Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02

by Leni-Leoti or, Adventures In The Far West (lit)

  CHAPTER X.

  ARRIVE AT TAOS—DISAPPOINTMENT—A SIN GULAR CHARACTER—JOYFUL TIDINGS— SOUTHWARD BOUND—SANTA FE—ADDITIONAL NEWS—ON THE RIGHT COURSE— PERPLEXITY — ALL RIGHT — TRIUMPHANT SUCCESS—RETURN TO THE NORTH.

  As our party was now quite formidable, we had no fears of again being attacked, so long as we remained together. On the fourth day from quitting the valley described in the previous chapter, we entered the small village of Taos. Here I found a melange of all nations and colors, consisting of trappers, hunters, traders, adventurers, &c. Mingling with all classes, I at once proceeded to make inquiries regarding the present whereabouts of the Great Medicine Tribe, and also if any had seen or heard of a certain young man (giving a full description of Huntly) being taken prisoner by the Indians or Mexicans. To my first inquiry, I received from several the answer, that a singular tribe of Indians, among whom was a beautiful female, had been seen in the vicinity within a few weeks; but where they now were, or in what direction, none could tell. As to the latter, each replied with a shake of the head, that he could tell me nothing. It was not an uncommon thing, they informed me, for a white man—an adventurer—to be taken, robbed, held for ransom, knocked on the head, or sold into slavery; but no one remembered hearing of, or seeing such as I had described. To me this news produced great disappointment; for, from some cause which I cannot explain, I had been sanguine of getting information of Huntly so soon as I should arrive at Taos. Here, then, was a complete overthrow of my most ardent hopes! and I now felt keenly the sandiness of the foundation on which I had reared my expectations. I might pass a long life in a wearisome and dangerous search, and be no wiser of Huntly's fate at last. There was still a faint hope that Prairie Flower, who I doubted not had gone south with her tribe for this purpose, had gained some information of him; and at once I determined to hunt her out, with the additional resolve, that should my surmises prove correct, and she had failed also, to set out on my return forthwith. But where should I begin to look for her was the next question. She might be as difficult to find as Huntly, and there was no certainty of my ever seeing either again. The day following my a rival in Taos, I was passing along one of the streets, pondering upon these matters, when I chanced to meet an old mountaineer, whom I did not remember having seen before. Determined to leave no stone unturned, I accosted him with the same inquiry I had made of the others He stopped, looked at me attentively a moment, as if to comprehend my questions, and then in a musing, half soliloquizing manner, replied: "'Bout the Injins, don't know—think I've seed such—won't be sartin—don't like to be sartin when I aint. Yes! think I hev seed 'em—yes, know I hev—but it war two year ago, and away up north a — of a ways: Fact. 'Bout the other chap, don't know;—yes—no—stop—let me see—y-e-s, I reckon—aint sartin— what was he like?" Here I proceeded to give a description of my friend, with what conflicting feelings of hope and fear I leave the reader to imagine. In fact, my voice became so tremulous, that several times I was forced to stop and put my hand to my throat to prevent, as it were, my heart from strangling me. "Git cool, and jest say that thar over agin," rejoined the other, when at length I tremblingly paused for his answer. I repeated it twice, before he seemed satisfied. "Now," says he, "I'll think—let me see!" and he deliberately proceeded to take up each point of my description, and apply it to some person he had seen, making his own comments as he went along, "Slim and graceful—let me see!— yes—no—ye-a-s—rather reckon he was— know it—fact. 'Bout twenty-three— stop — let me think!—yes—reckon he might be—know he was—sartin. Good face — han'some featurs—stop—a—y-e-s— know it—settled." Thus he went on until I found my patience completely exhausted, and was about to interrupt him, when he suddenly exclaimed: "Seen him, stranger—sartin as life— know I hev." "Where? where?" cried I, breathlessly, grasping his hand. "San Domingo." "When?" "'Bout a year ago." "God be thanked! You are sure?" "Sartin, or I'd never said it." "Well, well—what became of him?" "It's more'n I ken say—spect he war made a slave. A — old Greaser had him, and wanted to sell or git him ransomed. He axed too high, and nobody traded. I pitied the poor feller, but I hadn't no money, and thar warn't no Yankees thar then to help me out in takin him. Old Greaser went sothe; and some I axed shuk thar heads, and said that that old scamp war a robber chief, and had lots o' help close by. All I know, stranner." "But do you think he is alive now ?" "Can't say, ye see, 'cause don't know. Never say what don' know. Anything more to ax, stranger?" "Nothing that you can answer," I replied; and thanking him kindly for his information, I placed a gold coin in his hand, and hurriedly left him to seek out my companions— my spirits, so lately depressed, now buoyant and bounding. The party which had joined mine at the valley, had not yet quitted Taos; and calling all together, I proceded to lay before them my joyful intelligence. When I had done, Black George gave a shout, Teddy a whoop, Pierre shrugged his shoulders and doubled his dose of snuff, and every one expressed his delight in his own peculiar way. The Rovers—so our new companions termed themselves—were nearly all young men from the States, who had come west more for adventure than speculation; and as I had become a favorite with them in the short time of our acqaintance, they at once volunteered me their assistance, an offer I accepted with tears of gratitude. Ordering out our animals, we mounted and set forward immediately, and, although the day was partly advanced, succeded in reaching Santa Cruz about nightfall. By noon of the next day we rode into Santa Fé—a place of much importance and notoriety, from being centrally located on the great caravan route from Missouri to Southern California. At the time of which I write, Santa Fé contained some four or five thousand inhabitants, and was the emporium of the northern trade between New Mexico and Missouri. However, it was anything but an agreeable place—its inhabitants being mostly made up of the offscourings of the earth—without religion, morality, or any other noble quality. To gamble, steal, rob and murder were among the refined amusements of the most worthy set. To make matters still worse, there had recently been some difficulty between the Mexicans and the citizens of the United States, and on both sides existed a bitter hostility, which was productive of the most violent crimes. It was dangerous for any one to traverse the streets alone, particularly after nightfall; for at every corner he turned, he knew himself in danger of assassination. The Indians here generally sided with the Mexicans, and looked upon all Yankees as their worst enemies. Such was the state of affairs at Santa Fé on my arrival; and the same inimical feeling, to a greater or less extent, prevailed in all the adjacent towns. As myself and party had no desire to quarrel with any one, we took care to be civil, always together, well armed, and to mind our own business on all occasions; and in consequence we fortunately escaped without molestation. Making several inquiries in Santa Fé, and gaining nothing further of Huntly or the Mysterious Tribe, we pursued our course southward through Cinega to San Domingo. Here the story of the old trapper was so far confirmed, that several persons remembered having seen the notorious robber, Gonzalez, in possession of a handsome young prisoner, whom he was anxious to dispose of, declaring he could not find not it in his heart to kill him, and could not afford to part with him without recompense; that no one there being disposed to purchase him, he had gone farther south; but what had since become of him none could afford me any information. In answer to my inquiry concerning Prairie Flower, I learned that some time ago she had been seen in this vicinity with her tribe—that she had made inquiries similar to mine, and that all had departed southward. This news almost made me frantic with joy. Huntly, I argued, was living. Prairie Flower, like some kind angel, had gone to his rescue; and it might be, that even now he was free and enjoying her sweet companionship. The joyful thought, as I said but now, nearly drove me mad with excitement; and all my olden hopes were not only revived, but increased by faith to certainties. Hurrying forward to San Bernilla on the Rio Grande, I heard nearly the same tale as at San Domingo; and following down the river to Torreon, listened to its repetition—and at Valencia, Nutrias, and A
lamilla likewise. At Valverde, the next village below the last mentioned, I could gain no intelligence whatever. This led me to think Gonzalez had disposed of his prisoner between the two villages — or, what was just as probable, had taken another course. For what I knew, he might have crossed the Rio Grande and struck off into the Sierra de los Mimbres—a mountain chain only a few miles to the west of us, whose lofty, snow-covered peaks rose heavenward to a vast hight, and had been distinctly visible for several days. If he had taken this direction, the chances of tracing him successfully appeared much against us. It was equally as probable, too, he had gone eastward— perhaps to Tabira—a small village some seventy miles distant. But which course should we take? Consulting my friends, we at length resolved to retrace our steps to Alamilla, make inquiries of all we might meet on the way, and then, if we could gain no satisfactory information, to strike out for Tabira on a venture. This matter settled, we at once turned back, but had not proceeded far, when we met a couple of Mexican hunters. As I understood a smattering of Spanish, I at once addressed them, and, in course of conversation, gained the joyful tidings, that a prisoner, such as I described, had been purchased by a Mexican, living not more than three miles distant, and that in all probability we should find him there now. The path to his residence having been pointed out, I rewarded each of my informants with a gold coin, and then driving the spurs into our horses, in less than half an hour we reined them in before a small hacienda, much to the terror of the inmates, who believed we had come to rob and murder them. Assuring the proprietor, a rather prepossessing Mexican, that in case he gave us truthful answers no harm should be done him—but that, being partially informed already, the slightest prevarication would cost him his tongue and ears, if not his head—I proceeded to question him. Thus forewarned, and much in fear of the execution of the threat, he gave straight-forward replies, to the effect that more than a year ago Gonzalez had paid him a visit, and offered him an American at a small price, declaring that if he did not purchase, he would knock the prisoner on the head without more ado, as he had cost him more time than he was worth; that at first, he (the proprietor of the hacienda) had refused to buy, having as many slaves as he cared about; but that something in the young man's appearance, and the appeal he made with his eye, had touched his feelings, and the bargain had at length been struck. He farther stated, that the prisoner had not been treated like the rest of his slaves, but with more respect, and had behaved himself like a gentleman and won his confidence. A short time ago, he continued, a small tribe of Indians had called upon him, and offered a ransom for the prisoner, stating he was an old acquaintance; that he had accepted the offer, and the prisoner had departed with them toward the north, in fine spirits. This was the substance of the information I gathered here; but it was enough to intoxicate me with joy, and was received by the rest of the party with three hearty cheers, much to the astonishment of the old Mexican, who did not comprehend what was meant. The prisoner was Huntly—there was no doubt of that—and the Great Medicine was the Indian tribe which had set him free. The next thing was to go in quest of them. They had gone toward the north, and had had some time the start of us. It might be difficult to find them— but nothing, I fancied, in comparison with the task I had first undertaken of tracing out my friend. The Rovers agreed to accompany me as far as Santa Cruz, when, after having seen me so far safe, they designed returning to Santa Fé. It is unnecessary for me to detail each day's journey. Suffice, that in due time we arrived at Santa Cruz, where I parted from the Rovers, with many expressions of gratitude on my part, and heart-felt wishes for my success on theirs. My party was thus reduced to six; and as two of the number preferred remaining here to going north immediately, I settled with them at once, still retaining Teddy, Pierre, and Black George. With these I again set forward rapidly, making inquiries of all I met. For two or three days I could get no tidings of the Mysterious Tribe, and I began to have doubts of being on the right course. Fortunately, before we had decided on changing our direction, we met a party of mountaineers, who informed us that a few weeks before they had seen a small tribe of friendly Indians, somewhere between the Spanish Peaks and Pueblo, among whom were a white man and a beautiful female half-breed—that they were moving very leisurely toward the north—and that in all probability they were now encamped somewhere in the beautiful valley of the Arkansas. Elated with the most extravagant anticipations of soon realizing our sanguine hopes, we again pressed forward for two or three days, and leaving the lofty Spanish Peaks to our right, tracing up the head waters of the Rio Mora, we struck off over the Green Mountains and camped at last in the far-famed valley of the Arkansas, within full view of the eternal snow-crowned Pike's Peak.

  CHAPTER XI.

  MORE CHEERING NEWS—A FRANTIC RIDE— IN THE EMBRACE OF MY FRIEND—EFFECT OF THE MEETING — SAD TIDINGS FOR HUNTLY—DEEP EMOTION—STORY OF HIS CAPTIVITY AND RELEASE — HIS SECOND MEETING WITH PRAIRIE FLOWER — OLD FEELINGS RENEWED—LOVE, ETC.

  For two days after reaching the valley, our search proved fruitless, and the reader can better imagine my feelings than I can describe them. My anxiety to see my long-lost friend w as so great, that I could not rest at night, and barely devour enough food to support nature. A consultation had resulted in shaping our course up the river, and on the third day we had the unbounded delight to meet with a couple of trappers, who informed us they had seen the Great Medicine Tribe only two days before, and that they were then camped on a small creek, in a lovely valley, at the base of the southwestern mountain chain, surrounding what is known as the South Park, not more than sixty or seventy miles distant. Never can I forget the feelings I experienced, nor the wild, prolonged, and deafening cheers which resounded at this announcement. Each of my companions seemed frantic with joy; and as for myself, I could have clasped the informants, rough and half civilized as they were, to my beating heart. Becoming at last a little more tranquil, we managed to impress upon ourselves a brief description of the route to be taken, and then set forward with the wildness of madmen just loosened from an insane asylum. On, on we dashed, over plain heath and ridges, through thickets and streams, till the blowing and reeling of our animals warned us we must be more prudent, or their lives, at least, would be the penalty of our rashness. Throughout that day, nothing was thought of, nothing talked of, but our fortunate adventure, and the speedy prospect of gaining what we sought. Time, distance, everything was overlooked; and when the sun went down, it appeared to us the day had been by half the shortest of the season. But very different was it with our horses, which were so exhausted from hard riding, that serious fears were entertained lest we had ruined them. But a thorough rubbing down, and an hour or two of rest revived them; and we at last had the satisfaction of seeing them crop the plentiful blade with their wonted gusto. I slept none that night; in fact did not lie down; but most of the time paced the earth to and fro before the fire-light, anxiously praying for the dawn, to resume our journey. My companions, however, slept soundly; for they had far less to think of than I, and moreover were sorely fatigued. At the first blush of morning I roused them, and again mounting we set forward. As both Pierre and Black George knew the country well, we lost no time by going out of the way, but took the nearest and safest course to the point described. A ride of four hours brought us to the brow of a hill, looking down upon a fertile valley, where, joy inexpressible! we beheld a village of temporary lodges, and a few Indians, whom I instantly recognized as belonging to the anxiously-sought tribe. "Hurray! we've got 'em—I'll be dog-gone ef we haint!" cried Black George. "Hurray for us, beavers, sez I! and a quart on the feller as is last in!" Uttering yell after yell, as wild as those of savages, we spurred down the hill with reckless velocity, each one striving to lead the rest and be first to reach the goal of our present desires. Had the tribe in question not been peaceably inclined, this proceeding would have been dangerous in the extreme, and a shower of rifle balls might have changed our joyous shouts to cries of pain and lamentation, or put us beyond the pal
e of mortality. Our rapid and tumultuous approach alarmed our friends, and men, women, and children came running out of their huts, with fear depicted on their faces. Among them were two figures that fixed my attention; and from that moment I saw nothing but Charles Huntly and Leni Leoti, till my gallant beast stood panting in the center of the crowd. "Charles!" I exclaimed, as I leaped from my steed, my brain fairly reeling with intense emotion; and staggering up to where he stood, bewildered and confused, I threw my arms around his neck and swooned in his embrace. When consciousness again returned, I found myself lying on a mat in a small cabin, hastily constructed of sticks and skins, and my friend standing by me, chafing my temples, dashing cold water in my face, and entreating me in the most piteous tones to arouse and speak to him. There were others around, but I heeded them not. I had neither ears, nor eyes, for any but my friend. My first glance showed me he was altered, but not more than I had expected to find him. His form was somewhat wasted, and his pale features displayed here and there a line of grief and suffering which I had never before seen. "Frank," he cried, "for God's sake look up, and speak to me!" "Charles!" I gasped. "Ha! I hear it again — that dearly loved voice!" and burying his head upon my breast he wept aloud. In a few minutes I had completely recovered from my swoon; but it was a long time before either of us could master his emotion sufficient to hold conversation. We looked at each other, pressed each other by the hand, mingled our tears together, and felt, in this strange meeting, what no pen can describe, no language portray. We had literally been dead to each other—we who had loved from childhood with that ardent love which cements two souls in one—and now we had come to life, as it were, to feel more intensely our friendship for the long separation. The excess of joy had nearly made us frantic, and taken away the power of speech. At last we became more tranquil, when our friends who had been present, but almost unnoticed, withdrew and left us to ourselves. "And now, Frank," said Huntly, looking me earnestly in the face, his eyes still dimmed with tears, "tell me the news. Have you been home?" "I have not." "Ah! then I suppose you know nothing of our friends!" "More than you imagine," and I turned away my head, and sighed at the thought of the mournful intelligence I was about to communicate. "Indeed!" said Huntly. "But why do you avert your face? Has—has anything happened?" "Prepare yourself for the worst, dear Charles!" I said, in a tremulous tone. "For the worst?" he repeated. "Great Heaven! what has happened? Speak! quick! tell me! for suspense at such times is hard to be borne; and our imagination, running wild with conjecture, tortures us, it may be, beyond the reality." "In this case I think not." "Then speak what you know — in Heaven's name, speak!" "Promise me to be calm?" "I will do my best," replied my friend, eagerly; with a look of alarm, while his frame fairly trembled with excitement, and his forehead became damp with cold perspiration. "Your father, dear Charles!" I began. "Well, well, Frank—what of him?" "Is—is—no more. The sod has twice been green above him." "Merciful God!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands aloft, with a look of agony I shall never forget; then covering his face with them, he groaned as one in the throes of death. For some time I did not disturb him, thinking it best to let his first grief take its course in silence. At length I said: "Come, my dear friend, rouse thee, and be a man! Do not give too much sway to your sorrow! Remember, that in this world we all have to die — that we are doomed by the immutable laws of nature and the decrees of an over-ruling God, to part from those we most dearly love! But it is only for a time. God is wise, and good, and does all things for the best; and it is only a short time at the longest, ere we in turn shall depart to join them in a life beyond the reach of death. Cheer up, dear Charles! and look upon your father as one who has done with the cares and perplexities of life, and made a happy change. I know how dearly you loved him—I know the trial to give him up is most painful — and from my very soul I sympathize with you in your affliction. But, my dear friend, we have other duties than to wail the dead; for the living demand our attention; and you have friends still left you, equally near and dear, who stand in need of your most iron energies." "Alas!" he groaned, his face still hid in his hands—"dead! dead! dead!—and I — his only son — far, far away!" He paused, and trembled violently for a few moments, and his breath came quick and hard. "But you are right, dear Frank," he said, at length, slowly raising his face, now sadly altered. "You are right, my friend! We know such things must, do, and will take place; and we should, to what extent we can, be philosophers all, and strive to be resigned to God's will. It is terrible, though—terrible—to lose a beloved parent, and not be at hand to hear his parting words, nor see him set forth on that journey from whence none ever return. But I—I—will strive to bear it—to at least appear calm. And now, dear Frank— my—my—I fear to mention who—lest I hear more painful, heart-rending tidings." "You mean your mother and sister?" He grasped my arm nervously, partly averted his head, as if in dread of my answer, and answered almost inaudibly: "I do." "Be not alarmed, dear Charles! I left them well." "Left them well?" he repeated, in surprise. "Did not you tell me you had not been home?" "True! neither have I." "Then where did you see them, and where are they now?" "I will answer your last question first. They are now in Oregon City." He gave me a deep, searching look, such as one would bestow upon a person whose sanity he had just begun to question. "I do not wonder you look surprised," I added: "but listen ere you doubt;" and I proceeded to narrate, as briefly as I could, how I had met them near the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, and under what singular circumstances; how I had soon learned of their misfortunes, both in the loss of their dearest friend and their property, (which latter seemed to affect Charles less than I had expected;) how I had there met the Unknown, been warned of danger by Prairie Flower, and what followed; how I had subsequently accompanied the party to Oregon; how I had proposed to Lilian, been accepted, and on what conditions; and how I had at las t been led to set off in search of my dearest friend, and what had happened on the journey. In short, I gave him condensed particulars of all that had occurred since we parted, not forgetting my night search for him, and the effect of his loss upon me at Los Angelos. He listened attentively throughout, occasionally interrupting me with questions on points of more than usual interest, or where, in my hasty narration, I had failed to make the matter clear to him. "Strange! strange!" he said, when I had done; "very, very strange is all this! It looks improbable — seems impossible— and yet I do not doubt your word. So, then, I am not worth a dollar?" "Do not let that trouble you, Charles! While I have money, neither you nor your friends shall want." "I know it, Frank," he said, pressing my hand warmly; "I know it. That, at present, is the least of my concern. And so you have seen the Unknown? and she is called Eva Mortimer?" He mused a moment, and added: "Well, this is more singular than all. Frank, we must set out for Oregon immediately!" "As soon as you please. And now tell, me something of your own adventures." "Alas!" sighed he, "after the painful news you have communicated, I feel myself unable to enter into particulars. I will give you something in brief, for I know your curiosity is excited. In fact, I will give you the outline of my story, and anon will fill it with detail." "Proceed." "At the time we separated to follow the wounded goat," he began, "I hurried around the foot of the mountain which you were ascending. In my haste, I missed the path, and had spent some time in searching for it, when suddenly I found myself surrounded by half-a-dozen guerillas, who, it seems, were in waiting here for the return of a larger party, momentarily expected, when all designed an attack upon some merchants coming in from Santa Fé. A single glance showed me resistance was useless, and I surrendered myself a prisoner. They seized and began stripping me of everything valuable, when it occurred to me I could let you know my situation, and I accordingly shouted as if calling to a party of my friends. The next moment I was seized and gagged, when the cowards, fearful I suppose, this precaution had been taken too late, (for a cheer from you was heard in answer,) and that they might be attacked soon, if they remained where they were, began to sneak away, taking me with them. "Wh
en they had rendered themselves safe, by penetrating farther into the mountains, they kept quiet till night, and then sallied forth to the rendezvous, where they joined the others, in all some twenty persons. "A consultation was now held, whether I should be put to death, or taken along and sold into slavery. The latter was finally adopted, and Gonzalez, the chief, took me under his charge. Taking the great Spanish trail, we set off toward Santa Fé, traveling mostly in the night and lying by through the day, often in ambush for some unfortunate wayfarers, who, in the encounters that sometimes ensued, generally lost both money and life. My dear Frank, I could describe events which have passed before my own eyes, that would make your hair stand with horror; but but these are almost irrelevant to my story, and so I shall omit them. "It was a strange fancy they had formed of selling me into slavery, and I could never rightly comprehend it. It could not have been for the amount I would bring— for that was small, in comparison to the trouble I must have cost them in guarding me from escape. No! I am inclined to think it the result of a whim—perhaps of the chief—who ever treated me with as much leniency as I could expect, or have dared to ask for. Still I was made to do menial services, and used as a slave; and it might have been my life was preserved for this; for save myself, the party had no servant. O! how it made my blood boil at times, when I thought what I had been, and what I was! and how I groaned in secret, to think what must be your feelings, and the feelings of my friends, should the latter ever hear of my fate! But I still had hope; I was still alive; and I struggled to bear up manfully, and be resigned to my lot till Providence should favor my escape. "The first hundred miles I was forced to proceed on foot—the robbers having no horses but what they rode themselves. Sometimes they traveled fast, obliging me to keep them company, and in consequence I suffered most severely. At last one of the band got killed in an affray, and his beast was assigned to me, which proved a great relief. "One day the chief informed me, that if I would take the oath of his dictation, I might join the band and have my freedom— or rather, the freedom of a robber. I declined his offer, in language so decisive that he never after repeated the proposition, and I continued as before, a slave. But I must avoid detail. "At last we reached the Sierra de los Mimbres, where the band divided—the chief and a few followers taking me down to San Domingo, where I was offered for sale. Not meeting with success here, he continued down through the several villages, and, in short, to the very hacienda whither you and another (God bless you both!) traced me. Had he failed here in disposing of me to Pedro Lopez, I do believe he would have put an end to my existence. "After much quibbling, the bargain was at last struck, and I became the property of Pedro Lopez. I shall now pass over the period of my slavery—the most unhappy one of my life. True, I was treated better than my companions, and, on the whole, suffered much less physically than mentally. But still I knew myself a slave—knew I was degraded; and the thought of my position—that thus I might be doomed to spend my days— nearly drove me mad. Sometimes evil thoughts would enter my head; and then I would half resolve to kill my master and take the consequences, or put an end to my own being. Then hope would revive, that something might turn up for my deliverance, and I would strive to labor on, resigned to bide my time. Thus a year rolled around, when one day Pedro Lopez came to me and inquired if I were contented with my situation! At first I thought he was mocking me, and I half-raised a garden-tool I had in my hand to dash out his brains. He must have guessed my intention from my looks; for he took a step back, and bade me be calm and give him a civil answer. I replied by inquiring if he would feel contented to be a slave in a foreign land? He shook his head, and said he would not— that he had felt for my situation from the first—and that that was the cause of my being treated better than my companions. He then told me, that as I had ever behaved myself with propriety, and as he had been offered a fair ransom by a small tribe of Indians, if I felt disposed to go with them he would give up all claim to me. A thought flashed upon me, that possibly this might be the tribe of Great Medicine, and I begged to see them. My request was granted, and, the first glance showed me I was right in my conjectures; and uttering a joyful cry, I rushed outside the gate, to where they were assembled before the walls of the hacienda. "Frank, it is impossible for me to describe my feelings then. Life, liberty, everything joyous, seemed bursting upon me at once, and my brain grew dizzy with the exhilarating, intoxicating thoughts. I hugged the first Indian I met; I danced, capered around, shouted, laughed, cried— in short, did everything extravagant to give my overpowering feelings vent. For an hour or two I was insane with joy, and my reasoning powers as bewildered as those of a lunatic. At last I began to grow calm; and then I went around to each of my old friends and shook them by the hand, thanked them with tearful eyes and trembling voice for my deliverance, and received their congratulations and caresses in return. "But where was Prairie Flower? As yet I had not seen her. I made the inquiry, but could get no direct answer. Some shook their heads, others said she was not here, and others again that she was away. Finding none would answer me, I concluded they had a sufficient reason for their evasion, and dropped the subject. "When everything had been satisfactorily arranged, and I became reasonably sobered down, we all set out toward the north. A horse had been provided for me, and all were mounted—the females, of whom there were several, mostly on mules. "Some three miles from the hacienda, we reached a heavy wood. Entering this about a mile, we made a halt by a spring. While watering the animals, I heard a distant rustling of the bushes and the tramp of more horses. Presently an airy figure, gaily attired, and mounted on a coal black Indian pony, burst through a dense copse near me, followed by five dusky maidens, and rode swiftly up to where I was standing by my steed. "'Prairie Flower!' I shouted; and the next moment she was on her feet, and her hand clasped in mine. "'O, the emotions of that moment Time seemed to have turned his wheel backward, and years of toil, and grief, and fatigue, were forgotten. Passions, which had slumbered, or been half-obliterated by other events, were again awakened and wrenched from their secret recesses; and I saw her as I had seen her three years before, and felt all I had then felt, but in a two-fold sense. "As for Prairie Flower, she was pale and exceedingly agitated. She grasped my hand nervously, gave one searching glance at my features, and burst into tears—but did not speak. Then she sprang away from me a few paces, dashed the tears from her eyes, and returning with a bound, asked me a dozen questions in a breath: 'How I had been? Where I had been? If I were well? If I were glad to get my liberty? and so on; and wound up by adding: 'She was rejoiced to see me, and hoped I should be more fortunate hereafter.' "Throughout our first brief interview, her manner was wild and her language almost incoherent — which, so different from anything I had seen, surprised and alarmed me. She would ask a question, and then, without waiting an answer, ask another and another, or make some remark altogether irrelevant. At last, with a hope that I would now be happy, she informed me that she could see me no more that day; and before I had time to reply, she skipped away, sprang into her saddle and was off—followed by all the females of the tribe, and some half a dozen of the other sex. "This proceeding perplexed me not a little. I asked several the meaning of it, but they only shook their heads, and I was left to ponder it over in secret. "We pursued our way slowly toward the north, and I saw nothing of Prairie Flower, nor of those who had accompanied her, till about noon of the succeeding day, when she again joined us, with the balance of the tribe, among whom were some women and children I had not before seen, which led me to infer there had been two camps, and this supposition was subsequently confirmed by Prairie Flower herself. "My second meeting with Prairie Flower was very different from the first. She was calm, constrained, and I fancied cold; though somehow I was led to think this rather forced than natural. She was polite, civil, and agreeable; but all that passionate enthusiasm of the preceding day was gone. She did not speak with freedom, and her words seemed studied, and her sentences regulated by previous thought. In fact, she seemed to have relapsed into t
he same state as when we first were guests of herself and tribe. There was either something very mysterious about this, or else it sprang from one natural cause—and my vanity, it may be, led me to infer the latter. If she loved me, her actions were easily accounted for; if she did not care for me, why had she taken so much pains, as her own lips revealed, to hunt me out? "In course of conversation which ensued, she narrated how she had met you— under what circumstances — and how, urged on by a sense of duty, she had at once set off with her tribe in the hope of learning something more of my fate. Fortune favored her; for while on her way south, she met with an old mountaineer, who gave her tidings of a cheering nature. As her adventures have been so much like your own, Frank, I shall not enter into detail. Enough that she was successful in finding me, and that I am here. "Day after day, as we traveled north, I had more or less interviews with Prairie Flower; but though she ever treated me with respect and politeness, she always studied to avoid familiarity. "At last we reached the present spot, where the tribe have encamped for a few weeks, or until the fishers and hunters shall have laid in a supply of provisions, when they intend proceeding farther north. From Prairie Flower having seen you where she did, I inferred you had gone home, and every day have been intending to follow. But somehow, when the time has come to start, I have again put it off for another twenty-four hours, and thus have been delaying day after day, for what purpose I hardly know myself. I believe I have been held here by some charm too powerful to break, and now that you have come I am glad of it." "And that charm," said I, as my friend concluded with a sigh, "is Prairie Flower." "It may be," he answered, musingly. "She is so strange—I do not know what to make of her. She is not an Indian—I feel certain of that: but as to who she is, I am as unenlightened as ever. Do you really think she loves me, Frank?" he asked suddenly, rousing himself and fastening his eye earnestly upon mine. "How can I answer?" I said, evasively. "But I know of one that does, Charles." "You mean the Unknown — or rather, Eva Mortimer?" he rejoined, musingly. "I do. I have already delivered her message, sufficient to assure you of the fact; and she is certainly one worthy of being loved." "It may be," he sighed, and there was a time, Frank, such intelligence would have made me happy. But now — (he paused, shook his head, and mused a moment) — now it is not so. When I first saw Eva, I had never seen Prairie Flower; and ere the germ of a first passion had been brought to maturity, the tree was transplanted to another soil, and the sun of another clime, although it did not change its nature, ripened it to another light. Or, to drop all metaphor," he added, "Eva was the first to arouse in me a latent passion, which doubtless a proper intercourse would have warmed to a mutual attachment; but ere this was consummated — ere I even knew who she was — without a hope of ever seeing her again — I departed, and have never beheld her since. She touched some secret chord in my breast, and I dwelt on her memory for a time, and loved her as an unapproachable ideal, rather than as an approachable substance. I loved her—or fancied I did—rather that I had nothing else on which to place my affections, than for any substantial cause. In another I afterward found a resemblance which arrested my attention, and changed the current of my thoughts. The singular manner in which we were thrown together—our daily interviews—my gratitude to her as the preserver of my life and yours—her generosity—in short, the concentration in her of every noble quality— the absence of all others—gradually drew me to Prairie Flower; and ere I was aware of it myself, I found her presence necessary to my happiness. At last we parted, as you know how, and I strove to forget her; but, Frank, though I mentioned her not to you, I now tell you, that I strove a long time in vain. By day and by night, in a greater or less degree, did she occupy my thoughts; and it was only when misfortunes fell upon me that her image gradually gave place to more trying thoughts. But our second meeting — an additional debt of gratitude for deliverance from slavery—has done the work; and I now feel I can love none but Prairie Flower." "Then you are really in love, Charles?" "I am; and I fear hopelessly so." "I fear so too," sighed I. "But where is Prairie Flower? I must see and thank her from my heart." As I spoke, the subject of our conversation glided into the rude lodge, and stood before me.