I made direct for the canon whence issued the stream. Its gap grew
wider as I approached it--though still appearing only a dark cleft
between the rocks, like the entrance to some subterranean passage. I
looked forward to it with satisfaction. Its shadowy chasm promised
shelter and concealment. When near the entrance of the gorge, I passed
the ground where the waggon had been captured. Part of its load--
barrels and heavy boxes--were lying upon the sward. They were all
broken, and rifled of their contents. The plunder had been carried to
the butte. The dead bodies were still there--only those of the white
men. I even halted to examine them. They were all stripped of their
clothing--all scalped, and otherwise mutilated. The faces of all were
blood-bedaubed. Under the red mask I could not have recognised them--
even had they been the faces of old friends! There were six of them.
Divested of their garments, I could form no conjecture as to who or what
they had been--whether teamsters or emigrants, gold-seekers or soldiers.
The Mormon could not have been among them: the bodies were all too
stout for his; while, on the other hand, there was none of them that
could have been mistaken for that of the squatter, Holt. I turned away
from the sickening sight, and continued my gallop.
My pursuers were a good mile behind me. The sun had already sunk over
the crest of the cliffs, and I could just see the mounted savages
through the darkling gloom--still fallowing as fast as their horses
could gallop. In five minutes after, I had entered the gorge. The
twilight continued no longer: in the canon it was night. I followed the
stream upwards, keeping along near the bank. Thick darkness was over
and around me; but the gleam of the water and its rippling sound served
to guide me on the path. I could not see any track--either of horses or
waggons--but I knew they had passed over the ground. There was a narrow
strip of bottom land thickly timbered; and an opening through the trees
indicated the road that the waggons must have taken. I trusted the
trail to my horse. In addition to his keen instinct, he had been
trained to tracking; and with his muzzle projected forward and
downward--so that his lips almost touched the earth--he lifted the scent
like a hound. We could only make progress at a quick walk; but I
consoled myself with the thought that my pursuers could go no faster.
Seeing how easily I had ridden away from them, they might determine to
abandon the pursuit--returning to revenge themselves upon my
fellow-captives.
About these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange
enough, my strongest sympathies were with. Sure-shot! I could not help
thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. There could be no
doubt of his having done so. He had been offered life, on some
traitorous condition, and could have lived. The Indian whom I had
hurled over the rocks, if still alive, would explain my escape. The
cunning savages would easily understand it. My brave comrade would take
my place upon the crucifix?
For Wingrove I had less fear. Surely love--even slighted love--would
save him from the sacrifice? Yet, after what had occurred, I had but
little reason to hope even for him. I could think of but one chance of
rescuing them: to overtake the train, and prevail upon the escort to
return. I wondered at the dragoons having abandoned the waggon, and
left the poor fellows who were with it to their fate! I could only
explain such conduct, by supposing that these had been far behind, and
that their disaster was still unknown to the people of the caravan. The
six men who had fallen might have been the only ones along with the
waggon; and their firing, as they defended themselves, might not have
been heard? The roar of the water in the canon might have drowned the
reports of their guns; and, as I now listened to its deafening sound, I
could believe in this hypothesis.
Indulging in such conjectures, I had groped my way some two or three
miles up the gorge, when I became sensible of a singular faintness
stealing over me. A chill crept through my frame--not like that
produced by cold from without; but as if the blood was freezing in my
veins! The feeling was accompanied by a sense of torpor and lassitude--
like that experienced by one dropping to sleep in a snow-storm. I made
an effort to rouse myself--thinking it was sleep that was oppressing me.
It might well have been--since it was more than thirty hours since I
had slept, and then only for a short while. It occurred to me that, by
dismounting and walking for a distance, I might recover warmth and
wakefulness. With this design, I alighted from my horse. Once upon the
ground, I discovered that I could not walk--that I could not even keep
my feet! My limbs tottered under me, as if I had been for months
bed-rid. Only by holding on to my horse could I stand erect! What
could it mean? My Arab turned his face towards me, as if making the
same inquiry! I endeavoured to remount him, but could not. I was
unable even to clamber upon his back; and after an unsuccessful effort,
desisted--still supporting myself against his body. Had he moved away,
at the moment, I should have fallen. And I must have fallen--after my
senses left me. In the last gleam of consciousness, I remembered
standing by the side of my horse. But I must have fallen: for when
thought returned, I found myself upon my back, stretched at full length
along the grass!