A Fortune Hunter; Or, The Old Stone Corral: A Tale of the Santa Fe Trail

by John Dunloe Carteret

  Chapter I.

  The sinking sun threw its amber beams over the wide valley, rollinghills, and the dim buttes, wreathed in the blue haze of distance andlooming with vague outlines in the wavering shimmer of the eveningmirage.

  A silvery stream, half hidden by fringing trees, wound through theprairie valley, but was lost to sight where a lofty butte shoulderedboldly down from the highland on the south, as if to catch a view of theEden-like landscape that dreamed below, while far away to the north aline of galloping hills bounded the vision, their mantles of tendergreen dappled by the shadow and sunshine of the fleecy clouds thatfloated overhead. On the south the level prairie melted away into thelimitless distance, clothed in the tender grasses and flowers of earlyspring-time, while on every hand stretched away the horizon-boundprairies of the Western plains.

  A wide meadow-land, made perfect by the hand of nature, but lacking thatsoul and animation which human occupancy alone can impart to any scene.No homes are visible; nothing but the blank page of nature, waiting tobe written over with the histories of the people, which, somethingwhispers to me, will soon invade this peaceful scene, over which nowbroods the unnatural calm of utter solitude.

  Out beyond that blue line of hills, which flame up in the east, israging the fierce conflict which we call civilization; but the shock anddin, the roar and turmoil of the mighty battle die fitfully away longbefore reaching the quivering line of that dim horizon. I stand aloneupon the crest of a breeze-kissed hill, listening to the moan andwhisper of the wind sighing through the grasses at my feet, or the notesof a meadow lark, thrilling and sweet, as it flits by.

  To the westward, on a lofty knoll, are visible the broken arches andruined walls of the Old Stone Corral; rank vines now veil the loop-holeswhere once had flashed forth the leaden death-messenger for many asavage warrior that had tried to storm the impregnable inclosure, whichhad been built as a place of refuge for travelers on the Santa Fe Trail,that here crossed the Cottonwood on a stony ford. A giant elm, centuriesold, stood amid the ruins, its drooping boughs of feathery spray weepinglike a fountain of verdure over the spring that welled out from amongits roots, then went gurgling away, a purling brook, to join the narrowstream in the valley.

  The river here at the ruins had nearly encircled the hill on which theystood, and after half embracing the knoll in its timber-fringed coursehad wound away down the valley, but where the groves grew in masses ofdarkest green, there the stream had widened to miniature lakelets thatflashed like silver in the slanting sunbeams.

  On a low mound near by I see a great stone, like a rude monument, anddrawing near I can barely decipher this dim and weather-worninscription, carved on the red sandstone:

  Erected to the Memory OF FIFTY-THREE VICTIMS OF THE CHEYENNES, AUGUST 22, 1849. NAMES ALL UNKNOWN.

  Here is a dim, dark tragedy, buried within this grassy knoll, but withinthese pages all the mystery which haunts the flower-bespangled hillockwill be cleared away. A difficult task indeed; but without those gravesmy story would never have been written.

  I stand silent and thoughtful, gazing out over the tranquil landscape,which had once witnessed a scene of revolting horror here on this quietspot; but all is peaceful now, the only sign of life visible being thelong file of antelope that hurry by from the north. Halting on a loftyheadland, they pause a moment, stretching their graceful necks to gazeback along their pathway, then with loud snorts wheeling and swiftlyfleeing away.

  At this moment the distant sound of hoofs was heard, becomingmomentarily louder; then a group of riders dash up on their sleek,superb horses, and draw rein at the rude monument.

  "It must be here, Clifford, at this low mound," said one of the riders,a graceful girl of seventeen, with nut-brown hair and blue eyes.

  "Yes, Maud, I recognize the knoll from father's and Uncle Roger'sdescription. It was uncle who carved this inscription upon the stone,little dreaming then that we should all come here a quarter of a centurylater to secure a new home," replied a youth of near twenty years;handsome, golden-haired, and symmetrical, with eyes of pansy blue, and alook of pride and good birth about him which showed plain through thedust and tan of a long journey.

  "Ah, dear Bruce and Ivarene! how sad to end their romance with such atragedy!" said Maud tearfully, as Clifford dismounted; then, as hehelped her to alight, they stood for a moment in mute sorrow whiledeciphering the inscription upon the stone.

  "Maud, it is hard to believe that the heiress of grand old Monteluma,with her millions of gold and gems at command, who wedded noble Bruce inthe great cathedral before the dignitaries and ambassadors of halfChristendom with a pomp and splendor new to even luxury-steeped Mexico,is sleeping with her husband in the silence of this lonesome grave,"Clifford said in a tone of deep sadness.

  "Oh! how vivid the picture returns, of the silken and lace-robedheiress, who threw back the gilded lattice of her window, and withpearls glinting, and rubies burning in her raven hair, smiled as herhandsome lover, in his uniform of gray and gold lace, swung himself upto her window by the passion-vines and fuchsias, that rained a shower ofpurple, white, and rose on his sunny hair. I can almost see thelove-look in his blue eyes yet," said Maud with a flood of tears, as sheleaned against the rude monument and covered her face with her hands.

  "I have sometimes fancied that they escaped; for there was no one leftbut father to inquire, and you know how long he was covered with thestones of that old wall, remaining delirious for months after UncleRoger found him," said Clifford, "and that million of their gold andgems, with father's store of gold, I have often fancied, Maud, washidden near here; for there has never been a search made since theterrible massacre."

  "That looks so improbable, Clifford. If the savages murdered them forplunder, as they certainly did, then it is idle to think that they wouldhave left anything of value behind. Even the jewels would have beenfought for, as savages are very fond of glitter and splendor," Maudreplied.

  "Yes, that very disposition of theirs to wrangle over their booty hasgiven me a hope that the leader might have buried the gold, for thereason that it would have been impossible to carry away a ton of coinwithout first dividing it. I shall make the search at any rate, thoughit does look like a forlorn hope," he added with a sigh.

  "Miss Warlow, there seems to have been a great tragedy enacted here inthe past," said a young man of near Clifford's age, who had beensilently regarding them from a distance, in company with aflaxen-haired girl, younger than Maud, who still sat upon her horse byhis side.

  "Yes, Mr. Moreland, and it nearly concerns us; for our father, here onthis spot, once lost a great fortune, and at the same time those twofriends of whom we have been speaking. This all was long before Cliffordand I were born; but father has told us so often of the tragedy that thenames of Bruce and Ivarene Walraven are dear and sacred to us all," Maudreplied.

  "Oh, Ralph! I wonder if Colonel Warlow would tell us the particulars ofthat terrible affair?" said the younger girl.

  "It would be doubly interesting here upon the closing scene of thetragedy," the young man replied.

  "Will you ask your father, Maud, to tell us to-night?" the young girlinquired eagerly.

  "Yes, Grace: it will help to while away our first Sabbath here, whichwill be a lonesome day to-morrow," Maud made answer as they remountedand rode down to the stream to water their horses.

  "What a lovely camp-ground!" exclaimed Grace. "Shall we not stop here,Ralph?"

  "Yes, sister, if the others are willing. It is not only a fine campingground, but it is more: This is a grand home-land, or will be when weselect our 'claims,' Monday. I never before have seen a more beautifulor fertile valley than this."

  Soon a long line of white covered wagons and a comfortable carriageappeared, coming down the Santa Fe trail, which wound its travel-worncourse over the hills from the north-east; and where solitude hadreigned but an hour before there now re-echoed the sounds of a busycamp, and ruddy fires leaped and spar
kled, about which female formsflitted to and fro, preparing their evening meal. But while all wasbustle and animation within the camp, a solitary figure could be seenstanding at the long grave, bowed in an attitude of silent grief.

  As he walked slowly back within the glare of the camp-fire, it wasapparent that he was a man past middle life, of grave and dignifiedappearance; the lines of care, on his still handsome face, were deepenedas if by grief as he seated himself by a tree, away from the glare ofthe light.

  As he sat thus--lost in reverie--Maud came softly by, and, passing herhand over his hair in a caressing way, said:--

  "What a lovely country this is! I am charmed with it already."

  "Yes, Maud, my daughter, it is a fertile and picturesque region; but itwill be hard to inure myself to living on this spot, for it is hauntedby very bitter memories."

  "Oh, it is sad, indeed, to think of the fate of Bruce and his gracefulbride; but we will deck their grave with flowers, and I shall nevercease to grieve for them," she said, dropping a kiss on her father'scheek, then hurrying away to the camp-fire.

  He was roused from his gloomy reverie, a few minutes later, by his wife,who came to his side, and, as her hand rested fondly on his shoulder,she said, in a sweet voice of womanly sympathy, in which could betraced a sub-tone of strength and resolution:--

  "George, dear, this is no time for repining; instead we should feelhappy and grateful that we have found such a delightful country as thisin which to select our future home. Oh, this valley is more beautifulthan even my wildest dreams had ever pictured. I had felt apprehensive,husband, that your impressions of this place had been colored by youryouthful enthusiasm of twenty, and own that I had made ample allowancefor the quarter of a century which has passed since then; but it iscertainly the most charming spot I have ever beheld."

  "My dear, brave wife," he replied joyfully, "you lift a heavy burdenfrom my heart; we will select a home near here early Monday morning, andbegin building at once. I shall leave the selection with you, Mary,however."

  "Oh, we are too late," she replied, with a cheerful smile. "Robbie hasfound the spot already; he has just returned from down the valley, whereScott Moreland and himself had driven the stock, and they report havingfound a perfect paradise. They are both boiling over with enthusiasm,and are bareheaded, having left their hats hanging on trees to mark thelocation of their respective 'claims,' and when I left the camp-firethey were inveighing against the injustice of a law that would notpermit fifteen-year-old boys to take a 'homestead.'"

  In a more cheerful mood the couple now sought the camp-fire, which wassurrounded by more than a dozen persons of both sexes, all animated andhappy over the termination of their long and toilsome journey.

  The two who have just entered the circle are Colonel Warlow and hiswife, while the handsome youth of fifteen, with hazel eyes and auburnhair, which has a faint tinge of red, that accounts for the reputationhe has earned within the Warlow circle, is Robbie, their youngest; whilethat golden-haired young Adonis, who, in a fit of grave abstraction,sits leaning against a tree, his white and tapering hands clasped abouthis knee, the firelight glimmering over a small and well-shaped bootresting on the round of his chair, is their oldest son, Clifford, whomwe have met before; while Maud, their only daughter, is easilyrecognized as she flits about, busy and graceful.

  Next we see the family of Squire Moreland, from the valley of theMerrimac--the squire himself being a representative Puritan, plain andgrave; his wife, a type of the live and thorough-going New Englandwoman, deeply imbued with the "thingness of is," able to discuss applesor algebra, beans or baptism, or in fact any subject down to zymology.Then Ralph, principally to be recommended for being "general goodfellow." Next in their family is Scott, quiet and grave, addressed byRob Warlow as the "Young Squire;" and their only daughter, Grace, inwhose make-up there is more than a faint spice of the tomboy.

  Colonel Warlow's family had left their old Missouri home, the tobaccoand hemp plantation on which the children had all been born, and,having met the Morelands on their rout, bound for that indefiniteregion "out West," they had journeyed on together to this spot,attracted by Colonel Warlow's remembrance of its great beauty andnatural fertility, which had deeply impressed him when he was here aquarter of a century before.

  Learning, at Council Grove, that the valley was open to homestead entry,they had hastened on, miles ahead of other settlements, to locate hereon a spot that was beyond the utmost limit of civilization.

  Soon the hungry travelers were seated at the cloth that was spread onthe downy buffalo-grass, and were partaking of the broiled quail andantelope steak, the appetizing odors of which now pervaded the wholecamp; but as the company ranged themselves about the tempting repast,Maud and Grace retired to a seat by the fire, declaring as they did so,that they would not sacrifice their precious lives by sitting at a tablewith thirteen other sinners.

  "Give us a song, then," cried some one from the table, at which Gracesprang up and brought Maud's guitar from the carriage, and soon thesweet strains,

  "Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chains have bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me,"

  re-echoed through the tranquil valley. As Maud's tender soprano mingledwith the luscious alto of Grace's voice the listeners almost forgot thetempting feast spread before them, and cries of "Bravo!" "Encore!"etc., greeted the close of the pathetic song, which was wholly lost, asto its sentiment, upon the younger members of the company.

  "Pass the hat," cried Bob, whereupon Grace handed her sunshade aroundamong the laughing group, but after inspecting the collection, she saidwith an air of contempt:--

  "A wish-bone and five bread-crusts! Why, a _prima donna_ would starve onsuch a meagre salary. I've a notion to play Herodias's daughter anddance off your heads;" and when Maud struck up a lively fandango, sheshook her curls in a threatening manner, and then whirled off into anamazing waltz.

  Jeers and hoots from the boys resounded at her last _pas seul_, andClifford's voice was heard in the gay tumult saying: "Mademoiselle disGrace must have learned her step at an Irish wake."

  "Let us no longer serve an ungrateful public," said Maud, as they satdown to the table, where their gayety chased away all traces of care orsorrow. When the meal was finished, Maud and Grace begged Colonel Warlowto relate his early history. Their request was eagerly seconded by theother members of the company, who were anxious to learn the particularsof that tragedy, hinted at by the inscription on the mound, and how hecame to be connected with the actors in that terrible drama, and to losea great fortune on that spot so long ago. Then the colonel, aftersitting for a few moments wrapped in serious thought, replied that itwas a long story, and would require more than one evening to relate allthe particulars of that great tragedy, that would always be fresh in hismemory as long as life endured.

  The company reminded him that it would be rather lonesome on their firstSabbath, and entreated him so eagerly that at length he consented; then,as the firelight leaped and sparkled, and the beams of the rising moonsilvered the waters of the stream, moaning and fretting over the stonyford, they all gathered about the colonel, still and expectant. Thequavering scream of a lone wolf died out on the hills in a plaintivewail; then only the faint whisper of the wind sighing though the willowwas heard, and the colonel said:--