It was not by any conjuncture that I arrived at this conclusion. I was
quite confident that the footsteps were not those of a _squaw_--all
inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. I observed that they were
very recent--of less than an hour's age. As I rose from regarding them,
a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand--the footmarks of a wolf!
No--I was deceived by resemblance. On nearer examination, they were not
wolf-tracks I saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. These
were also fresh like the woman's tracks--made doubtless at the same
time. The dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following
her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his
track was uppermost.
There were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: a
_white_ woman in such a place, and _wearing moccasins_! But for the
style of the _chaussure_, I might have fancied that the tracks were
those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. I might have
connected them with _her_--ever uppermost in my thoughts. But--no.
Small though they were, they were yet too large for those _mignon_ feet,
well-remembered. After all, I _might_ be mistaken? Some dusky maiden
might have passed that way, followed by her dog? This hypothesis would
have removed all mystery, had I yielded to it. I could not: it was
contrary to my tracking experience. Even the dog was not Indian: the
prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race.
My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was
paramount; and after assuaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards
the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The noble
animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even
changed his attitude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel
of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon
his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could
note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near
enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been
properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest
viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted
the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment,
the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell
heavily into the gorge!
When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making
one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by the _ovis
ammon_ in descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent
been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic
horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of
a lifeless body?
I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a
gun--that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the
cliffs--told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other
side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot?
If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as
the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of
broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving
man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of
that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts
with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game.
Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were
that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the
caravan; or, more likely, a _free_ trapper. I knew that upon several
head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these
singular men.
From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the
cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point,
without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be
an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I
had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way
through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed
round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of
the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears--"Off there,
Wolf! off, villain dog! Don't you see that the creature is killed--no
thanks to you, sirrah?" Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman!
While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery
tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes--a girl majestically
beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown--cheeks
of purplish red--a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral
curve--eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope--a forehead white and
high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a
coronet of scarlet plumes--such was the head that I saw rising above the
green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the
leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her
whole form was exhibited to my view--equally striking and picturesque.
I need not say that it was of perfect shape--bust, body, and limbs all
symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an
ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her
work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes
the model for herself--hence the perfect correspondence of its parts.
And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest
sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation.
The costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. About
both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art
paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself--for those
sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw
the snowy cone of Pike's Peak rising over the crest of the cliff, I
might have fancied myself in the Sierra Asturias, with a beautiful
_gitana_ standing before me. The soft fawn-skin _tilma_, with its gaudy
broidering of beads and stained quills--the fringed skirt and buskined
ankles--the striped Navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders--
all presented a true gipsy appearance. The plumed circlet upon the head
was more typical of Transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a
female hand was still another idiosyncracy of America. It was from that
rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low
the bighorn! It was not a _hunter_ then who had killed the game; but
she who stood before me--a huntress--the Wild Huntress.