FOR LIFE OR DEATH.
Before his swimming sight
Does not a figure bound,
And a soft voice, with wild delight,
Proclaim the lost is found?
No, hunter no!--Alfred Street.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the plain.--Lotus-Eaters.
It was noon of the second day since Buckskin Joe and the sallow
stranger of the other train left their respective companies in search
of the missing girl.
"It's no use, Mister; we may as well put back in time to save our own
skins. We'll never set eyes on that gal ag'in. Vittals is scarce and
water scarcer; we may as well put back to the train. If we start now
we can overhaul 'em before morning--the way back is more direct than
the one we've took, and the moon'll be up so we can travel a'most all
night."
They had been trotting along at a languid pace, their horses panting
with heat and thirst, for some time before Joe made this remark. He
made it now in a tone which told how reluctant he was to come to such a
conclusion.
The stranger, who had not spoken for two hours, reined up his animal
with a jerk; his eyes flashed fire as they met those of the guide.
"So you abandon her to her fate, do you?"
"Wal, I reckon there's no use of you curlin' up your nose at me if I
do," responded Joe, angered by the fierce sneer of his companion's
face. "What man kin do to save that child I'm willin' to do, though
she's no kith or kin of mine. But there's no use keepin' on this
way--'twon't save her and 'twon't do no good. We've _got_ to give up
for the present--she's dead or out of our reach 'fore this. But this
I say--if them pesky red-skins has had any thing to do with carrying
her off, we'll find it out sooner or later. I'll track her, dead or
alive, if it takes ten years--and I'll have my revenge on 'em--for I
took a fancy to that little critter." He drew his sleeve across his
eyes, and then, ashamed of the weakness, looked as if about to whip his
companion, as a more natural way of giving vent to his emotions.
"I will not, I _can not_ give her up!" said Mr. Carollyn. "I will
perish here in the effort to find her. Friend, do not leave me yet. I
will cheerfully give you a thousand dollars if we are successful."
"I'd do more for Miss 'Lizabeth than I would for a thousand dollars,
stranger. Buckskin Joe'd never give up while thar' was as much hope
left as thar' is white on a black cat. But gold won't water our horses
nor bring game to our feet in this cussed desert. We're on the trail
now, and our only chance for ourselves is to keep it, and catch up with
our company. If it would do _her_ any good, the Lord knows I'd starve
to death in welcome."
A repressed groan was the only reply of the other, whose eyes roved
restlessly over the broad and burning expanse. There was a look of
wildness and misery in his face which caused Joe to mutter to himself:
"The sun on his head is onsettlin' his brain."
The next moment the flash of something against the light dazzled him;
looking to see what it was, he perceived the stranger, as if oblivious
of his presence, holding a ring in his hand and utterly absorbed in
gazing upon it. He knew it in an instant--it was Elizabeth Wright's!
Indignation and astonishment struggled in the honest mind of the
guide. His acquaintance with Mr. Carollyn, developed as it had been by
the intimacy of the last two days, had increased his respect for the
courage, endurance, the great learning and the real manliness of his
companion, whom he both respected and admired.
The matter of the ring had been almost driven from his mind by greater
anxieties. Now he recalled the young girl's suspicions, and his promise
that he would restore the lost jewel to her if he should discover it,
even upon the person of the haughty gentleman. Resolved to risk the
consequences of giving offense, he at once inquired:
"Where did you get that, Mr. Carollyn?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because it belongs to the gal we're after. She felt mighty bad at
losing it. I promised to help her find it. I s'pose it lost off her
finger and you picked it up?" The half-suspicious, half-inquiring
tone in which this last sentence was put brought a faint smile to the
haggard countenance of his hearer.
"It shall be returned to her--be sure of that, friend--that is, if
she be not lost forever! My God, I can not give up! After so many
years--and now--is my punishment never to cease? Man! man!" he cried,
catching and wringing Joe's hand, all the pride vanished from his
manner, "she is mine, my child! my only child! I have found her only to
lose her. Oh, say, is there not something yet to be tried? I can not go
back!"
"Wal, that beats all," muttered Joe, looking curiously to see some
token of insanity in his companion's eyes.
"I'm telling you the plain, simple truth; that girl is my own daughter;
this ring is mine as well as hers--her mother's wedding-ring. Say that
you will not give up, friend," he persisted.
"I s'pose there's water about five or ten miles easterly, and we mought
possibly find some kind of game near it, to make a supper on. If it'll
relieve your mind any, stranger, we'll camp thar' to-night, and let the
train go on without us. It's risky, and it won't do no good--but it
shan't be said that Buckskin Joe ever give up, while any body else held
out--so thar'!"
Their hands met in a strong grip which sealed the promise; again
their horses were started on, and for the next hour they rode along
the sultry plain silently, with sharp, attentive glances, discovering
nothing to stimulate their sinking hopes.
"What's that! what in thunder?" suddenly spoke Joe, stopping his horse,
and pointing to a dark object lying in a little heap nearly a mile away
on the yellow plain.
"It looks like an antelope," said Mr. Carollyn, looking in the
direction indicated.
"It looks like a human critter," said Joe, and without further parley,
the two struck off at full speed for the little dark spot which had
attracted their curiosity. "It looks like two on 'em!" was his next
remark.
"A man and a woman!" he added presently.
"White!" was his next observation.
"Nat Wolfe, I'll be dogged!"--a moment later.
"And 'Lizabeth Wright," he shouted, exultantly, bounding forward.
In ten seconds more he sprung from his horse, ran up to the hunter--who
had risen to his feet and waved one arm while with the other he
supported the slender form of a female--and shook his fist in his face.
"Thunder and blazes! Nat Wolfe, if you hain't went and gone and been
the first in the field ag'in! You're a mean, impertinent, sneaking
fellow--what business, I say, have you with this gal? Didn't you know
_I_ was after her? Couldn't you let her be? You might a' known I'd
been all right, in the course of time. This is the second time you've
stepped in between me and her--and, by hokey, ef you do it ag'in, I'll
consider it a personal matter."
"You must be a little faster on your pegs, then, my boy," said Nat, a
little faintly, but trying to laugh. "You've come in very good time
now, though, and if you've got something for the girl to eat and drink
I'll give you all the credit of saving her."
In the meantime, Dr. Carollyn, with the eye of a physician, had
detected at one glance the state of the case; he, too, sprung from his
horse, and snatching the maiden from Nat's arm, poured between her lips
a spoonful of brandy from a flask in his belt. The liquid ran through
her veins like pleasant fire; she opened her eyes, smiled, and made
an effort to sit up unassisted. Hope and joy equally with the more
material stimulus revived her from the state of almost insensibility in
which she had been lying for some time.
"She's about beat out," muttered Joe, "that's sartain. If I hadn't a'
come just as I did, she'd been a goner. Here, Miss 'Lizabeth, here's a
biscuit--eat it, every crumb of it, for you're starved, I know."
She caught at the food eagerly but the firm hand of the stranger
withdrew it.
"Cautiously, at first," he said, breaking off little bits, and feeding
her as he would a baby.
"I'll be danged if anybody'll let me do any thing fer that gal,"
scolded Joe. "Everybody meddles."
"Do something for me, then," said Nat. "I shouldn't object to a bit of
bread and meat, if you've got it to spare."
Joe, who was only discontented when he could not be useful to
somebody, turned his wallet inside out in his generous search for
provisions.
"Be careful," again said the calm voice of the Doctor, "do not waste
any thing. We have got to make our way to the train on that limited
supply. Joe, you have water in your canteen? Mix a little of this
brandy with it and give him."
The hunter ate and drank sparingly, for he was well aware of the
necessity of prudence; it was a feast to him to see the light and color
coming back into the maiden's face. Although he had fasted much longer
than she, he was inured to just such hardships, and was much the least
exhausted of the two. Their sufferings had been chiefly from thirst,
increased by the heat and the necessity for constant exertion.
They had been disappointed in finding the stream which Nat had been
certain was within marching distance on their route, the previous day.
They had walked all day, and far into the night, in hopes of reaching
it, and finding perhaps an antelope or even a stray prairie-dog upon
which they might sup.
Of course the hunter was obliged to shorten his steps to those of his
little friend; and she, tasking her energies to the utmost, would not
say that she must pause for rest, until she finally sunk down in the
darkness, unable to proceed further.
That was a strange night in the experience of both. The young girl,
clinging to him like a child to its mother, was cherished as sacredly.
She complained neither of hunger or thirst, nor of her fear of prowling
savages and animals, but as the wild wind of midnight grew more chilly,
she shrunk closer to him; he took her to his breast, wrapped about her
his own leather jacket, and she slept away all memory of danger and
fatigue. We can not protect and shelter any helpless thing without
softening toward it, even if it be troublesome and stupid--how, then,
could Nat Wolfe care for this most beautiful and innocent maiden, as
circumstances obliged him to do, without feeling the growing of a
golden chord binding their interests together in bands never more to be
broken? The soft cheek upon his shoulder, the softer bosom close to his
own, returned the sacrifice of his jacket, by kindling a warmth in his
heart which bid defiance to the cold wind.
As soon as the deep darkness preceding the dawn began to lighten, he
aroused his slumbering companion.
"You can walk better now than in the heat of the day," he said; "poor
child, I wish I had food to offer you."
"I feel much rested now, sir; and perhaps we shall find something to
kill before many miles."
She spoke cheerfully, and, for a while, felt so; but as the sun came
slowly up, and rose higher and higher in the heavens--as the sand
grew hot under her blistered feet, and the sky hot on her aching
head--as hour after hour rolled away and no stream met her feverish
gaze--as her lips began to parch with thirst and her frame to faint
with hunger--then she could no longer conceal from her companion how
terribly exhausted she was. Several times he took her in his arms and
carried her a long ways, for he did not dare to pause to give her the
needed rest--every moment which kept them from the expected stream and
possible succor took away from their faint hopes of relief.
Nat Wolfe's own powerful frame was severely tried; he had staggered
more than once, for it will be remembered that he had but scanty fare
for a day or two before his rescue of Elizabeth, and the torture of
thirst was upon him too.
"Go on--oh, do go on and leave me here, I can not take another step,
and you must not kill yourself by staying to see me die. If you were
not hindered by me you could go so much faster," pleaded the young
girl, sinking at last under the meridian heat.
"Leave you, Elizabeth?" said Nat, for the first time using her name in
addressing her; and once more he swung her into his arms, though her
light form seemed made of iron, so weak was he growing. "Look ahead!
don't you see trees? don't you see the glimmer of water? I'm sure we're
not a mile from the spot."
"Yes!" she cried, in a strange, excited voice, "I see trees and
water--a lovely lake--oh, so beautiful! like those of my childhood, and
apples on the trees! cool, delicious apples and peaches. Walk faster,
Nat, to the cool, cool water--" her voice sunk to a whisper, her head
drooped--she had fainted even while longing for the beautiful mirage
which reached her strained and feverish vision.
Filled with anguish, almost cursing fate, Nat staggered on. He threw
away his rifle--his precious rifle, next in rank to his lost Kit
Carson in his affections--for he could no longer be burdened by it.
On--on--feeling that water, at least, could not be far away--until,
finally, he, too, was compelled to rest. He knew very well that
the rest might be fatal to both--but nature refused to be longer
overtasked. Sinking upon the ground, he gazed in despair upon the fair
face drooping back over his arm, the long tresses of dark hair sweeping
about it, the breath scarcely fluttering over the parched, parted lips.
To think that he had not even a drop of water with which to stay that
departing soul! He was almost mad with the bitterness of the truth. He
chafed the limp hands, he fanned the pale brow.
"At least we will die together," he murmured, fixing his lips upon hers
with the first, last kiss of love and despair, of life and death. As if
it called back her fluttering senses, she opened her eyes and smiled
upon him--a dreamy smile, yet a smile, he was sure of it, full of love
such as filled his own heart.
How long he sat holding her thus, his eyes bent upon hers, half closed
and quiet, but full of passionate devotion, he knew not. The clatter of
horses' hoofs roused them from their dying dream, and thus it was that
Buckskin Joe had his full share in the rescue of the little girl, after
all. It was the contents of his canteen and wallet which brought life
back to the perishing.
As soon as the rescued were sufficiently revived, Dr. Carollyn took the
girl before him on his horse, supporting her firmly in one arm. Joe
gave up his animal to Nat, and trudged along on foot, with that long,
loping step which takes these guides over the ground with such ease
and rapidity. He was not wrong in his conjecture as to the vicinity
of water; a few miles brought them to a stream which was one of those
depended upon by emigrants for a supply. Here it was thought best to
recruit the strength of all parties by tarrying in the shade of some
sickly cottonwoods until the sun was down, and pursue their journey
as far as possible during the cooler night. No sooner were the horses
secured and the others comfortably seated, after bathing feet and hands
in the refreshing water, than Joe crept away with his rifle down the
stream in the hopes of meeting something eatable. In the course of
half an hour they heard the crack of the rifle, followed in due course
of time by the reappearance of the little old guide, tugging a young
antelope after him.
"Thar' now, Miss 'Lizabeth, don't say I never did nothin' for you," he
remarked, casting his treasure at her feet.
"You do nothing but kind deeds to me and every one, Joe," she said,
with something of the accustomed arch smile sparkling about her eyes
and mouth.
"A piece of broiled antelope will be the best thing possible for the
young lady," said Dr. Carollyn, with almost a glow of admiration on his
dark face, as he assisted at gathering stray branches and leaves under
the trees, and kindled a fire, while Joe dressed the game.
"'Young lady!'" muttered Joe, to himself; "'young lady' be danged! If
that ain't cool to his own daughter, after bein' in such a fidget as he
was a spell ago. The circumstances is ruther curious, anyhow; and if
I don't see that ring back on Miss 'Lizabeth's finger I shall have to
tell her what I know about it."
"Joe," said Dr. Carollyn, a little while later, as he came close to the
guide to help him in cutting some steaks from the antelope, speaking
in a low voice, "of course I can trust in your discretion for the
present. It would be dangerous, in the exhausted state of my daughter,
to speak to her on any exciting subject. She knows nothing whatever of
the relationship between her and myself--I dare not reveal it yet. Wait
until she is restored to those who seem now to have the best right to
her, and she and they and yourself shall hear the story."
"I reckon you can manage your own business--_I_ shan't presume to
meddle," responded the guide, mollified immediately by this evidence of
regard for his favorite's interest, and confidence in himself; "to be
sure, any thin' startlin' would finish her up jes' now. It's dreadful
lucky we didn't turn back when we was goin' to. I'm right glad you held
out as you did. Nat Wolfe hasn't told us yet how it all come about."
"Wait till we have supped on fresh meat, and we shall have all the
particulars, no doubt."
In the mean time, the two most exhausted of the little party reclined
beneath the cottonwoods, quiet and silent. It was delight enough to see
the water glittering before them, to hear the parched leaves rustle, to
inhale the delicious odor of the venison broiling over the coals--their
frames were in that state of weakness and languor when soul and sense
are both most easily stirred. It was such a joy to feel safe, to be
cared for, to wait for the feast which kind hands were preparing. The
hour to both was one of strange, new happiness, as of souls taking
their first repose in Paradise. Although neither of them tried to
analyze their own emotions, the consciousness of what they had thought
and felt and read in each other's eyes during those perilous hours just
past was secretly thrilling the heart of each. Nat's eyes dwelt almost
constantly upon the young girl's face, who scarcely raised her own, so
conscious was she of that ardent gaze--a slight red spot in either pale
cheek telling the story of her own feelings.
While this little tableau was being silently enacted, the brow of Dr.
Carollyn was growing dark as a thunder-cloud, while his eyes flashed
covert lightning from beneath. He was troubled, discontented, angry.
He had found a child, a daughter, whose want of accomplishments suited
to the rank he should soon confer upon her was fully counterbalanced
by her exceeding beauty, grace and natural refinement. He had already
felt more pleasure than had filled his breast in seventeen years, in
dreaming of how he should develop that fine mind and cultivate those
unconscious charms. That she still retained all the innocence of
childhood his keen observation had convinced him, the first hour of
their meeting--that strange chance meeting, which had told him in that
wild place and in that unexpected way that he had a child!--a truth he
had often dreamed over, doubting and wondering. When he first went,
in the camp of the emigrants, to do a kindness to women and children,
he had been moved in a mysterious manner at the first sight of that
young face--he had felt thrilled by an electric shock, before he
perceived the ring. _That_ was the key unlocking the marvel. He knew
in an instant, more certainly than as if it had been sworn to, that he
saw his child--the child of his Annie. He knew as certainly that Annie
was dead--else, never would his daughter have been here under such
circumstances. He had no need to question any party now--indeed, he
could not at first, the shock was so sudden. That night he had crept to
the side of the slumbering girl--he had sat and watched that sweet face
bathed in the lustrous moonlight, while great, hot tears rolled over
his cheeks. Her face was not Annie's--it was very lovely, but it was
not Annie's--so fair, so angelic, with golden ringlets and deep-blue
eyes. No, this was _his own_ likeness softened by youth and sex, but
his own. The dark, curling lashes, the raven hair, the clear brunette
skin, the passionate mouth, the proud brows were the softer type of
himself. This was his child, indeed, only that the pride of his own
expression in hers was a calm melancholy, telling, ah, how piteously,
of the heart-broken musings of the desolate mother who bore her.
With tears such as men seldom have such occasion to weep, he had kept
watch, in the repose of midnight, by his daughter's slumber; then,
softly slipping the ring from her hand, he had stolen back to his own
camp-wagon, to waste the rest of the night in the recollections of
bliss and agony which the sight of that wedding-ring had brought back
almost as vividly as if the events of those long-vanished years had
happened yesterday.
It was not surprising that the next day should find him too much shaken
in spirit to feel like unraveling the thread of mystery connected with
his wife and child. He would linger by her side another day, observe
her, and the people who had her in charge, and, as soon as he was calm
enough to hear what there might be for them to tell, he would make
himself known to them.
The devastation of the tornado the following night had interrupted his
plans and plunged him into new distress. But, through all his fears for
the fate of Elizabeth, sweet hopes had whispered to him that he should
find her, that he should take her with him to the home which nature had
fitted her to adorn, and he had exulted in the thought that she was
still but a child--"in maiden meditation, fancy free"--whom he could
guide, develop, sway. She was pure and beautiful--this was enough for
him.
This was the cause of the thunder-cloud now gathering over the heaven
of his anticipations. In these two days that his child had been
snatched from him, had come a change. He saw the blush in her cheek,
the new luster in her drooping eyes. He saw the man who had found and
cherished her would be loth ever to resign the treasure he had, as it
were, secured a right to.
Nat Wolfe little suspected the searching jealousy that was reading his
every thought and action. He did, indeed, although he had scarcely
_thought_ at all about it, feel as if Elizabeth was his own--as if he
never more could leave this child to the dangers of the rude life
she was compelled to live--as if he must take her in his strong arms,
shield her against his strong breast, and keep, hereafter, the winds of
heaven from blowing upon her too roughly.
But if he _had_ been conscious that the haughty gentleman who had taken
so deep an interest in her rescue, had claims stronger than his, and
would bitterly deny _his_ right to advance his own, it would not have
changed his resolves.
Nat Wolfe was not a man to yield the mastery to any one. His will
was not to be ruled. His pride was as stubborn in its way as Dr.
Carollyn's. He despised the effeminacy of city civilization more
thoroughly than anyone despised the rudeness of his handsome,
courageous manhood.
If he could win the shy maiden to love the tangles of unshorn hair,
the tried strength of his protecting arm, the sincere passion of his
untutored heart, she should be his by the right of affinity.
The lion of his nature lay, however, for the present, unaroused. He
only dreamed of the young form that he had held through the chill
watches of the preceding night, and of the soft eyes that had answered
his own with mute promises of deathless love in moments they had
thought their last of earth--of the long, wild kiss with which he had
sought to hold the sinking soul of the girl on his breast. And now they
were safe and well again, almost strong, drinking delicious draughts of
life, free to love, to live, to be happy!
The welcome supper was prepared. Dr. Carollyn himself attended to
the quantity and quality of Elizabeth's share of the feast. Every
morsel was ambrosial. The whole party were renovated by the needed
refreshment. Nat told the story of his rescue of the kidnapped girl,
his voice quivering slightly over the mention of Kit Carson's death.
The faithful horses who had borne Joe and the Doctor on their long,
sultry ride, received their share of attention, being carefully
watered, and fed on the short, coarse grass along the bank of the
stream. Then, as the sunset hour approached, with wallets well
filled with cooked antelope, and canteens overflowing with water,
the quartette set out in good spirits, along the trail, hoping by
traveling nearly all night, and making good speed next day, to overtake
their company. To Buckskin Joe it was reserved to walk, he generously
resigning his animal to Nat, while Elizabeth, as before, rode with Dr.
Carollyn.
Without further accidents, and with only such events as were common to
the journey, the party reached the encamped emigrants at the time they
expected. A great shout of joy rung over the plain as the lost ones
were welcomed back to the anxious company.