Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02

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

  CHAPTER XIV.

  BURIAL OF GREAT MEDICINE—PREPARATIONS TO DEPART — AFFECTIONATE LEAVE-TAKING— ROUTE NORTHWARD—PRAIRIE FLOWER IN A NEW LIGHT — THE DESERTED VILLAGE—THE DESIGNATED SPOT—HOPES AND FEARS—DISAPPOINTMENT—TREASURE FOUND — STRANGE DEPOSIT OF GOLD — SPECULATIONS—ON THE MOVE—IN SIGHT OF OREGON CITY.

  As I have, in "Prairie Flower," described the solemn ceremony by which the Mysterious Tribe consign to dust the mortal remains of such of their number as are called hence by death, I shall not here repeat it—presuming that all who read the present tale, will have perused the other. The second day from his death, was the one set apart for the burial of the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains. Each of my party, and every one of the tribe was present, and the funeral rite was conducted in the most solemn manner. As it had been the province of the deceased to enact a peculiar part on all similar occasions, and as this constituted one of their forms of worship, it became necessary for the tribe to select one of their number to fill his place. The one chosen for the office, which he was to hold till death, was an old whitehaired Indian, of benevolent aspect, who at once entered upon his duties, and thenceforth took the title of "Great Medicine." A grave was dug in the valley by the little stream, and here the deceased was buried, with all the mournful honors befitting his station. Great were the lamentations, and many the tears shed, as his body was lowered to his last, long, narrow home—the house appointed for all living! When his remains had been covered from the sight of all, and the "Last Dirge" had been chanted, several Indian maidens brought and strewed flowers over the damp earth, and then repeating, "Sleep in peace, beloved!" each of the tribe took a solemn leave of the spot, and slowly and sadly retraced their steps to the village. An hour or two later, Prairie Flower sought me out and said: "I suppose, my friend, you are anxious to be on your way?" "At your earliest convenience," I replied. "I do not wish to detain you," she rejoined; "but if you can delay another day, it will greatly oblige me, as I have much to attend to ere I depart." "A day, either way, will make but little difference," said I; "and moreover, we could not expect you to leave sooner, after what has occurred." "Thank you," she replied. "I will hasten all my arrangements, and at sunrise to-morrow will be yours to command;" and she left me to begin her preparations. In the course of the day, Prairie Flower informed the tribe what had transpired relative to herself, and also her present design. The younger members, who had always looked upon her as one of themselves, were much surprised, and all were very sad at the thought of parting with one so dear to them. They could not but admit, under the circumstances, it was her duty to go; but they made her promise, in case events should turn up inducing her to withdraw from them altogether, she would at least pay them one more visit, ere she said the final farewell. She then made choice of three young men and two maidens to be her companions, and selected five noble steeds for them to ride, reserving the little pony to herself. At daylight on the following morning the whole village was astir; and having broken our fast, the horses were caught and saddled, and ere the sun was half an hour above the hills, all were in readiness to start. The parting scene between Prairie Flower and her friends was very affecting. She embraced all of her own sex—kissed the children over and over again—shook the young men and aged by the hand—and amid tears at losing her, and earnest prayers for her safety and happiness, sprang on her pony and dashed away, too much affected to witness the separation between those who remained and those selected to accompany her. The latter now took leave one by one; and though much feeling was displayed on both sides, yet it was very different from the farewell of Prairie Flower. "My friends," said Huntly, when it came our turn to depart, "for your kindness to me, I feel very, very grateful—but at present, the only return in my power to make is thanks. Should I ever have an opportunity to do more, you shall find that your labors in my behalf have not been unworthily bestowed. Farewell. If we meet not again on earth, I trust we may in a better state." Each of our party next proceeded to shake hands with each of the tribe ; and as soon as this was over, we sprang upon our horses, and, dashing away, soon joined those in advance. I must now pass rapidly over our journey, as but little occurred on the way of interest to the general reader. Our provisions were supplied by our trusty rifles— we sometimes killing a bear, a deer, and once or twice a buffalo. Entering the beautiful South Park—a kind of second Eden—we pushed forward, and on the second day reached the head waters of the South Fork of Platte, down which stream we continued to St. Vrain's Fort, where we all arrived without accident. Here I took leave of Pierre and Black George, paying them liberally for their assistance, and pursued our journey toward the Black Hills, to the very spot where I had first been introduced to the Mysterious Tribe, and where, as I learned from Prairie Flower, they intended making their winter quarters. On our way thither, Prairie Flower threw off much of that reserve which she had hitherto exercised toward Huntly; and not unfrequently they rode on together for miles, engaged in earnest conversation. The effect of this upon my friend was very gratifying to me; it seemed to divert his thoughts from more painful subjects; and I saw with pleasure that his pale, careworn features gradually resumed their wonted appearance, and his eye, especially, its former luster. Still he was sad at times—very sad—and then I knew his thoughts were dwelling upon the loss of his father, and the afflictions of his mother and sister. He was naturally but little given to despondency; and when in company with myself or another, ever strove to be cheerful, that he might not cause us the pain of sympathy. Sometimes I held long, private conversations with Prairie Flower; and then she would ask me over and over again about her supposed sister and mother--whether I thought they would be glad to own her-- and more than once made me recount what little I knew of their history. This was a theme of which she seemed never to tire, and oftentimes would be affected to tears. Then she would tell me how she had mused over herself, and wondered who she was—whether she had a mother living— and if so, whether that mother ever thought of her. Sometimes she had fancied herself ignobly born — that she had been cast off in infancy — and then she had gone away by herself and wept bitter tears, and had prayed ardently that she might be resigned to her fate. She loved the Indians — among whom, at an early age, her lot had been cast — to her they were as brothers and sisters; but still the knowledge that she was not of their race— a secret yearning for the fond look and tender tone of a mother—had troubled her sorely; and nothing but the consolation of religion, and the hope of at least meeting her relatives in a better world, had supported her through her lonely trials. Until I heard this from the lips of Prairie Flower, I had no idea such was the case, and had believed her contented and happy in the position where Providence had placed her, as had all who knew her. But they, as well as I, had overlooked, that where mystery clouds the birth of an individual, the thought of this to a sensitive, intelligent mind—his or her speculations upon it—the want of, the yearning for, more knowledge—must at times render such, no matter what the outward seeming, very unhappy. It was this very thing, perhaps, which had made Prairie Flower so distant toward my friend, whom she loved, as I knew, with a passion pure and holy. She had thought herself unfit to be his companion, and had nobly struggled to undo what nature had done — and oh! what a hopeless and painful struggle it had been! — what an iron resolution it had required to carry it out! — and how many sleepless nights and miserable days it must have cost her! At last we reached the village, whereto, some three years before, I had been borne from the field of battle in an unconscious state. What singular associations the sight of it revived! and how mournful its present aspect! It was deserted, and silent; and though most of its rude tenements were still standing, yet their half dilapidated appearance, and the general air of long desertion and decay everywhere visible, brought to mind Goldsmith's unrivaled and beautiful poem of the "Deserted Village." We rode through the little town in silence, noting each thing as we passed—and when we had got beyond it, Prairie Flower turned, gazed back, sighed deeply, wiped a
few tears from her eyes, and then urged her little pony forward at a rapid pace. A ride of half a mile brought us to a huge old tree, with a hollow trunk, when Prairie Flower came to a halt and said: "My friends, this is the spot designated by Great Medicine, as the one where I should find a treasure to me more valuable than a mine of gold. Beneath that stone lies all or nothing. Oh! how I tremble, lest it prove the latter. Heaven grant I find what I seek!" "Amen to that!" responded I; and the whole party dismounted. Leading the way, Prairie Flower passed the tree a few feet, and rested her delicate foot upon a stone of singular appearance. "Here!" she almost gasped, while her features grew deadly pale with excitement, and her frame shook nervously: "Here!" and she pointed down with her finger, but could say no more. Forming a circle around the stone, we all gazed upon it a moment in silence, and then addressing Huntly: "Come, my friend," I said, "let us raise it." Stooping down, we applied all our strength to it in vain. "It seems bedded in the earth by nature," said Huntly. "Oh, no! say not that!" cried Prairie Flower in alarm. "Say not that, I beg of you! This is the spot described to me by the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains. I have thought of it by day—dreamed of it by night. I here have rested hopes of which you little think. Hopes, whose realization may render me the most happy, as disappointment would the most miserable being on earth. If I have made a mistake, it is a fatal one. A mistake— But no! no! it must not—must not be! Help, here, some of you!" she added, addressing the others. "Be quick! and do not keep me in this torturing suspense!" She spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently, and her manner was very wild. As she concluded, she clasped her hands and gazed down upon the rock with a look I shall never forget. It was the agonized concentration of hope and fear. As if, in truth, she feared herself about to lose the only friend she had on earth. Instantly Teddy and one of the Indians laid hold with us, and our united efforts moved the stone from its foundation. All pressed forward, and eagerly gazed into the aperture. Nothing was there, apparently, but smooth, solid earth. For a moment, Prairie Flower stood stupefied with amazement and despair. Then burying her face in her hands, she sank down upon the earth, without uttering a syllable. "Do not despair!" cried I; and bending down, I felt the earth with my hand. It was soft, as if it had once been removed. I hastily dug down a few inches, and my hand touched a solid substance. Brushing away the dirt rapidly, I discovered to my unspeakable delight, a small wooden box. "'Tis here!" shouted I, "'tis here!" and the next moment I had torn it from the ground, and stood triumphantly holding it aloft. My words roused Prairie Flower, who started to her feet with a scream, caught the box from my hand, pressed it eagerly to her lips and heart, and then paced to and fro, in an indescribable delirium of delight. At length she became more calm, and turning to the rest of us, who stood looking on in silence, she said, in one of her sweetest tones: "My friends, you must excuse me!— but oh! you know not, cannot know, my feelings for the last five minutes." "We can at least imagine them," returned I; "and certainly there is no apology needed. We are only too happy in discovering the treasure." "Ay, treasure indeed!" she exclaimed, holding the box from her, and gazing upon it with a singular expression. "Ha!" she added, "here is something written on the outside;" and examining it a moment, she added: "It is the language of the Mysterious Tribe, and translated, reads, 'Seek lower!"' "That implies something still below," observed Huntly; and stooping down, he thrust his hand into the loose earth, and presently drew forth a lump of pure gold, weighing some three or four pounds. Great was our astonishment on beholding this; but it was increased the next moment by my friend bringing up two more of nearly equal size and value. These lumps had no particular shape, and had the appearance of being broken off from a larger substance. "This is strange!" remarked Prairie Flower, as we all stood examining them; "and where could Great Medicine have procured them? There is no gold in these mountains, that I am aware of—and yet this seems fresh taken from a mine. And, by-the-way, this reminds me that Great Medicine was always well supplied with gold, though where it came from was always a mystery to the rest of the tribe. And see!" she added, giving one of the pieces a close scrutiny: "See! here is my Indian name, Leni Leoti, scratched upon it with some sharp instrument." "And on this," said Huntly, holding up another. "And on this," repeated I, turning over the third. "They were intended for you, Prairie Flower," observed Huntly, addressing her; "and together form no mean gift." "He was always kind to me, and I loved him," rejoined Prairie Flower, artlessly, her eyes filling with tears. "But where could so much gold, in this rough state, have been obtained?" asked Huntly, turning to me. A sudden thought flashed through my mind, and I turned to Prairie Flower. "Was Great Medicine ever much abroad?" "Never far from the tribe, since I first knew him," was her answer. "But the tribe has been roving?" "Yes, we have seldom spent a year at a time in one place." "Were you ever in California?" "One season we quartered on a beau tiful oasis in the Great Desert, as we termed it." "Ha! then there is some grounds for my conjecture;" and taking Huntly aside, I recalled to his mind the shiny sand we had there gathered, and added: "I think we were right in our surmises of its being gold!" "True," he answered, with a start; "I remember now, though I had completely forgotten the circumstance." "And so had I, till this revived it." "Have you any of that sand with you, Frank?" "I have not. Our subsequent perils drove the matter from my mind; and if any remained on my person when we arrived at Sutter's, it was thrown away with the tattered garments that contained it." "Well, let it go!" rejoined Huntly, musingly; "let it go! There is gold there, without doubt — and some day it will doubtless be the means of great speculation." "This being the case, my friend, suppose we make another tour, and ascertain for a certainty? If true, our fortune is made." Huntly looked at me seriously for a moment, with a very peculiar expression of countenance, and then rejoined, in a decisive tone: "No, Frank! not even a mine of gold would tempt me to encounter the perils of such a journey again. Suppose I prove successful and make a fortune — what then? What is wealth, after all, that man should make himself a slave? 'Tis here— 'tis there —'tis gone. Look at my lamented father, for example! One day he could count his thousands — the next he was a beggar; and the grave soon followed to cover a broken heart. Fortune is not happiness — therefore I'll pay no court to the truant jade. Let those have wealth who crave it; let them worship the golden Mammon; for myself, let me be happy with little, and I ask no more. But, come! I see Prairie Flower and the rest are waiting us, and we must be on the move." Joining the others, we made further search, but finding nothing new, we all mounted our horses and set forward — Prairie Flower in better spirits than I had ever seen her. Though in possession of the box supposed to contain all she desired, yet she absolutely refused to open it, lest she might be tempted to an examination of its contents, and thus break her promise to the dying old man. Summer had already passed, and the mortal stroke of old Autumn was even now beginning to be felt on the mountains. The trees, which had waved their green leaves as an accompaniment to the music of the forest choir, were already changing color, as if in dread of the steady, onward strides of their annual, but ever-conquering foe. The first process of decay had begun— but so beautiful, that one as he gazed upon it, though it awakened a solemn, almost melancholy train of thought, could hardly wish it otherwise. As we ascended the mountains higher and more high, the scene below us became enchanting in its variety. Far, far away, for miles upon miles, the eye roved over hill and plain, while the soul, as it were, drank in the very essence of nature's beauty. The atmosphere was cool and clear, and the sun brilliant, but not warm. In every direction there was something new for the eye to rest upon — something new for the mind to ponder. I beheld distant mountains rising to the very skies — isolated, glistening and cold in their lonely grandeur— as one who has ventured to the topmost round of Ambition's ladder, and scorns in his elevation all meaner objects grovelling in the dust below. I beheld lovely valleys, as yet untouched by the destroyer, still bright in their summer garments, through which purled silvery streams — the former doomed ere lo
ng to put on the withered shreds of mourning, and the latter to cease their murmurs in the icy fetters of the advancing Winter-King. In short, I beheld hills, and dales, and forests, and rolling prairies, and rivers, and rivulets -- all spread before me in picturesque succession — and all more or less variegated with the many-hued mantle of autumn. The scene was enchanting; and, as Prairie Flower, who with my friend had also been silently surveying it, observed with a sigh: "Most melancholy beautiful." But lovely as was the view, I had but little time for contemplation; for the long journey before us, and the lateness of the season, required us to hasten forward, that we might pass the mountains before the snowstorms and ice of winter should completely bar our way. We had yet some thirteen hundred miles to travel, and, with everything favorable, could not hope to reach our destination in less than five or six weeks. Fortunately our animals were in good order -- lightly laden — with no troublesome vehicles creaking and rumbling after, to delay us with bad roads and breaking accidents. Leaving Laramie Peak to our right, we struck across the Laramie Plains to the Sweet Water Mountains, and thence descended to the great Oregon trail, crossing the Rocky Mountains at the well-known South Pass. For the rest of the distance, our road was to some extent a traveled one, and our progress, with some little delays very rapid. As nothing of unusual interest occurred on the route, I shall pass it over without a record. On the evening of the first day of November, 1843, we came in sight of the lights of Oregon City, which we hailed with three deafening cheers.