CHAPTER II.
THE STOLEN RING.
And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which, at night, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.—MRS. BROWNING.
How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound,
Ye take the whirlpool's fury, and its flight;
The mountains shudder as ye sweep the ground,
The valley woods lay prone beneath your might.—BRYANT.
THE spot on which the first emigrant train had pitched its camp was something similar to the river-bed where Nat and Elizabeth were screened from the bisons. A bank worn by the rush of spring freshets, partially sheltered them from the piercing night-wind, always high and sometimes disastrous, which rushed down over the Rocky Mountains, and rolled over the vast prairies with tremendous power. Here the stream was not yet exhausted by thirsty sands; a few straggling cottonwoods stood guard over the water, one of whose dead number furnished dry fuel for a cheerful fire, welcome both for its brilliant warmth and the facilities it afforded for hot coffee and biscuits, fried bacon and broiled buffalo-steaks.
The first comers had just finished their supper, attended to their cattle, and were about bestowing themselves for the night, when the arrival of the second train kept them up, out of curiosity to observe their fellow-travelers, and to offer them the out-door hospitality of the camp.
The cattle, who had scented water afar off, and were frantic to get to it, had first to be attended to. The corral formed by the first train was enlarged by the addition of the wagons of the second, the cattle driven within the ring thus formed; and while a portion of the party attended to this, the others were hastily preparing supper. Great as was their hunger, the appeals of sleep were almost more powerful; so that food and drink were speedily cooked and dispatched.
While Tim Wright attended to his team, his wife and niece were busy at a small fire, apart from the crowd, boiling coffee and browning bits of bacon, thrust on the points of sticks, so that the fat of the meat would drip upon the biscuits toasting underneath.
"Here's a bit of fresh meat, if you'd like it, ladies," said the voice of a stranger. "It's a piece of young antelope, and will broil in a few minutes over those coals."
They looked up to accept the gift and thank the donor. He was a man of rather over middle-age, thin, tall, with dark eyes and complexion—almost a foreign and Southern aspect—low-voiced, and so entirely different in his manners from the sturdy men with whom he was in company, as to attract the remark of both.
"'Bliged to you," said Mrs. Wright. "Perhaps we're robbing you?"
"Oh, no! Our party supped two hours ago, and we have abundance for breakfast. Allow me, Miss—this way," and in the most courtly manner, as if he were attending upon a lady whom it was an honor to serve, he took the two sharpened sticks upon which Elizabeth was endeavoring to fasten the meat, and arranging it for her, aided her in bracing it properly over the glowing coals. As they were doing this, the firelight flashed brightly over Elizabeth's hand, seeming to concentrate upon a ring which she wore, the central jewel of which burned as the living sun. As the stranger observed it, he started and muttered an exclamation under his breath, which caused the young girl to look up and meet the searching gaze of eyes so piercing that they fairly suspended her will. It was nothing new to her to have strangers notice the ring; she knew that it was a strange ornament for a girl in her station of life to be wearing. The neighbors had always admired it, and asked the worth of the "pretty stuns," and whether it was "real gold." All that she herself knew about it was, that when she had obtained her full growth, so that the ring would fit her finger, her aunt had one day taken it from a little box put carefully away in the locked upper drawer of the bureau, and given it to her, telling her it had been her mother's. She guessed it to be valuable, though she did not dream that the white and crimson stones so curiously set, and so fascinatingly bright, would buy a farm and build a house as good as her uncle aspired to. If she had known its intrinsic value, she could not have prized it more—it was the most precious of possessions, for it was the only link between her and the dead mother, of whom she knew and remembered so little, but whose memory she so passionately adored.
Again the stranger's eyes sunk from the young girl's face to the slender hand upon which the ring sparkled vividly. He had forgotten to rise from his half-kneeling posture, or to say any thing in excuse for his engrossed and absolute surprise.
Mrs. Wright's disturbance of mind consequent upon the tumbling over of the broiling steak, broke the spell which had so suddenly fell upon the other two; the stranger re-arranged the meat, and withdrew to the other side of the inclosure.
When the meal was ready, the children were aroused from their sleep in the wagon and given a share. Their pretty aunt was hardly as attentive to them as usual; her eyes kept wandering off into the darkness, as if they could pierce its mysteries.
The moon had descended beneath the horizon; the stars hung low and bright over the wind-swept plains—in the young girl's mind drifted thoughts of the handsome hunter who had that day saved her life. She wondered where he could be, solitary in the desert, with only that rising wind for company. She hoped he would find his horse, and follow on to camp; she would like so much to offer him a cup of hot coffee and a bit of fresh meat. It hardly seemed possible she should never see him again.
He did not arrive before they retired. Buckskin Joe came up to the family, as they were ready for the night's rest, to see if all was right—as head man of the train, he felt it his especial duty to watch over the females, particularly the pretty maiden.
"Been a-lookin' out for that yellow-ha'red chap, Miss? I see you, when you wur a pretendin' to eat. For my part, I'm glad he's staid behind; not that I don't like Nat Wolfe as a gineral thing, when he don't meddle with other folks' business. He mought a-known it was my business to look after the women-folks. I consider it a little uncalled for, his interferin' with them buffaloes, when I wur about."
"Haven't you got over that yet?"
"You can laugh if you like, Miss. I only hope my turn'll come next. Howsumever, I jist stepped up to say that you needn't consarn your little head 'bout Injuns. We're too strong for the cowardly thieves now; they won't ventur'. Jist you take the soundest kind of a sleep, so's to feel bright to-morrer."
"I shall sleep like a top, Joe, as long as you're on guard."
"You can jist do that very thing, Miss, as safe as a baby in a cradle. Well, good-night. The Lord bless and keep you, and presarve ye from the bite of a rattlesnake!"
This was Joe's favorite parting benediction, bestowed only on his friends—hardly an idle prayer, either, in that snake infested country.
That night in camp was one of safety and profound repose. No accident marred the deep sleep of the emigrants. Once during the night, at that approach to morning when slumber is most enthralling, Elizabeth stirred in her dreams, half starting from her sleep with a smothered cry. She was dreaming that a rattlesnake had stung her hand.
The first thing she noticed as she left the wagon in the morning, to bathe her face and hands in the stream, was that her ring was gone!
A cry of grief and surprise made the loss known to her aunt, whose consternation was almost equal to her own.
"It was ruther loose for you; may be it's slipped from your finger while you was to work, Lizzie!"
"No, aunt; I am sure I had it on when I went to sleep. I shut my hand on it as I always do. Somebody stole it from me in the night. It half aroused me, but not enough to realize what it was."
"Who could it be?"
"Who could it?"
Some instinctive feeling assured the young girl that the robber could be none other than the dark and courtly stranger who had scrutinized it so curiously the previous evening.
"I believe the person that took it was the one who gave us the meat, aunt."
"Sho, child! he didn't look like a thief. I never seen a prouder or a nicer-lookin' gentleman. He wasn't one of the common emigrants, by no means."
"I know he didn't look like a thief. He looked as if he'd sooner die than do a mean thing. But I can't help feeling as if it were he who took it."
"I'd sooner suspect some of them rough fellows that have had their eyes on it for days. And, after all, I don't believe nobody took it. You've just dropped it off—like as not into the fire. Let's take a good look."
They searched so long that they came near going without their breakfast, only desisting when they could no longer delay their preparations for a start. The two trains were to proceed forward together. The stranger did not offer any more civilities to the women, but Elizabeth saw him, more than once, with his dark eyes fixed upon her in intense watchfulness. She felt the impulse to go up to him and demand her property. Yet he looked so cold, so proud, so self-absorbed, so much as if the fiery flash of his anger and disdain would strike her with lightning, that she did not dare.
In the midst of her perplexities, Buckskin Joe came up. He listened to their story of the loss with silent interest, remaining lost in thought for some moments afterward, seeming to be turning some problem over in his mind.
"It's queer," he remarked, presently. "I don't know none of our chaps that I regards as mean enough to steal a woman's finery. It mought be somebody in the other train. I'll keep my eye out. Don't ye fret, Miss. If any feller in these two companies has got that ring, you'd better believe I'll track it. 'Twon't be long 'fore I'll be on the scent."
"Have you noticed that dark gentleman who brought us the antelope last night, Joe?"
"Noticed him? Yis; I noticed he wasn't one of the digging nor trapping kind. I reckon he is a-travelin' for his health. Some of them kind goes over the mountains now and then."
"I believe he has my ring."
"Snakes and painters!" ejaculated the guide; "I shouldn't have suspected him—at least, not at fust sight. Guess a wise feller wouldn't be in a hurry to tell him so to his face. But, if I've cause to believe that he has got it, you'd better trust me to get it out of him. That was a mighty purty ring, Miss—it was most as bright as your eyes; and if I get it back for you, I s'pose you'll be ready to disremember that when you got into danger yisterday Buckskin Joe wan't up to the scratch."
The half-deprecating, half-inquiring tone with which he made this last remark was ludicrous enough, and the maiden burst into a merry laugh in spite of her tribulation.
"Wal, wal, laughin' don't hurt; but it's sot in my mind that I'll have a chance to make that up 'fore long."
"I do believe you'd be willing something terrible should happen to me for the sake of showing your bravery, Joe."
"I'd be willing suthin' should be just a-goin' to happen, jist to show you how easy I could purvent it," he retorted. "But now the fust duty in hand is to get an airly start. Be you ready to move on, Wright?"
"Nigh about ready, Joe—only one of my cattle seems about gone up. I'm afraid I'll have to kill him and leave him behind. It's just my luck."
"It's hard on critters goin' without water so, and half starved too. There's a couple more used up this mornin'."
"We must take one more good look for that ring," said Mrs. Wright. "Here, you boys, your eyes are sharp; you look too. I feel dreadful about it."
"I make no doubt that little thing was worth nigh onto ten dollars," sighed her husband. "It oughter have been Lizzie's wedding-ring. It's just our luck."
The last search proved as unavailing as the first. Two or three tears dropped from Elizabeth's eyes, as the trains finally moved on, for she felt as if the chances for recovering the lost treasure were exceedingly small.
"I've l'arned all there is to l'arn about that dark-complexioned chap," resumed Buckskin Joe, later in the forenoon, as he dropped alongside Wright's wagon. "It's just as I thought about his travelin' for his health. His name is Carollyn—Leger Carollyn, he writes it—a sort of a furrin'-lookin' name like himself. He's troubled with the liver-complaint or some other of them woman's ailin's that gentlemen take to, who are too keerful of theirselves; and now he's tryin' the nateral way o' livin' in the hopes of a cure. Boiled buffalo is excellent for dyspepsy—so's cold baked beans eaten with a chip out of an old stew-pan—and I reckon the Rocky Mountains will scare him out of his liver-complaints. I've bin noticing him considerable this mornin', and it strikes me that he's got more on his mind than he has on his stomach, though he's saller enough to show that's out o' fix. Lord, Miss, I've never seen the feller yet that could make my h'ar stand on end—but I'm blasted if I'd like to tell him he's got your ring—that is, unless I was certain he had; in which case, in course, knives and pistols couldn't purvent my throwin' it up to him. I'm goin' to keep an eye on the company ginerally, and make no doubt I shall tree the thief if he's in these woods. Don't fret, Miss—for leastwise, if we don't rekiver that ring, we're goin' where gold is plenty, and you shall have another as purty."
"But it won't be that—that was my mother's, you know, Joe."
"Was it now? Thunder and lizards! then we won't give it up nohow," responded the little guide, looking fierce, and marching along faster, for he could not bear to see the tears which sprung into the girl's eyes—he'd often swore he'd rather face a catamount than a cryin' woman.
The long day's journey was only a repetition of previous days, except that it was unusually dull and void of adventure. The plain grew more arid; there was no longer grass enough to tempt the bison; and no living thing varied the monotony of the way, except the curious villages of prairie-dogs, living in their sand-huts, and poking their queer, inquisitive noses out, to squeak and twitter at the travelers, and make Elizabeth laugh at their oddity.
"Wal, now, it does me good to hear you laugh out right smart ag'in," said Mr. Wright, "just as you did before we begun this desperate trip. You look like our Lizzie now, and not the tired little girl that's given her uncle the heart-ache for the last few days. If you knowed how much handsomer you look when you're full of fun!"
And truly if her face was a beautiful one in its resigned, almost dull melancholy, it was absolutely brilliant with light and color when it flashed out in mirth.
"I don't see the use of looking handsome here," replied she, with one of those arch sparkles of laughter beneath the long lashes which were all the more bewitching for being rare. "I don't care about aunt and yourself falling in love with me, any more than you are already, and old Joe is devoted enough to satisfy a more exacting person than I am."
"Supposing Nat Wolfe should ride up with us," said Mrs. Wright.
"Well?" queried the young girl, bending the full blaze of her eyes on her aunt. Hers was one of those reserved and queenly natures that could not endure even the well-meaning raillery of others on matters about which maidens are reticent.
"Oh, don't look at me so, and I'll never mention him again," laughed Mrs. Wright; and yet, in despite of her coolness, Elizabeth could not control the deepening crimson in her own cheeks.
Many times, that day, her eyes had searched the plain, hoping to see Golden Arrow speeding through the distance, his steed bounding lightly and his yellow hair streaming on the wind, as she had seen him yesterday.
But when the weary afternoon had rolled to the east, and the company had camped, in the burning splendor of sunset, on the yellow desert, with only a half-hidden stream and a little line of stunted trees to make that spot more desirable than another, she still sat in the wagon, and looked through the molten air with a sad and searching look, in vain—Golden Arrow did not come.
While they were at supper, a party of vagabond Indians, some on mules and some on foot, came straggling about the camp, begging for hay for their mules and corn for themselves. The very sight of them took away Elizabeth's appetite: she sat, holding her little cousin, and feeding her, but she could not partake of the meal herself. Although assured that these dirty and miserable savages were neither able or disposed to do harm, that theft was the worst to be dreaded from them, she would not meet their snaky eyes for the world; she had an innate abhorrence of the race, such as most persons feel for serpents.
As she sat thus, inwardly shuddering, and looking at nothing but the child and the cup of biscuit and coffee she was holding for her, little Minnie cried out and hid her face in her bosom.
Elizabeth felt the shadow of some one between herself and the light, and raising her eyes met those of an Indian fixed intently upon her. He continued to gaze upon her, without speaking or asking for any thing she might have to bestow. He was tall and straight, but otherwise one of the most repulsive of the party, filthy beyond description and ragged in the few articles of tawdry finery he had contrived to obtain for his personal adornment. A bandage of cloth, originally white, passed across his upper lip and around his head; it was designed to conceal a wound which he had once received from an enemy in battle, and which his pride would never permit the eyes of his brothers to behold. Those silent, glittering eyes burned into the brain of the girl, so that she involuntarily closed her own, and when she overcame the feeling sufficient to again look up, the Indian was gone. She saw him mixing with others of his party, gesticulating, begging, eating the food given; but she drew a long breath of relief when the whole pack slunk off in the twilight, vanishing into the wide darkness of the plains.
The emigrants were not very well pleased with their present camping-ground; it was unprotected by any bluff, or even river-ledge, from the searching winds which were certain to blow at night, and which were all the more uncomfortable because of the heat and glare of the day. When this wind was high, it mocked the protection even of the covered wagons, whistling through every cranny, making the children shiver and the men wakeful, despite of blankets.
On this night, as if aware of the confusion it would cause to the adventurous intruders upon solitudes it had long held possession of as its own, it came along more wrathfully than they had thus far experienced it. By midnight it had roused itself into a hurricane. Accustomed to the wild, unbroken sweep of these mighty plains, it rushed on, holding its sublime revel as heedless of the little encampment as of a feather in its path. Elizabeth was wide awake, sitting up in the wagon listening to the awful music, trembling with fear and cold; Mrs. Wright was wide awake, too; and her husband was leaning over the sleeping children as if he could protect them from the threatening storm.
Suddenly, with a roar as of a thousand waterfalls, the wind strengthened and whirled by, scattering the encampment almost to destruction. Wagons were tilted over and lifted bodily, their coverings rent into shreds, and their contents impartially disposed of. The accident was the more frightful because of the impenetrable darkness. The lowing of terrified cattle, and the shouts of the emigrants, mingled with the fury of the gale. There was no means of ascertaining the extent of the damage, except as the party could get together in the darkness. It was impossible to light fires; and for two hours they could not even obtain the light of a lantern. When this was done, they found one poor fellow killed outright by a blow on the temple from some flying object, and another groaning with a broken leg, unable to extricate himself from the wagon which had done the injury.
"Who in thunder's goin' to tend to this job?" muttered Buckskin Joe, as the sufferer was released from his trying position, and his limb examined by several who had gathered to his aid.
"I will," said a calm, decided voice, and looking up, he saw Mr. Carollyn, the gentleman whom he had favored with his morning's observations; he already had the injured leg in his grasp, and was handling it with the skill of a practiced surgeon. With the assistance of those whom he chose to aid him, he soon had the limb set and splintered, and the wounded man lying in comparative comfort upon a mattress of blankets spread behind the shelter of an overturned wagon. The violence of the wind had abated, so that there was nothing more to fear from it, though it still blew too wild and chilly for ease.
While they were yet in attendance upon the sufferer, Mrs. Wright made her way to Buckskin Joe, guided by the glimmer of the lantern.
"I can't find 'Lizabeth," she panted, catching his sleeve.
"Can't find her?—what's happened to her?"
"Wal, I'm sure I've no idea myself. I wish I had. You see the wind upset us; but it didn't do much harm, but to bruise us up considerable. Jem's got a bump on his forrid, and Will's nose is bleedin'—"
"But where in thunder's the gal?"
"Wal, as I was saying, we don't know. You see we all crawled out, after the wagon upset. I'm sure 'Lizabeth got out safe—she helped Minnie out 'fore I went myself; we all kept hold of hands, and stooped down behind the wagon as well as we could to keep the wind from blowin' us clear away. I guess it must have took her, for she didn't answer to our call, and she isn't nowhere very nigh—that's certain. It was awful—the wind was—and there's the children nigh about froze. I wish Timothy had staid to Missouri," and the poor woman's long-tried fortitude gave way, and she began to cry.
The stranger who had been busy about the broken limb, here turned abruptly to her, and asked:
"Have you searched with a light? Perhaps the cattle have trampled on her, or she is hurt in some way, so as not to be able to call out."
"The Lord forbid!" muttered Buckskin Joe.
"The wind took our lantern, I s'pose; we can't find it," said Mrs. Wright.
"Wal, I'm a-goin' for to find that gal," said Joe, catching up his lantern. "Let the traps go to darnation—the gal's worth more'n the hull lot. 'Sides, I've promised to be on hand next time she got into danger."
"You go in one direction, making the circuit of the camp, as near as you can guess it, and I will go the other until we meet," said the stranger. "It's impossible to make a fire just yet; but this wind will subside within an hour, so that we can then build one. If any one of the party are lost in the darkness, it will serve to light them back. Fortunately there is nothing to be feared from the desert, that I know of; and, unless she has been injured by flying missiles, the young lady is probably safe, and not very far off."
He said this with the cool decision which marked his general manner, yet the quick eye of the guide detected an uneasiness and paleness of countenance, caused either by his interest in the girl, and fear for her, or by the excitement of the scene he had just passed through.
So completely had the corral been broken and the camp scattered, that it was difficult to trace its exact position, or to tell just where it would be wisest to search for the missing girl. After an hour's wandering, assisted also by many others, the two men met, with no tidings. The wind having lulled, it was proposed to build a bright fire, in the hope that it would guide her back. This was done; the blaze streamed up vividly, enabling the emigrants to work with more certainty amid the ruins of their property. But no clue was obtained to the accident which had befallen Elizabeth.
Daylight brought to view a pitiable state of affairs. Two days of hard labor would barely enable the trains to proceed. Much property was irretrievably lost—literally scattered to the winds. There was the body of one—who yesterday was one of their number, full of health and hope—now waiting its lonely burial beneath a stunted tree of the desolate plain. There was the injured man, to whom the rest of the journey must be a lingering and painful one. And, saddest perhaps of all, was the strange and total disappearance of the pride and star of the company—the sweet young maiden whose face had been like a memory of home to the roughest.
"This is what I should call suthin' of a pickle," soliloquized Buckskin Joe, leaning on his rifle, and looking off toward the rising sun, scratching his head instinctively to assist his thoughts; "if thar' had been sand enough lyin' about loose to swaller her up, or rivers, or woods, or even a Red River alligator, I should know where to look. Blast it! if it wur only an alligator, I'd fetch her out and bring her to—blast me, if I wouldn't! But I'm free to own that I'm mighty onsartain which way to look, cause all parts of the compass is 'zactly alike, and thar' ain't a mark so much as a blade o' grass for a sharp feller to fix his attention to. Now, if it wur the thickest woods that ever growed, and she'd bin stole by the slyest Injun, I'd have more hopes. 'Cause there'd be a bended twig, or a footstep in the leaves, or a bit of caliker on a bush, or suthin'. I can't see what could a' took her, lest the wind actually carried her off, which it mought do easy enough, for she was a light little critter—so purty—and if it did, it must have sot her down hard enough to take the breath out everlastingly." Here he fell into a fit of silent abstraction.
"What are you thinking about?"
It was the dark stranger who startled the guide out of his reverie, by the abruptly-put question. The person addressed gave him a quick, keen look, before he answered:
"I was just thinkin' that some o' them pesky Injuns may have been sneaking about, stealing things last night, when the storm came up. They may have carried off the girl, under cover of the hurrycane, which they wouldn't a' done at a safer time. 'Tain't likely, but it's the only thing I can think of."
"I am afraid of it myself. Do you know what direction they would be most likely to take, in such a case?"
"Wal—yis! I rather guess I know some o' their lurkin places, stranger. I know all the whereabouts purty much of that tribe that paid us a visit yesterday. By jingo, stranger, I'm off! I'll just put some biscuits and buffalo in my pocket, and be off. This train will have to stop here a couple o' days, sartain; and if I ain't back by that time they can proceed without me—that's all. Wish I had a hoss—but I must make a mule do."
"Not so," said the stranger. "I own two horses in my company. You shall have one, I will take the other, and we will go together."
"You?" queried Buckskin Joe, in surprise.
"Yes. I am traveling for adventure, and what more novel adventure could I expect than to go after a lost maiden in company of the best guide this side of Kit Carson? Don't think I'll be a drawback to you. I'm an excellent shot."
"The sight of danger won't make you narvous, I'll be bound," said the guide, measuring the cool air and clear eye of his companion with a favorable glance.
Barely waiting for the needed refreshment of a cup of hot coffee, the two men, thus curiously thrown together on a doubtful venture, started out over the illimitable plain, burdened only with their weapons and a light wallet of provisions, and followed by the anxious eyes and hearts of the emigrants.