sorrow brought
to the surface a depth of family affection of which Clifford had never
dreamed, and, as his father proceeded, he became more deeply affected
than he ever had been before.
He thought, "The old days of trial and poverty are over forever," and as
the realization of the great change, and his narrow escape from the
misery, of self-exile flashed upon him, he leaned his head upon his
hands, and a great sob shook his frame, while hot tears--yes, tears,
which danger and the despair of a hopeless love had failed to wring--now
fell in a torrent, as the storm of emotion, new and strange, surged in
his breast.
"Oh, Clifford--Clifford! I thought you were not going," cried Maud,
white with anguish.
"Cliff, I can't bear to see you leave," sobbed Robbie, while he clung to
Clifford with the desperation born of his grief at the very thought of
parting with his only brother.
"Clifford, what does this mean?" said Maud, seized by a nameless dread;
but Clifford only answered by pushing back the table, the cover of which
swept the floor and had concealed the object that was now revealed in
the lamp-light.
"Gold! gold!" cried Maud in amazement, as her eyes caught the glitter
of doubloons heaped upon the floor.
"Oh God!--my lost fortune!" said the colonel in a hoarse whisper, as he
knelt beside the half-emptied sacks, which he remembered at a glance.
"My brother--Clifford--you are a grand hero," shrieked Maud, wild with
excitement and relief, and then ensued a contest between herself and
mother who should first strangle our young friend in their embraces.
"Hero, nothing!" said Rob, who had just blown his nose upon the
table-cloth with a snort like a porpoise, and who was still blubbering
in a suspicious manner; "heroes don't drip at the nose like a hydrant;
but all the same he is a damn good fellow," he added, with a vigorous
slap on his brother's back.
"I have something else to show you over at my dwelling," said Clifford,
recovering from his emotion, and smiling up at Rob; "and, if you will
drive around there, I will row ahead and light the lamps;" then, without
waiting to explain, he hurried out into the night. Although they were
devoured by curiosity, they soon concealed the gold, and were driven
rapidly up to the corral.
"I bet my boot-heels that Cliff has got that old spook chained up here,
feeding him like a pauper," said Rob, in a tone of confidence, to
Maud--a remark which elicited no reply, however, for she was puzzling
over the strange discovery which she knew Clifford had made.
When they arrived at his dwelling he met them at the door, which he
closely locked behind them; then, going to the sunken chest, he threw
back the lid, and a wavering glare of gems and red gold flashed out with
a splendor which dazzled and almost blinded the astonished group.
"The treasure of Monteluma!" exclaimed the colonel, in a tone of deep
emotion.
"Oh, those frosty, glimmering pearls!" said Maud, exulting in the
splendor of the jewels that she loved so well, and had always dreamed of
owning.
"What a pile of lucre!" cried Rob, dancing about in delight. "Lordy! if
I owned all this tin, I'd make the shekels fly for awhile, you bet!
First, I'd swap that slow, flea-bitten broncho for Ed Porter's white
pony, if I had to give even _twenty dollars_ to boot; then next I'd have
me a brand-new hat--a broad brim, too--none of your flimsy old wool
things, but an eight-dollar sombrero, thick as a board, with a leather
band an inch wide; then two cravats--and--"
"And?" said Clifford with a quizzical smile, as Rob began to show signs
of an embarrassment of riches.
"Well, that's all, unless it is a pair of high-top boots, like Johnnie
Russell's--with stars and new moons of red and yellow leather on 'em."
"You are a reckless spendthrift, Rob. Thirty-five dollars gone already!"
said Clifford, laughingly, as his young brother's eyes continued to
gloat over the million of heaped-up riches in the chest.
"Clifford, my son, how did you find all this treasure? It seems like
enchantment," Mrs. Warlow asked, in an anxious tone.
"Mother, it is too long a story to relate now; but when I return from
Abilene I'll give all the particulars. It is ten now," he said, glancing
at his watch, "and we must start at six sharp, in the morning, so there
is but little time to spare."
"Yes," said the colonel, recovering from the stupor of amazement into
which he had fallen, "we will start to the land-office early in the
morning; for I have determined to invest twenty thousand of our
new-found money in land; it seems providential that it should come just
now. I had been grieving so much of late that this golden opportunity
would pass by; but, thank God! it will come out right yet."
Maud, ever tactful and alert, seeing that Clifford was unwilling to
explain the particulars of the discovery, hurried their departure for
home. When they had all driven away, young Warlow filled one of the
sacks with coin, and placed it in a trunk of clothing that was ready
packed, locked the door behind, and slowly rowed down; but he had
delayed long enough to be certain of finding that they had all retired
when he arrived home.
In the morning Colonel Warlow was too unwell to appear at the
breakfast-table, and finding that his indisposition was of too serious a
nature to admit of his traveling that day, Clifford received twenty
thousand dollars--nearly thirteen hundred Mexican doubloons--from his
father, with the instruction to invest it in land at his discretion. The
colonel told Clifford at parting to consider half of the money as his
own; so with a light heart the youth started out on his third essay at
"fortune hunting."
Accompanied by Squire Moreland and Ralph, who had unconsciously helped
to load the Warlow carriage with more than seventy thousand dollars in
gold, secreted in two innocent-looking trunks, Clifford took the winding
trail for Abilene just as the sun appeared above the rim of the eastern
hills. It was a cool, dry July morning, very favorable for producing
that Western phenomenon, the mirage; and as they emerged from the
corn-fields and tall thickets of blue-stem of the valley onto the
rolling uplands, carpeted with buffalo-grass, a scene of mysterious
grandeur burst upon their sight.
Objects that were miles away appeared close at hand, plain and distinct
in the pure, clear air; and although a lofty ridge twenty miles wide
interposed, all the valley of the Smoky Hill was rolled out like a map
before them. The winding river, fringed by trees and groves; the wide
prairie valley, flecked with white villages; a long train on the Union
Pacific, "fleeing like a dragon through the level fields and leaving a
breath of smoke behind," seemed but a few miles away.
The Iron Mound, sixty miles distant, loomed off to the north-west, and
far beyond appeared the faint outline of the Soldier's Cap--a towering
headland, that, like a giant's helmet, seemed to guard all the Saline
Valley, but now dwarfed, by the hundred miles which intervened, to a
mere dot upon the horizon.
The Smoky Hills flamed up in a long line of purple, jagged buttes on the
west, while to the south stretched away the fat prairies of the Russian
Mennonite colony, their quaint, old-world villages of thatch and
white-plastered adobe clustering thickly over the level plain that was
begemmed by lakes of waving water, or what appeared to be such, but
which in reality was only an optical illusion caused by a glare of
rarefied atmosphere. Soon these phantom lakes began to flood the prairie
with a wavering shimmer. Broad rivers became momentarily wider, until
all the landscape was submerged and the villages swam in a sea of water
a moment, sinking down at length like foundered ships, the white
buildings towering up strangely like masts, which, at last, all sank
from sight, leaving only a glare of silver behind.
Soon nature resumed her wonted aspect, though it seemed strangely unreal
to see the Iron Mound sink slowly as they ascended the ridge, until it
was lost to view, and what had been the Smoky Valley but a moment before
was now the rolling highland which they had to traverse for hours before
reaching their destination. For a space of twenty miles square, not a
solitary house was to be seen. In fact, after leaving the valley the
only sign of life visible was a distant herd along some timber-fringed
stream, by which the picturesque and fertile tract was threaded, or a
long line of antelope, that would cautiously keep to the highest ridges
as they loped away in single file.
The ridged and travel worn-trail, where in former years the herds of
Texas and New Mexico had been driven along to Abilene, was now disused
and lonely, as the traffic had been transferred to more western points;
so our friends were relieved on reaching their destination after a
monotonous drive of half a day.
Driving to a bank, Clifford deposited the unsealed bags of gold within
the safe of that institution, while his two companions were looking for
a hotel; then, next, young Warlow wrote a long and carefully worded
dispatch to the American minister at Mexico, inquiring for information
concerning Bruce Walraven and his wife, Herr Von Brunn and his wife
Labella, and also the status of Monteluma, with a request for an
immediate reply, that was no doubt facilitated by the information which
the banker telegraphed, at Clifford's request, for the privilege of
reference.
Without difficulty Clifford perfected the title to his homestead before
the land officers. Then, in a fever of restlessness, our hero passed the
intervening time until Monday morning, when he received a dispatch from
the minister at the City of Mexico, stating that no trace could be found
of either of the parties inquired for; that the old mansion of Monteluma
had been confiscated during the "French invasion," but the estate was
held by a wealthy foreign nobleman; that the agent of that nobleman was
absent at Durango, so no further particulars could be learned until his
return, etc.
"This is the last evidence in the proof that Mora is heiress to all the
new-found treasure," mentally exclaimed young Warlow as he hurried into
the land-office and elbowed his way through the dense throng of
spectators to the desk, where the receiver was gloomily saying, "that
the sale would be a failure, unless the agent of Lord Scholeigh arrived,
which was improbable now, owing to the storm near St. Louis, that had
prostrated the wires and stopped travel."
"Proceed with the sale, if you please; I would like to bid in a tract,"
said Clifford quietly. Then, after several tracts in small bodies had
been purchased by the bystanders, he began to bid in section after
section at fifty cents an acre; and when the amount ran up to ten,
twenty, and twenty-three thousand acres, the crowd began to grow
curious, and jostled each other to get a better view of the man who
could bid in so quietly a six-mile square tract without faltering; but
the grave-faced and gray-clad young ranchman, with no ornament about him
save a gold buckle to the collar of his brown flannel shirt, kept
steadily on, without any opposition, perfectly heedless of the scrutiny.
"He is a son of Colonel Warlow on the Cottonwood, who fell heir to a
cool million from California, the other day," said a man, in a tone just
loud enough to reach Clifford's ears, and the receiver wondered what the
handsome young man found to smile at as he bid in the last section of
sixty-nine thousand acres; but how should he know that Clifford was
amused at the remark, thinking that the small legacy had grown, like the
story of the "five black crows."
"Young man," said the receiver, in a tone of arrogant suspicion. "I
shall insist on some proof of your ability to pay such a large sum
before I proceed further."
"Very well, sir," replied Clifford, blowing a wreath of cigar-smoke into
the official's face as he coolly handed him his certificate of deposit,
subject to check of seventy thousand dollars, given Saturday evening
after the banker had counted the gold. Then, young Warlow began to
realize the prestige which wealth gives, as he saw the look of insolence
on the officer's face quickly give place to respectful wonder, as he
proceeded at once with the auction.
When the figures had reached a hundred thousand acres the crowd gave way
to cheers, which swelled to a perfect tumult when six townships--nearly
one hundred and thirty-nine thousand acres--were knocked down to the
young bidder, who refused to bid any further, and the sale closed.
Clifford wrote out a check for the sum of sixty-nine thousand one
hundred and twenty dollars, and received the receiver's certificate,
which entitled the purchaser to a deed for the tract. As the officer
closed the sale and the papers changed hands in the bank, a noted
"wheat-king" hurried in and told Clifford that the New York agent of
Lord Scholeigh was coming on a special train, fast as steam could carry
him, and requested our young friend to await the arrival, as the agent
had been detained by storms and wash-outs while _en route_ to the sale;
and the kingly real estate agent further intimated that a fine profit
on the purchase could be realized if Clifford was willing to sell.
So our hero consented to remain, and when the agent arrived he was
almost stunned by the offer of double the price he had paid; the agent
offering to take the entire tract at one dollar an acre. After some
deliberation Clifford consummated a sale of seventy-five thousand acres,
keeping a township, six miles square, for himself, and forty thousand
acres for his father; and finding that he had seventy-five thousand
dollars left. "Equal," the wheat-king said, "to the Dutchman's profit of
ten per schent."
Clifford found it was an easy matter to induce the receiver to accept
the agent's certified check on New York in exchange for his own. Then he
arranged to leave the bag of doubloons, sealed, and only left for safety
until he could return them to the chest; but the twenty-five thousand
dollars of profit he deposited with the bank, subject to check. Having
bought a heavy steel safe, with time-lock, and leaving orders for it to
be delivered at once, he returned home on Tuesday morning, proud and
happy over the result of his transaction.
When he arrived at home, he was met by Rob, who was pale and excited.
When Clifford had hurriedly asked after his father's welfare, Rob
replied that their parent was well, but a strange accident had occurred
out near the secret cavern. He proceeded to tell how the gray-robed
spectre had darted out from among the tall blue-stem, while one of
their workmen was mowing near there. The apparition had so startled the
horses that they became unmanageable, and when the strange figure, in a
reckless manner, had sprung at their heads, they had whirled, throwing
the crazied being under the sickle and mangling him so horribly that he
only lived a moment. His body was carried to the cell, where it was now
lying. This had occurred only a few hours before, and all the family
were up there awaiting Clifford's return.
Mounting a fresh horse, Clifford galloped rapidly up the winding
pathway, fearing--he hardly dared to think what. "Could it be that he
would soon stand beside the mangled form of Bruce Walraven, Mora's
father?" he was thinking as he dismounted at the well-remembered
plum-thicket, and hitched his horse to a tree.
A moment later Maud flew out with a low cry of delight, and while
embracing Clifford, she cried tearfully:--
"Oh, I am inexpressibly relieved. It is not Bruce, as we feared, but
it's that blood-stained Eagle Beak, Olin Estill's partner in crime and
final victim."
"Why, Maud! how do you know?" said he, breathless with suspense.
"They found a silver breastplate, such as were worn by chiefs in the
early days, and on the medal was an engraving of the beak of an eagle;
while on the reverse, now worn dim, was the name, 'Eagle Beak.' This
large plate was hung about his neck by a heavy chain of silver, which
was riveted so it is impossible to remove it without filing it through,
and the links have worn into the flesh--oh, horrible!" she replied, with
a shudder of disgust.
With reluctant steps Clifford sought the cavern, where his parents and
the Moreland family were grouped about the door; and after a few minutes
of greeting, he went in alone to where the corpse was lying cold and
still; and when he had removed the white sheet from its face, he stood
long and silently regarding the revolting picture of depravity and
ferocious cunning that even yet showed on every feature, frozen in the
rigid calm of death.
"No, thank God! this is not the face of noble Bruce; but still it is
that of a white man--some wretched desperado, who had fled from the
avenging arm of justice, and had gained sway over a band of savages as
brutal and vicious, but less daring and cunning than himself," thought
young Warlow. "This certainly is a sermon on the retribution which
Providence holds in store for those who perpetrate such crimes of
inhuman atrocity as this wretch is stained with," he said, as Maud came
into the cell.
They buried the remains upon a lofty hill near by, the top of which was
visible from their homes in the valley; no ceremony was observed, but
the horrible details of burial were delegated to a few workmen from the
hay-field, and by three that afternoon only a small mound of clay
remained to tell of a life that had been but a fever of bloody deeds.
Once--long years after--as Clifford stood in the twilight with Maud,
they heard the jabbering wail of a wolf on the grave-crowned hill, and
Clifford said:--
"If the departed soul does hover about the grave after death, seeking
re-embodiment, then Eagle Beak has surely been born again in the form of
a wolf; for he was the very incarnation, no doubt, of such a beast
during his existence here. I never pass by that thistle-grown and
nettle-hidden grave without a shudder; and often in the dismal night,
when just such a piercing howl resounds from that hill-top, I vaguely
fancy it is the soul of Eagle Beak mourning because of the limited
sphere of deviltry in which his 'wolf-life' constrains his savage
spirit."
"Oh, Clifford! will you never outgrow such idle fancies?" Maud
exclaimed.
"No, never so long as I meet foxes, jackals, and hyenas every day, that
are only veiled by a human form--very thinly disguised often--and it is
God's goodness, alone, that finally denies them that mask."
"Clifford, my brother, what a strange belief for 'Deacon' Warlow, pillar
of the Church, and first in all good deeds of Christian charity and
enterprise in his community, to entertain and express," she replied,
with a look of strange interest dawning in her beautiful but matronly
face.
"Well, Maud, I find abundant proof in the Bible to substantiate this
faith," he answered, gravely, "while our lives teem with the evidence of
its truth."
But I have digressed too long already, and will return to my theme.
As they drove back home from the death-haunted cell, Clifford told his
parents of his search for the treasure; how, after discovering the gems,
he had been convinced that the gold was also secreted near, and his
ultimate success in discovering it buried in the grave that Roger Coble
had noticed when he rescued his father after the massacre. The finding
of Ivarene's Journal, his engagement to Mora, and discovery that she was
the daughter of Bruce and his ill-fated wife, and the successful
speculation in which he had figured with such great profit at Abilene,
were left unrevealed, as Clifford thought his father was not strong
enough to bear the strain of such excitement yet.
With Maud he was not so reticent, and after supper he told of the
success at the land-office, and the use he had made at Mora's request of
part of the recovered treasure.
After Maud had expressed her unbounded joy at the substantial results of
that venture, Clifford noticed a shade of anxiety and sadness settle
down on her face, and he hastened to say, while reaching up to gather a
spray of trumpet-flowers that swung its blossoms of black, crimson, and
salmon in heavy festoons over the latticed gateway: "Maud, you dear,
unselfish creature, I know that you and Ralph are about to begin life
together, and, when father offered me half of the twenty thousand
dollars, I just mentally concluded to give you the benefit of it. It
seems to me you ought to keep the pot boiling with twenty thousand
acres of good land."
While Maud hung about his neck, her tearful face hidden on his shoulder,
her brother continued:--
"Poor Ralph will need a great deal of encouragement from you. I have
been in that very kind of a boat myself lately, and know how to
sympathize with him."
Soon he was galloping down to the Estill ranch; but I will not intrude
upon the privacy of that meeting between himself and Mora, only leaving
it all to the imagination of the reader. Mr. Estill had not returned
yet, so they still deferred making any explanation of the strange
discoveries made since his departure. It was agreed, however, to reveal
all on his return. Plans for the future were discussed as they strolled
out on the terrace; and before he left, young Warlow had won a promise
that their wedding-day would be an early one--some time in September,
Mora said.
"I have had such a strange dream, twice on successive nights, lately,
Clifford. It seemed as though I was Ivarene, and that I led a dual sort
of an existence, part of the time as myself, and at other times I was
that ill-fated Mexican bride, longing to meet Bruce once more. Some way,
Clifford, I never can reconcile myself to the belief that they are my
parents, and the suspense of this uncertainty is growing unbearable."
Clifford was very thoughtful for a long while after this; but at length
he begged her to await the return of Mr. Estill before they divulged
the secret. Then, after a lingering parting, he returned home to begin,
on the morrow, preparations for the new life that was before him.
Before leaving Abilene he had engaged a skillful stone-mason, who was to
begin enlarging his dwelling at once with a large force of workmen at
his command; and I will only briefly tell how soon the cottage grew into
a many-gabled mansion of red sandstone, with bay-windows and long wings,
terraces of stone, with balustrades of white magnesia, and marble vases
filled with blooming plants, that trailed down their sides with blossoms
of rose, creamy white and scarlet.
A thousand head of cattle were bought, and hurrying workmen were busy
stacking vast ricks of prairie-hay near the large barn that was rising
like magic under the trowels of a score of masons.
In these details I have anticipated somewhat, but will return to the
thread of my story.
The suspicions of the colonel and Mrs. Warlow were at once aroused by
seeing a force of workmen beginning to enlarge Clifford's dwelling; and
on perceiving this, Clifford hastened to reveal all the discoveries and
transactions of the past few weeks. The journal deeply afflicted his
father, who at once came to the same conclusion which the younger
members of the family had arrived at on reading that document,--that
Bruce and his wife had been murdered by Olin Estill, who had stolen
their child and had left it at the Estill ranch; that Mora was that
child, and that the family had raised her as their own daughter. When
Clifford told of his success in the land transaction and of wishing that
Maud should have the twenty thousand acres meant for himself, his
parents seemed both pleased and proud of his course, although his father
cautioned him against using any more of the treasure until Mr. Estill
was made aware of the discovery.
"Did not the Estills tell you that Mora was the daughter of Bruce and
Ivarene when they made their first visit here?" said Clifford, in
surprise.
"Why, no, indeed!" replied his father; "they told us of the part which
they feared their nephew took in the massacre. They believed he murdered
the originals of the pictures which he left at their house soon after
that tragedy, but he appeared to be insane and they never saw him alive
again. It was months after when his skeleton was found on the prairie,
barely recognizable, which they buried on a hill near the ranch."
"And that was all?" said Clifford, in a tone of anxiety. "But do you not
think that Mora is Bruce's daughter?"
"I have no doubt of it; for she is the perfect counterpart of Ivarene in
voice, face, and expression, although her eyes are blue while those of
Ivarene were black. Still the same look is there that I shall never
forget. Why, when I meet her gaze, it always seems that Ivarene is
trying to speak to me once more," said the colonel with deep emotion.
After this interview, Clifford lost no time in hurrying down to the
Estill ranch to seek an interview with Mora; and after they had met,
with all the demonstrations peculiar to lovers, he noticed a strange
look of trouble on her face, and when he tenderly asked its cause, she
faltered a moment, then bursting into tears, and hiding her face on his
breast, she confessed that the suspense of awaiting her father's return
had become at last unendurable, and she had told her mother all the
particulars of their engagement, the discovery of the treasure, their
subsequent use of a portion of it, and their well-founded belief that
she was the daughter of Bruce and Ivarene Walraven.
"She confessed, then, that it was true?" said Clifford, in a tone of
suspense.
"No, stranger still!" said Mora, as she raised a tear-stained face to
his--"no, Clifford, she seemed struck dumb with astonishment, and
reiterated the assertion solemnly that I was her only daughter, born
five years after that tragedy. I am convinced that it is true, Clifford;
nothing can convince me that she is trying to deceive us, for she is too
sincere to keep the truth from us now. Yes, I am an Estill; but she said
that my strange resemblance to the picture in the locket had always
perplexed her, and my father and they were very sensitive on the
subject. She saw you were startled by my lack of resemblance to any one
of the family, when you made your first visit here; but she is glad to
know that you are to be her son at last, Clifford." Had a thunderbolt
fallen at his feet, young Warlow could not have been more startled than
he was at this announcement. Then, after a moment of silence, he said:
"Ah! Mora darling, it does not matter whose daughter you may be, so
your heart is mine; but how strange it is that we should have arrived at
such a wrong conclusion!" Then, as he began to reflect, he found that
her mysterious resemblance to Ivarene was their strongest proof that she
was not an Estill.
An interview with Mrs. Estill followed, in which she gave a willing
assent to the lovers' union; then she again asserted, with truth and
sincerity stamped upon her face and tone, that Mora was her only
daughter, born of her own flesh and blood, but that there was a mystery
connected with her birth which she had never revealed to any one but her
husband.
"Mother! mother! what is it?" said Mora in great agitation, while
Clifford sprang up with a look of intense interest depicted upon his
face.
"It is a strange and unreal thing to relate in this enlightened and
skeptical age, and I should never divulge it but for the events of the
last few days; but Mora's unaccountable resemblance to the face in the
locket, which is that of Ivarene, is not the only mystery that surrounds
her birth. In the autumn of 1849, September 16th--I remember the date
perfectly--one of our herders came in at night very much terrified by a
sight which he had just witnessed. He had seen two mysterious lights
flitting about the base of Antelope Butte, several miles up the valley,
where he had been looking after our cattle that had become scattered
while we were at Fort Riley--driven to take refuge there from the
Cheyenne Indians that were raiding the frontier settlements during
August. Why I remember the date so distinctly is from the fact that we
had only returned that day, finding our cabin in ashes.
"Fearing it might be some signal of lurking savages, Mr. Estill and
myself ran with the herder to the bluff which overlooks the house on the
north, and saw a sight that was full of mystery; and which, in fact, was
never explained.
"There were two large blue lights, of such an unnatural color and
appearance as to attract instant attention, flitting about up the
valley. They would seem to skim along in long, undulating swells, like
the flight of swallows, often rising hundreds of feet in the air, but
always darting back to the base of the butte. We were relieved to know
it was not Indians, and thinking it was one of those gaseous or igneous
phenomena peculiar to water-courses, we did not investigate further, but
only regarded their appearance with curiosity.
"Their visits finally reached our premises, and I was horrified to see
them hovering about the house later in the season; but all our attempts
to approach them were frustrated, for they would recede as we advanced;
then we really began to feel how very unaccountable they were, and
became perplexed with the mystery. This state of affairs continued until
Christmas eve, 1852. As I was standing at a window with Hugh in my arms,
I saw the two lights come flitting down the valley together. When they
reached a point close to the house they halted, and, after hovering
about together for a while, the larger light darted off eastward, and
was never seen again. The lesser one remained flitting about the house,
or to and fro between here and Antelope Butte. Until, one night in May,
1854, the light, after hovering near by, disappeared forever. _That very
night Mora was born._ Seeing a resemblance in her childish face to that
within the locket--a likeness that has increased with her age, until now
she is the very image of poor, dead Ivarene--we named her Morelia
(shortened to Mora by her friends), a name that was engraved and set
with rubies upon the locket. We thought this the name, of course, of the
female face within the locket, but from the Journal of Ivarene it is
apparent that it was the name of her dead mother instead.
"This precious locket had been flung at my feet by Olin Estill, a
renegade nephew of my husband, whom he had discarded on account of his
vicious tendencies, and who had been leading a mysterious existence,
connected, I now fear, with a band of outlaws that committed the
massacre at the corral. He had been absent from our house several
months, until the day after our return he suddenly appeared at the
tent-door, and, after glaring at me a moment, had flung the locket at my
feet, then, with a blood-chilling shriek, had fled away. We never saw
him alive after that day; but his skeleton, torn asunder by wolves and
barely recognizable, was found months after, and buried upon a hill-top
near here."
"Did you never search Antelope Butte?" Clifford asked, with grave
thoughtfulness depicted in his face.
"No; we never did, although we once talked of doing so, but forgot it
soon in the anxiety and care of our life," she answered.
"I shall do so to-morrow," he said, "for I believe the mystery of their
fate is hidden there. Yes, Bruce and Ivarene must have died some
terrible death there at that bluff, and I shall never rest until the
cloud that wraps their fate is dispelled."
On his return home he related to his parents the story which Mrs. Estill
had told. When he had finished, his mother was pale with a strange
excitement; and his father exclaimed in a hoarse voice of agitation:--
"Clifford, you should make a careful search on Antelope Butte in the
morning. I fear that Bruce and Ivarene perished there."
"My son, I never have told you that only a few months before you were
born just such a light flashed into my room as the one that flitted
about the Estill ranch," said Mrs. Warlow, pale and trembling with
emotion. "It was on Christmas Eve, 1852, that I was sitting in the
firelit room waiting your father's return, when I saw a pale blue haze
dart past the window, hover a moment, then return; and as I raised the
sash I seemed to be smothered by a flash of thick, luminous fog, and
fell prostrated as by a stroke of lightning. I did not lose
consciousness, however, but called one of the negro women, who helped me
to a lounge, and lit the lamp. I was nervous about the occurrence; but
your father explained the phenomenon as being only a collection of
natural gas, generated in damp localities. The light flitted about for a
few months; but on the night of your birth, Clifford, it disappeared,
and was never seen again. How strange that one of those lights should
disappear from her house that night, and appear at mine, hundreds of
miles away! Then the similar circumstances under which those mysterious
halos vanished--the very night, it appears, of your birth and that of
Mora! She was born in May, 1854, so Mrs. Estill says."
"We must search Antelope Butte in the morning," said Clifford, trying to
conceal his agitation and to speak calmly; "for I fear that the final
tragedy of Bruce and Ivarene was enacted there. I dread the discovery
that we may make, while, at the same time, I long to unravel the dark
mystery which enwraps their fate." Then he hurriedly left the room and
sought slumber in the quiet of his own bed-chamber; but it was in vain,
for strange fancies kept him awake and thoughtful while the hours slowly
dragged by.
Since the night when he had seen that weird and unearthly phantom
war-dance around the long grave, Clifford had begun to entertain some
strange fancies, which slowly grew upon him as he reviewed the stories
which Mrs. Estill and his mother had told that evening, until finally he
said, as the gray of morning began to tinge the eastern sky with its
ashy pallor:--
"I am almost convinced that Bruce's theory is a true one. Father has
long believed me to be the reincarnation of the spirit of Bruce
Walraven. This, if true, will account for my strange resemblance to a
man who died, in all probability, long before I was born, and will also
account for the mysterious memories which always haunt me, like the
glimpses of a former life. Can it be possible that the soul, at will,
can take on a new body again after death, and profit by its past
mistakes? That would be a resurrection, indeed! Can it be that all the
air about us is peopled by the spiritual outlines of dead and
half-forgotten friends, only waiting their time to be re-born, and we
ourselves may be but bodies that are inhabited by the souls of people
who have lived before? If this theory is as correct as it is comforting,
then death has lost all its terrors; for what could inspire more delight
in the heart of an aged and care-worn person than the knowledge that,
after he had cast off his faded and wrinkled body, by that process which
we call death, he could walk again in all the freshness of youth and
beauty on earth, which, say what we may, is dearer than any other place
can ever be.
"This theory I shall put to the test to-day," our hero said; "for if the
remains of Bruce and Ivarene are found near Antelope Butte--as I am
convinced that they will be--then my conjectures are confirmed and the
mystery of eternity, which has mocked and puzzled man from his creation,
is revealed. It will prove that those mysterious lights were their
spirits still hovering about their grave, waiting their opportunity to
be re-born. This looks no more improbable than many of the mysteries of
science did a few years ago. But, then, life itself would still remain a
grand mystery, as would sight, sound, and hearing."
By this time he had arisen, and, after dressing, he seated himself
before the tall mirror.
"This strange belief has been growing upon me since I heard Mrs.
Estill's and mother's revelations until it has become almost conviction,
and if we find that on Antelope Butte, which I feel we will--then it
will convince me that Mora is--God how strange that sounds!--Ivarene
born again to enjoy the happiness which her untimely fate prevented her
securing in her brief life."
As he scanned his own reflection in the mirror, by the sunlight, which
now was flooding the eastern hills in its golden mantle, while a look of
growing wonder and strange curiosity came over his face, he exclaimed,
with a start: "Then Bruce Walraven is--myself!"
After a moment of serious reflection, he continued: "Well, there is
nothing so very improbable or uncanny in the thought, at last; for it is
just as probable that God may have given me a soul that had lived
before, as one that had not. No; human nature has too much wisdom to
ever have gained it by one life."
If our hero's theory was true, then Bruce could not have asked a better
fate than to live his life again as the handsome youth reflected there,
with his crisp golden hair, eyes of pansy blue, and the flush of young
manhood on his glossy cheeks.