Prostrated in spirit, I sunk down among the rocks, covering my face with
my hands. So occupied was I with wild imaginings, that I saw not the
Utah women as they passed down the valley. They did not approach the
butte, nor make halt near, but hastened directly onward to the scene of
conflict. I had for the moment forgotten them; and was only reminded of
their proximity on hearing the death-wail, as it came pealing up the
valley. It soon swelled into a prolonged and plaintive chorus--
interrupted only by an occasional shriek--that denoted the discovery of
some relative among the slain--father, brother, husband--or perhaps
still nearer and dearer, some worshipped lover--who had fallen under the
spears of the Arapahoes.
Was Maranee among them?--the wailing women? The thought roused me from
my reverie of wretchedness. A gleam of joy shot suddenly across my
mind. It was the wild huntress that had given origin to the thought.
On her I had founded a new hope. She must be seen! No time should be
lost in communicating with her? Had she accompanied the women of the
tribe? Was she upon the ground?
I rose to my feet, and was going for my horse. I saw Wingrove advancing
towards me. The old shadow had returned to his brow. I might exult in
the knowledge of being able to dispel it--once and for ever? Fortunate
fellow! little suspected he at that moment how I held his happiness in
my hand--how, with one word, I could raise from off his heart the load,
that for six long months had weighed heavily upon it! Yes--a pleasant
task was before me. Though my own heart bled, I could stop the bleeding
of his--of hers, both in a breath. Now, or not yet? I hesitated. I
can scarcely tell why. Perhaps it was that I might enjoy a double
delight--by making the disclosure to both of them at once? I had a
sweet surprise for them. To both, no doubt, it would be a revelation
that would yield the most rapturous joy. Should I bring them face to
face, and leave them to mutual explanations? This was the question that
had offered itself, and caused me to hesitate and reflect. No. I could
not thus sport with hearts that loved. I could not procrastinate that
exquisite happiness, now so near. At once let them enter upon its
enjoyment! But both could not be made happy exactly at the same
instant? One or other must be first told the glad truth that was in
store for them? Apart they must be told it; and to which was I to give
the preference? I resolved to follow that rule of polite society, which
extends priority to the softer sex. Wingrove must wait!
It was only with an effort, I could restrain myself from giving him a
hint of his proximate bliss. I was sustained in the effort, however, by
observing the manner in which he approached me. Evidently he had some
communication to make that concerned our future movements? Up to that
moment, there had been no time to talk--even to think of the future.
"I've got somethin' to say to you, capt'n," said he, drawing near, and
speaking in a serious tone; "it's better, may be, ye shed know it afore
we go furrer. The girl's been givin' me some partickalers o' the
caravan that I hain't told you."
"What girl?"
"The Chicasaw--Su-wa-nee."
"Oh--true. What says she? Some pleasant news I may anticipate, since
she has been the bearer of them?" It was not any lightness of heart
that caused me to give an ironical form to the interrogative. Far from
that.
"Well, capt'n," replied my comrade, "it is rayther ugly news the
red-skinned devil's told me; but I don' know how much truth thar's in
it; for I've foun' her out in more 'n one lie about this bizness. She's
been wi' the carryvan, however, an' shed know all about it."
"About what?" I asked.
"Well--Su-wa-nee says that the carryvan's broke up into two."
"Ha!"
"One helf o' it, wi' the dragoons, hes turned south, torst Santa Fe; the
other, which air all Mormons, hev struck off northardly, by a different
pass, an' on a trail thet makes for thar new settlements on Salt Lake."
"There's not much news in that. We had anticipated something of the
kind?"
"But thar's worse, capt'n."
"Worse!--what is it, Wingrove?" I put the question with a feeling of
renewed anxiety.
"Holt's gone wi' the Mormons."
"That too I had expected. It does not surprise me in the least."
"Ah! capt'n," continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an
expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, "thar's uglier
news still."
"Ha!" I involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind.
"News of _her_? Quick! tell me! has aught happened to _her_?"
"The worst that kud happen, I reck'n--_she's dead_."
I started as if a shot had passed through my heart. Its convulsive
throbbing stifled my speech. I could not get breath to utter a word;
but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony.
"Arter all," continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, "I don't know
if it _air_ the worst. I sayed afore, an' I say so still, thet I'd
ruther she war dead that in the arms o' thet ere stinkin' Mormon. Poor
Marian! she's hed but a short life, o' 't, an' not a very merry one
eyether."
"What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?"
"Why, sartin, capt'n. Who else shed it be?"
"Marian dead?"
"Yes--poor girl, she never lived to see that Salt Lake city--whar the
cussed varmint war takin' her. She died on the way out, an' war berryed
som'rs on the paraireys. I wish I knew whar--I'd go to see her grave."
"Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?"
My companion looked at me in amazement. The laugh, at such a time, must
have sounded strange to his ears.
"The Injun heerd it from Lil," replied Wingrove, still puzzled at my
behaviour. "Stebbins had told it to Holt, an' to her likeways. Poor
young creetur! I reck'n he'll be a wantin' her too--now thet he's lost
the other. Poor little Lil!"
"Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied--belike
both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive
the girl's father--the Indian to do the same with you. The story is
false, Marian Holt is _not_ dead."
"Marian ain't dead?"
"No, she lives--she has been true to you. Listen."
I could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. The reaction--
consequent on the bitter pang I had just experienced, while under the
momentary belief that it was Lilian who was dead--had stirred my spirit,
filling it with a wild joy. I longed to impart the same emotions to my
suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, I ran over the events that
had occurred since our parting. To the revelations which the Mexican
had made, Wingrove listened with frantic delight--only interrupting me
with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. When I had
finished, he cried out:
"She war _forced_ to go! I thort so! I knew it! Whar is she, capt'n!
Oh, take me to her! I'll fall on my knees. I'll axe her a thousand
times to pardon me. 'Twar the Injun's fault. I'll swar it war the
Chicasaw. She's been the cuss o' us both. Oh! whar is Marian? I love
her more than iver! Whar is she?"
"Patience!" I said; "you shall see her presently. She must be down the
valley, among the Indian women. Mount your horse, and follow me!"