The incident referred to was the arrival of a scout, who, after the
conflict, had followed upon the trail of the Arapahoes. This man
brought the intelligence that the scattered enemy had again collected--
that, while fleeing from the _rout_, they had met with a large war-party
of their own tribe--accompanied by another of their allies, the
Cheyennes; that both together formed a band of several hundred warriors;
and that they were now marching back towards the valley of the
Huerfano--to take revenge for the death of Red-Hand, and the defeat
which his party had sustained! This unexpected news brought the
scalp-dance to an abrupt termination; and changed the whole aspect of
the scene. The women, with loud cries, rushed towards their horses--
with the intention of betaking themselves to a place of security; while
the warriors looked to their arms--determined to make stand against the
approaching foe. It was not expected that the enemy would make their
attack at once. Certainly not before night, and perhaps not for days.
The preparations to receive them were therefore entered upon with all
the coolness and deliberation that attack or defence might require.
The encounter eventually came off; but it was only afterwards that I
learnt the result. The Utahs were again victorious. Wa-ka-ra in this
affair had given another proof of his strategic talent. He had made
stand by the butte, but with only half of his warriors--distributed in
such a manner as to appear like the whole band. These, with their
rifles, could easily defend the mound against the arrows of the enemy;
and did so during an assault that lasted for several hours. Meanwhile
the other half of his band had been posted upon the bluffs, hidden among
the cedars; and, descending in the night, they had stolen unexpectedly
upon the allied forces, and attacked them in the rear. A concerted
sortie from the mound had produced complete confusion in the ranks of
their enemies; and the Utahs not only obtained a victory, but "hair"
sufficient to keep them scalp-dancing for a month. As I have said, it
was afterwards that these facts came to my knowledge. I have here
introduced them to show that we could no longer depend on any contingent
intervention on the part of the Utah chief; and we were therefore the
more keenly conscious that we should have to rely upon our own
resources.
The Utahs showed no wish to detain us. They felt confident in their own
strength, and in the fire-weapons--which they well knew how to use--and,
after thanking their friendly chief for the great service he had
rendered us, and confiding our wounded comrade to his care, we parted
from him without further ceremony. I witnessed not his parting with
Marian. Between them there was an interview, but of what nature I could
not tell. The huntress had stayed behind; and the rest having ridden
forward, no one of us was present at that parting scene. There may have
been a promise that they should meet again: for that was expected by all
of us; but whether there was, or what may have been the feelings of the
Indian at parting with his pale-faced _protegee_, I was not to know. It
was difficult to believe that the young chief could have looked so long
on that face, so beautifully fair, without conceiving a passion for its
possessor. It was equally difficult to believe, that if this passion
existed, he would have thus surrendered her to the arms of another. An
act so disinterested would have proved him noble indeed--the Rolla of
the North! If the passion really did exist, I knew there could be no
reciprocity. As Marian galloped up, and gazed in the eyes of the
handsome hunter--now entirely her own--her ardent glance told that
Wingrove was the proud possessor of that magnificent maiden.
In volunteering to be one of our party Marian was submitting herself to
a fearful risk. That of the rest of us was trifling in comparison. In
reality we risked nothing, further than the failure of our plans; and a
certain punishment if taken in the act of abduction. But even for this
the Saints would scarcely demand our lives--unless in hot blood we
should be slain upon the instant. Her position was entirely different.
The Mormon apostle, whether false husband or real, could and would claim
her. There was no law in that land--at all events, no power--to hinder
_him_ from acting as he should please; and it was easy to foresee what
would be his apostolic pleasure. The very presence of Wingrove would
stimulate him to a revengeful course; and should her Indian disguise be
detected, Marian might look forward to a fate already deemed by her
worse than death. She was sensible of all this; but it did not turn her
from her determination. Her tender affection for Lilian--her earnest
desire to save her sister from the peril too plainly impending, rendered
her reckless about her _own_; and the bold girl had formed the
resolution to dare everything--trusting to chance and her own strong
will for the successful accomplishment of our purpose. I no longer
attempted to dissuade her against going with us. How could I? Without
her aid my own efforts might prove idle and fruitless. Lilian might not
listen to _me_? Perhaps that secret influence, on which I had so
confidently calculated, might exist only in a diminished degree?
Perhaps it might be gone for ever? Strange to say, though I had drawn
some sweet inferences from those neglected flowers, every time the
_bouquet_ came back to my memory, it produced a palpable feeling of
pain! He who so cunningly sued, might hope for some measure of success?
And she, so sweetly solicited--more dangerous than if boldly beset--had
her heart withstood the sapping of such a crafty besieger! _My_
influence might indeed be gone; or, if a remnant of it still existed, it
might not turn the scale against that of her father--that fearful
father! What should he care for one child, who had already abetted
another to her shame?
Possessed by these thoughts, then, I tried not to turn Marian from her
purpose. On the contrary, I rather encouraged it. On her influence
with Lilian I had now placed my chief reliance. Without that, I should
have been almost deprived of hope. It might turn out that Lilian no
longer loved me. Time, or absence, might have inverted the _stylus_
upon the tender page of her young heart; and some other image may have
become impressed upon its yielding tablet? If so, my own would sorely
grieve; but, even if so, I would not that hers should be corrupted. She
must not be the victim of a villain, if my hand could hinder it! "No,
Lilian! though loved and lost, I shall not add to the bitterness of your
betrayal. My cup of grief will possess sufficient acerbity without
mingling with it the gall of revenge."