The Wild Huntress Part 21

for, I'll be boun'."

It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground.

On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal's throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!

"He's killed the crittur!" musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; "jest like what he'd do! He might a left the old thing to some o' his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn't a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan't partickler friendly wi' any o' us, an' least o' all wi' myself--tho' I niver knew the adzact reezun o't, 'ceptin'

that I beat him once shootin', at a _barbecue_. He war mighty proud a'

his shootin', an' that riled him, I reck'n: he's been ugly wi' me iver since."

I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying--my attention being occupied with a process of a.n.a.lytical reasoning. In the dead horse, I had found a key to the time of Holt's departure. The ground for some distance around where the carca.s.s lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. Thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating "pool," had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards-- the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeb.a.l.l.s of the animal. All these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. At the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning.

"How long think you since he was killed?" I asked, pointing to the dead horse. "Ha! ye're right, stranger!" said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. "I war slack not to think o' that. We kin easy find out, I reck'n."

The hunter bent down over the carca.s.s, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. In this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. Only for a few seconds did he remain in this att.i.tude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect:

"Good, by thunder! The old horse hain't been dead 'bove a kupple o'

hours. Look thar, stranger! the blood ain't froze? I kin a'most fancy thar's heat in his old karkiss yet!"

"You are sure he has been killed this morning?"

"Quite sure o't; an' at most three, or may be four hour agone. See thar!" he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; "limber as a eel! Ef he'd a been dead last night, the leg'd been stiff long afore this."

"Quite true," replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning.

This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. It told the _day_. The hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. Holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. As far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing.

Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. There was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt's career in his clearing upon Mud Creek. Only one doubt remained. Was it he who had killed the animal? I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee-- but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the act.

"No, no!" replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: "'twar Holt hisself, sartin. He culdn't take the old hoss along wi' him, an' he didn't want anybody else to git him. Besides, the girl hedn't no reezun to a did it. She'd a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp--seein' he war left behind wi' n.o.body to own him.

Tho' he wan't worth more'n what the skin 'ud fetch, he'd adone for them ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin' thar traps an' things. No, 'twan't her, nor anybody else 'ceptin' Holt hisself--he did it?"

"If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. They cannot have more than four hours the start. You say the creek has a winding course?"

"Crooked as a c.o.o.n's hind leg."

"And the Obion?"

"Most part the same. It curls through the bottom like the tail o' a cur-dog; an' nigher the Ma.s.sissippy, it don't move faster than a snail 'ud crawl. I reck'n the run o' the river 'll not help 'em much. The'll hev a good spell o' paddlin' afore they git down to Ma.s.sissippy; an' I hope that durned Mormon 'll blister his ugly claws at it!"

"With all my heart!" I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the Obion.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

A LOOKOUT FROM ALOFT.

It cost us a fatiguing ride of nearly twelve hours' duration--most of it along by-roads and bridle-paths--at intervals pa.s.sing through tracts of swampy soil, where our horses sank to the saddle-girths in mud. We rode continuously: stopping only once to recruit our horses at one of the "stands," or isolated log hostelries--which are found upon the old "traces" connecting the spa.r.s.e settlements of the backwoods. It was the only one we saw upon our route; and at it we remained no longer than was absolutely necessary to rest our wearied steeds, and put them in a condition for the completion of the journey. We knew the necessity of haste. Our only hope lay in being able to reach the mouth of the Obion before the canoe could pa.s.s out of it. Otherwise, our journey would be in vain; and we should not only have our long ride for nothing, but would be under the necessity of doubling the distance by riding back again.

Along the route we found time to discuss the circ.u.mstances--both those in our favour and against us. The water-way taken by the canoe was far from being direct. Both the creek and the larger stream curved repeatedly in their courses; and in ordinary times were of sluggish current. The freshet, however, produced by the late rain-storm, had rendered it swifter than common; and we knew that the canoe would be carried down with considerable rapidity--faster than we were travelling on horseback. On such roads, for so great a distance, fast travelling was impossible; and could only have been accomplished at the risk of killing our horses. Mounted as I was, I might have made more of the time; but I was under the necessity of slackening pace for my companion--whose sorry steed constantly required waiting for. Our sole chance lay in our route being shorter, and in the circ.u.mstance that the fugitives had not a very long start of us; but for all this the issue was exceedingly doubtful; and by the nicest calculations, we were satisfied we should have but little margin to spare.

I need hardly point out the importance of our arriving in time. Should the canoe get beyond the mouth of the Obion--without our seeing it--we should be left undetermined as to whether they had gone _up_ the Mississippi or _down_; and therefore altogether without a guide as to our future movements. In fact, we should be unable to proceed further in the pursuit. So far as the mouth of the Obion, their route was fixed; and of course ours was also determined. But beyond, it would be on our part mere blind guessing; and, should evil chance conduct us in the wrong direction, the result would be ruin to our prospects. On the other hand, could we but arrive in time--if only to see the canoe entering the great river--and note which turning it took--our purpose would be accomplished. That is, our _present_ purpose; for beyond that of ascertaining their route of travel across the plains, and their point of destination, I had formed no plans. To follow them wherever they might go--even to the distant sh.o.r.es of the Pacific--to seek them wherever they might settle--to settle beside them--beside _her_--these were the ideas I had as yet but vaguely conceived. All ulterior designs were contingent on the carrying out of these, and still shrouded under the clouded drapery of the ambiguous future.

The purposes of my travelling companion differed slightly from mine, and were, perhaps, a little more definite. His leading idea was a settlement of old scores with Stebbins, for wrongs done to him--which he now more particularly detailed to me. They were sufficiently provocative of revenge; and, from the manner of my comrade, and the vows he occasionally uttered, I could perceive that he would be as eager in the pursuit as myself. In all probability, an encounter with the migrating party would bring about an important change in their programme: since the young hunter was determined, as he expressed himself, "to force the durned skunk into a fight."

Inspired by such motives, we pressed on to the end of our journey; and reached the mouth of the Obion, after a long and wearisome ride. It was midnight when we arrived upon the sh.o.r.e of the Mississippi--at its point of confluence with the Tennessean stream. The land upon which we stood was scarcely elevated above the surface of the water; and covered, every foot of it, with a forest of the cotton-wood poplar, and other water-loving trees. These extending along the marshy borders of both streams, hindered us from having a view of their channels. To obtain this, it was necessary to climb one of the trees; and my comrade being disabled, the task devolved upon me. Dismounting, I chose one that appeared easiest of ascent; and, clambering up it as high as I could get, I fixed myself in a fork, and commenced duty as a vidette.

My position could not have been better chosen. It afforded me a full view, not only of the Obion's mouth, but also of the broad channel into which it emptied--at their confluence, forming an expanse of water that, but for its rolling current; might have been likened to a vast lake.

There was moonlight over the whole surface; and the erratic ripples were reflected in sparkling coruscations--scarcely to be distinguished from the gleaming of the "lightning bugs," that hovered in myriads along the hedges of the marsh. Both banks of the lesser stream were draped to the water's edge with an unbroken forest of cotton-woods--the tops of which exhibiting their characteristic softness of outline, were unstirred by the slightest breeze. Between rolled the brown waters of the Obion, in ruder, grander flow, and with channel extended by the freshet. Every inch of it, from side to side, was under my observation--so completely, that I could distinguish the smallest object that might have appeared upon its surface. Not even the tiniest waif could have escaped me--much less a canoe freighted with human beings; and containing that fairer form, that would be certain to secure the keenest and most eager glances of my eye.

I congratulated myself on reaching this perch. I perceived that a better post of observation could not have been chosen. It was complete for the purpose; and, if I could only have felt sure that we had arrived in time, all would have been satisfactory. Time alone would determine the point; and, turning my eyes up stream, I entered upon my earnest vigil.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE WHITE FOG.

Vain vigil it proved. I shall not tire the reader with details.

Suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning's dawn; and then, profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of observation, where we continued our surveillance--watching and sleeping in turn. Throughout the following day, and into the second, was our vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed finally to abandon it. But for one circ.u.mstance, we might have felt surprise at the result. We were both convinced that we had reached the river's mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could not possibly have "headed" us. But for the same circ.u.mstance, we might have believed, that they had not yet come down the Obion; and perhaps would have remained at our post a day longer.

The explanation is this: On the first night of our watch, a few hours after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both. It was the _white fog_--a well-known phenomenon of the Mississippi--that often extends its dangerous drapery over the bosom of the "Father of Waters:" a thing of dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream. On that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my position near the top of the tree I was entirely clear of its vapoury disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy c.u.muli floating gently over the surface--white and luminous under the silvery moonlight. The moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen as clearly as ever. The water-surface alone was hidden from my sight-- the very thing I was most anxious to observe. As if by some envious demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as the fog had fairly unfurled itself, I fancied I could hear the dipping of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream.

Moreover, gazing intently into the mist--as yet thin and filmy--I fancied I saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes of human forms outlined above it--just as of a canoe _en profile_ with pa.s.sengers in it. I even noted the number of the upright forms: three of them--which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were expecting. So certain was I at the moment, of seeing all this, that I need not have shouted to a.s.sure myself. Excited with over-eagerness, I did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer. My summons produced not the desired effect. On the contrary, it seemed to still the slight plashing I had heard; and, before the echoes of my voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight-- having pa.s.sed under thick ma.s.ses of the floating vapour. Over and over, I repeated my summons--each time changing the form of speech, and each time with like fruitless effect! The only answer I received was from the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree.

Whether the forms I had seen were real--or only apparitions conjured up by my excited brain--they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the very next moment, I inclined to the belief that my senses had been deceiving me!

From that time, my comrade and I were uncertain; and this, uncertainty will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and why we waited no longer for its coming. The most probable conjectures were that it had pa.s.sed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the Mississippi--no longer trusting to such a frail craft, but pa.s.sengers on one of the numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite directions, we had seen pa.s.sing the mouth of the Obion.

In all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of Tennessee; and we felt sufficiently a.s.sured of this. But the more important point remained undetermined--whether they had gone northward or southward--whether by the routes of the Missouri or those of the Arkansas? Upon this question we were as undecided as ever. At that season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring. I knew, moreover, that the Mormons had their own "trains," and ways of travelling; and that several new routes or "trails" had been discovered during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for Oregon and California, and by the Mormons themselves. This knowledge only complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision.

Thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further. Our only hope lay in returning to Swampville. And whence this hope? What was to be expected in Swampville? Who was there in that village of golden dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love? No one--no human being. The index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a letter! a.s.suredly, I had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet sweetly expressed: "If I thought you would like to know where we are gone, I would write to you;" and again: "If you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, _from the first place we come to_, to tell you where we are going." Oh! that I could have told her how much I "would like to know," and how freely she had my permission to write!

Alas! that was impossible. But the contingencies troubled me not much; I was full of hope that she would waive them. Communicating this hope to my companion, we rode back to Swampville: with the design of laying siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the promised epistle.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE PROMISED EPISTLE.

Under any circ.u.mstances, a return to Swampville would have been necessary: certain pecuniary requirements called me back to that interesting village. A journey, even across the desert, cannot be made without money; and the hundred dollars I had paid to Holt, with hotel and other incidental outlays, had left me with a very light purse. It would have taken three times as much as I was master of, to provide us with the scantiest equipment required for a prairie journey; and toward this the young hunter, willing to give his all, was able to contribute nothing. He would cheerfully have parted with his patrimony--as I with my purchase--for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the Californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and neither his clearing nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had the payment been required in cash. A credit sale could not have served us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our depreciated property--upon which not a single cent could be borrowed.

Never stood I in more need of my Nashville friend; and my appeal, already made, was promptly responded to--as I expected it would be. On the third day after my despatch, the answer arrived--with a handsome enclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if need be. We were now ready for the road. We waited only for that other letter, that was to be the index to our destination.

How we pa.s.sed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth describing. We enjoyed the hospitality of the Jackson hotel; and contrived to escape the _espieglerie_ of its husband-hunting denizens, by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest. During the whole time, we went not near our respective "plantations" on Mud Creek. Wingrove had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and I had no inclination to trust myself to its souvenirs. Moreover, the hours of the mail-rider were neither fixed nor regular; and on this account I avoided a prolonged absence from the post-office.

Six days of this expectancy I endured--six days of alternate hope and doubt--the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts! More than once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean--trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. On the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. The seventh proved the day of joy. Our doubts were dispelled.

The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of the expected epistle! My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. He must have observed my emotion-- though I did not open the letter in his presence. The superscription was enough to tell me from whom it came. I had studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognise it at a glance. I did not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. The post-mark, "_Van Buren, Arkansas_," sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were _en route_ for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal. The address was simply as before: "To Edward Warfield;" and so to the apostrophic commencement: "Stranger!" I could have wished for some less distant word--some familiar phrase of endearment, but I was contented--for I knew that Lilian's too recent love had lacked the opportunity of learning its language. Before it had time to achieve the employment of those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted.

Thus ran the letter:

"Stranger!--I hope you got my other letter, and that you were able to read it, for I had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better--only a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother's, and a leaf which father said you tore out of a book. But I think I could have wrote it better, only I was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and I wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the canoe. I thought no one would come to the house before you, and I hoped all the morning you might come before we were gone. I would have given a great deal to have been able to see you again; and I think father would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay longer, but hurried us away. But I hope you got the letter, and that you will not be offended at me for writing this one I send you, without your leave. I promised that if you would allow me, I would write from some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but I forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as you could not see me, nor yet know where to write it to me. I now know what country it is, for everybody we have seen is talking about it, and saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big as hickory nuts; and I hear the name a many a time, over and over again.

Father calls it 'Californey,' and some 'California,' and this, I suppose, is the right way of spelling it. It is near a great sea, or ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at Philadelphia and New York, but far greater and bigger than the Mississippi and the Obion, and all the rivers put together. It must be a very large sea to be bigger than the Mississippi! But I am sure you must know all about it, for I have heard them say you have travelled in these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and had been fighting there with the Mexicans. I am glad you were not killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been killed, I should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if I am never to see you again. O sir! I would write to you from that country when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then, and will not care to hear anything more about us.

"I shall never forget our dear Tennessee. I am very sorry at leaving it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold-- for what good can gold be to me? I should so like to hear sometimes from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the only one we knew is gone away like ourselves.