CHAPTER V.
THE HUNTER AND THE MAIDEN.
And still thy mane streams backward
At every thrilling bound,
And still thy measured hoof-stroke
Beats with its morning sound!—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Now he shivers, head and hoof, and the flakes of foam fall off,
And his face grows fierce and thin!
And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go.
MRS. BROWNING.
FOR once Nat Wolfe was disappointed in his best friend—his long-tried, much-lamented steed, Kit Carson. All the long afternoon he pursued the northerly course which the bison had taken, and which, he knew, led to more fragrant streams and better pasturage. The same moon toward which Elizabeth, riding merrily in the ox-drawn wagon, was looking with such longing eyes, found him still striding on, throwing keen glances in every direction, but without having met a living thing of any kind in his six hours' journey. He was certain that he was on the track of the herd; and, more than that, frequently, before it grew too dark for such observations, he detected the print of horse-shoes here and there along the way. As long as the moon shone he continued to walk; but when it set, there was nothing to do but to eat his dry biscuit, take a draught from his canteen and lie down to sleep with a tuft of grass for a pillow. This he did, still feeling confident that when he awoke it would be to find Kit grazing quietly by his side.
The first rays of the morning roused him. He had slumbered heavily, for he was fatigued; and as he tried to shake off the chill and stiffness of his night's exposure by running swiftly, he remarked to himself:
"Well, I may as well run in the right direction, and that is, toward the point I started from. Poor Kit's gone forever, I fear. I must get back to the trail, in order to follow the route to Denver. I'll have to foot it all the way, unless I overtake some train that'll be willing to sell me some kind of an animal. I wouldn't have taken a thousand dollars for Kit Carson! Confound me if I think the girl was worth it!"
Yet, at the recollection of the maiden in whose behalf he had sacrificed his horse, a sudden warmth thrilled through his veins, very beneficial in dispelling the effects of the night air; he slackened his speed insensibly, forgetting his breakfast for some time in visions of a young, wistful face, with eyes so lustrous and yet melancholy that they made his heart yearn to fill them with smiles instead of tears to which they seemed more accustomed.
"It's a burning shame in that shiftless farmer to be dragging that kind of a child out to Pike's Peak—an infernal hole for men, at the best. She don't feel at home, poor thing, that's evident! Her place is with the ladies of the land—instead of being set down in a shanty among a crowd of rough, swearing miners. She needs a protector, that child does—blast me if she don't." Here a thought rushed through his mind which deepened the flush of his sun-burned cheek. Presently he shook his head, continuing, "No! no! it's too late for that with Nat Wolfe. A man that's been fooled by a woman as I was, would be a double fool to trust one of the kind again."
Coming to a pool of water in a deep gully, Nat refreshed himself with the remains of his dried meat and biscuit, filled his canteen with water, and pushed on. It was noon when he reached Pike's Peak trail—at almost the spot where he left it. There were no travelers in sight.
"I must overtake that train again. It's going my way, and—and—I shan't just feel easy without seeing that girl again. I'm a good match for an ox-team; but when it has at least twenty miles the start, that makes it harder. I'll be likely to be hungry before I reach the next station, if I don't come across a stray buffalo or antelope, and we're about out of their range now. However, it's too early in the day to borrow trouble. I've been fifty hours without food, more than once."
With long, steady, gliding steps, which took him over the ground with surprising rapidity, yet which had not the appearance of haste or effort, he continued his march, reaching the place at which the emigrants had stayed the previous night, before sundown. Here he was fortunate enough to find, among other relics of their encampment, some of the remains of their breakfasts. He did not pause to scrupulously examine the nicety of these fragments; for he had eaten nothing since early morning, and was very glad of these providential crumbs. Having somewhat rested and refreshed himself, he had about concluded to push on, until nine or ten in the evening, so as to come up with the train by evening of the next day. It was now after sunset. As he arose to resume his journey, he perceived, afar, against the northern hemisphere of the horizon, a party of horsemen sweeping on; he knew them, even at that distance, by their attitudes and manner of riding, as a band of Indians.
"They'd like right well to know I was here, alone and on foot," soliloquized Nat, "though I doubt then if they'd care to approach me, when I was wide-awake and looking out for them. Let 'em come! the whole snaky set! I suppose it would be just as prudent not to show myself until they are out of sight; though if they come where I am, I'm agreeable! I'd like to dislodge a red-skin from one of those horses, and take his place. Perhaps they'll camp here for the night. Ha! here they come; I'd better be looking out for a covert."
He crept along the ground and dropped down the embankment into the river-bed. Here he could conceal himself from observation, unless the party stopped for the night, or came for water. In case he was discovered before the twilight enabled him to escape, he had only to depend upon his weapons, and the dauntless courage which had made him so famous.
It was true that most of these vagrant bands of red-skins were not at war with the whites; but their natural cruelty and covetousness would lead them to murder any solitary traveler they might chance upon; and toward Nat Wolfe they all felt the fury of revenge for the frequent losses they had sustained from him.
As the tramp of the approaching horses drew nearer, he raised his head cautiously and reconnoitered. "They're a well-mounted set of devils—plenty of 'em, too, I'll swear!" he muttered; and seeing a bush hanging over the bank a little further down, which would afford him a better chance to make observations, he crawled on his hands and knees along the yellow clay until he came to the spot over which it grew. This new position was a safer one in this respect—it was around a bend of the stream; so that if the Indians came to dip water from the half-dried pool above him, they would not observe him where he lay, sheltered by the bend; the ground above, also, shelved over, so that he stood a good chance of escaping their keen eyes. Looking well to his trusty rifle, and mechanically feeling the knife and revolvers in his belt, he pressed as closely as possible under the bank and listened until the party drew rein, as he had anticipated they would, and dismounting made preparations for encamping for the night. Nat's trail was so mixed up with that of the company who had occupied the ground the previous day that the new-comers perceived nothing to arouse their suspicions.
It was extremely irksome to Golden Arrow to lie crouched under the bank all the time the new-comers were kindling their fires, broiling their venison and feeding their horses such forage as they had; he had rather have darted upon them like the weapon after which they had named him; but, brave as he was, he knew that one white man was a poor match for thirty Indians, and he restrained his hatred and impatience as best he could; varying the tedium with the rather dangerous amusement of raising himself to watch them behind the shelter of the bush. The two hours which they spent, before they finally stretched themselves in a ring with their feet to the ashes of the fire they had made, seemed to him endless. They had secured their horses by tying a knot in the end of the ropes about their necks, and burying these knots in the earth of the prairie, in lieu of trees to tie them to. Twilight had deepened into the wan moonlight of a chilly night before all was so quiet as to warrant Nat's attempt to escape from his present unfriendly proximity. Quietly creeping along the river-bed, until out of hearing distance of any wakeful ear, he finally stood up, climbed the bank, and struck across the desert—as the stream took him away from instead of toward the track he intended to find and follow.
Nothing interfered with his intentions, and he was soon traveling briskly along the trail, which the descending moon enabled him to follow. For an hour he made good progress; but as the moon went down the wind arose, and soon that terrible tempest which was working such destruction in the camp of the emigrants came upon him also, defying his utmost efforts to hold his own against it. Not a rock to shelter him, not a shrub to cling to, and wrapped in impenetrable darkness, all he could do was to fling himself flat upon the ground, shut his eyes, and let the winds trample him at their pleasure. During all the first fury of the tornado he lay thus; when it had somewhat abated he arose and struggled on against it. His only guide was the fact that the wind had come from the direction in which he wished to go; so he now set his face against it, feeling his way through the starless night. But the wind has the reputation of being fickle, and it is not surprising, therefore, that when the wished-for morning began to break, Nat Wolfe found himself, instead of several miles on the way toward friends, back in the camp of the enemy.
The Indians were already stirring, on the alert to discover what losses they had sustained by the storm. Nat, fearing discovery on the open plain, again took to his hands and knees, creeping along to seek for some shelter in the bed of the stream until the party should have mounted and ridden off. Scarcely had he gained a secure position, with a friendly shrub again giving him an opportunity to reconnoiter, when he perceived another band of mounted men swiftly approaching from the west, along the Denver trail. That these, too, were red-skins, and a part of the former party, he at once decided; but great was his surprise to perceive that one of the savages rode his own lost steed, Kit Carson.
His astonishment was swallowed up in a still greater emotion the next instant; trained as he was to the suppression of all outward signs of excitement, he could scarcely repress a cry, at perceiving, bound to a pony, which was led by the rider of his own horse, a white captive whom he recognized as the very young girl whom he had rescued from the bisons. The east was now golden with the coming sunrise, and as the party drew nearer he plainly observed the face of the captive—that young, beautiful face—now so pale with terror and fatigue, as to excite his deepest pity. The storm had blown the polished braids of her hair into streaming tresses which rippled about her form in dark waves. She was quiet, for her hands were tied, and effort was hopeless; but her features had an expression of dread and anguish impossible to depict. Nat remembered her pitiful avowal to him of her extreme horror of Indians, and his stern heart shook with sympathy, as he noted the still despair—aversion of her look. The one who led her pony Nat recognized too—a dirty, repulsive savage upon whose face he had once inflicted a wound, in a battle between the settlers and red-skins years ago, and who had since concealed the marks of his disgrace with a bandage. This fellow evidently knew that he was riding Golden Arrow's horse; he was in high spirits, as he galloped along, forcing the smaller pony which he led, into doing its best to keep up with him. As the party swept by within two rods of where he crouched, Nat's eyes almost met those of Elizabeth, who turned an eager piercing gaze at the bush, as if her mind or senses had detected the presence of a friend. The two companies now met; the new arrivals would not dismount, making such gestures toward the girl, and the path they had come over, that Nat easily understood they were afraid of pursuit, and were resolved to press on to some more distant ground, before pausing for rest. The others, acquiescing in this, mounted their horses, only pausing to water them at the stream. During this brief interval of grace Nat Wolfe had to make up his mind whether or not there was any thing to be done for the salvation of that poor child whose beauty and distress alike appealed to all the bravery, all the daring and chivalry of his nature.
It was one man, on foot, against forty mounted devils, who, however cowardly some of them might be under equal chances, would be fired with exultant ferocity by the advantages of the occasion. And, however willing he might be to throw away his own life in the effort to preserve the maiden, he felt that any failure on his part would only hasten her fate. All these thoughts rushed through his brain in the brief time he was given for reflection; but his pulse remained as steady, his eyes as cool and quick as ever in his life; indeed, all his faculties, while they intensified in power, gathered to his aid like soldiers rushing to the call of their leader.
If he could have given Elizabeth warning of his proximity, so that she would have been prepared to take advantage of any momentary opportunity, it would have been increasing the chances of success, but she was too lost in dread and too hopeless of succor, to be on the look-out for friends in this unlikely spot. She did frequently turn her head and gaze off over the track they had passed, as if with some hope of the emigrants sending aid, and after such a fruitless search over the desert road, would drop her head despairingly. Once, while all the Indians were busy among themselves, and she seemed to be looking toward the bush behind which he knelt, he ventured to raise his hand an instant. Whether she perceived the signal he could not decide; she certainly started, lifting her head with so eager a motion that her savage captor turned toward her sharply, when she immediately resumed her drooping attitude.
The one narrow chance which Nat saw, was to kill the rider and secure his horse, who, he knew, would bound to him at the first call. If he could do this before they wreaked a sudden revenge upon the girl, he hoped to seize her and to fight his way free of the band. It would be as good as a miracle if they should indeed get away without injury from the shower of shot which would be poured upon them, as the Indians, more than half of them, had guns.
"Kit knows I'm somewhere about," muttered the hunter, as his horse began to grow restive—so restive that the red robber could hardly retain his seat in the saddle. "I wouldn't give that horse for all the human friends you could give standing-room on this prairie."
That instant the animal made a plunge which compelled his rider to loosen his hold upon the pony's rein or lose his own equilibrium—he dropped his hold upon the captive, and in three seconds Nat had pulled trigger upon him. Simultaneously with the crack of his rifle the shriek of the dying savage rung upon the air as he leaped from the saddle, and fell headlong to the earth. Before the astonished enemy could comprehend what had happened, with a sharp, low cry to his steed, Golden Arrow sprung full into sight, appearing to their superstitious gaze to have dropped from the sky. Kit needed no second signal. With a joyous whining he bounded to meet his master, who was upon his back before one of the savages had presence of mind to attempt retaliation. In half a moment more he had snatched the girl from the rope which bound her to the pony, flung her across his horse's neck, to whom he gave an encouraging whistle, and turned to fly, with the whole pack, now yelling with hate and fury, upon his track. Into the bed of the stream Nat guided his horse, whose immense leaps, doubly burdened as he was, showed his almost human sagacity in the consciousness of deadly peril. More than twenty bullets whistled above and around them. Nat felt one cut the rim of his cap, while another grazed his leg as it plowed through his leather breeches. Whether any struck the frail form hanging over his saddle-bow, he had no time to see—only there was neither motion or cry. A few rods more placed them under the protection of a rise in the bank, from whence he could act upon the defensive; here, sheltered from their aim, he wheeled in the saddle and shot down his nearest pursuer. Three or four more came recklessly on, but as many shots from his revolver sent them dead to the earth, or wounded and yelling back again. Finally the whole troop paused and backed out of rifle-range, where they seemed to be holding a consultation. With all possible speed Nat reloaded his rifle—he had yet two charges in his revolver—then, patting his horse, gave him rein, and with a shout of triumph, flew off over the plain in the direction of the trail to the West. He feared nothing now, for he had a little the start, and there was no animal in the group behind that could distance Kit Carson. Of this the red-skins were as well aware as he; looking back, he perceived they were not attempting pursuit, but were sullenly gathering about their killed and wounded companions.
It was well for the escaped whites that this was the result. For a while, Kit galloped on with fierce energy; but suddenly, and while they were yet almost within sight of the enemy, he began to fail and stagger.
"What is it, Kit? What is it, my beauty?" questioned his owner, stroking his neck, and speaking as softly as to a lady. "He is hurt—bleeding—poor Kit!" he cried, as, stooping, he perceived for the first time the life-blood flowing from a wound in the chest received by the noble animal. "We must dismount and see what we can do for him."
The slackened speed and the voice of her preserver aroused Elizabeth; she lifted herself from the neck to which she was clinging, and comprehending what had happened, slid to the ground. Nat, with evident distress, dismounted and examined the wound.
"Poor Kit, we can do nothing for you," he cried.
"Take this—perhaps you can stanch the blood," said his companion, taking off her apron.
He tried to bind up the wound, but his efforts were of no avail—he had only time to relieve him of the saddle before the faithful steed sunk shivering upon his knees and rolled over upon his side.
"We have not even a drop of water for him," said Nat, in despair.
With a most pitiful, touching look of affection, the dying eyes of the horse were fixed upon those of his master, who knelt beside him, caressing and talking fondly to him. In a few moments all was over—Kit Carson was dead.
The grief of his master was such as Elizabeth had not expected in so hardy and self-possessed a character. With his face bowed upon the proudly-arched neck now stiffening in death, Nat Wolfe remained silent, lost in sorrow, not even looking back to be sure of his own safety from lurking enemies. She saw how manfully he strove to restrain himself, but how, in despite of his efforts, the breath came harder and more labored until great sobs shook the breast of the brave stranger who had twice periled life in her defense, and whose loss and trouble now had been occasioned by his rescue of herself.
A little while Nat's face was hidden, ashamed of the tears which flowed as a tribute to the memory of a friend the noblest and truest, whose life had been given a sacrifice to crown years of faithful and intelligent servitude—a little while, and then his face was lifted up by a pair of small, soft hands; eyes glistening with tears of sympathy met his, and a kiss fell upon his forehead. As she would have comforted her uncle had she seen him in distress, the innocent child, moved by pity, remorse and gratitude, strove to comfort the person she had brought into this trouble—only the shyness, the sweet modesty which she herself scarcely understood, made her actions the more lovely. The timid touch and kiss, the sight of the fair face full of womanly solicitude, thrilled the hunter's heart with a fire which his companion little dreamed of kindling. It was a propitious moment for a new feeling to steal in and usurp the place of the desolate, friendless sense of loss which afflicted him. The little brown hand crept into his.
"It is all my fault. If it had not been for me, he would not have been killed," said Elizabeth, sadly. "I am so sorry—so sorry—and yet—ah, sir, if you had not come what would have been my—" she could not finish the sentence—a shudder shook every fiber of her frame.
"He could not have died in a better cause. I would have sacrificed Kit twice over to save you, so you must not blame yourself," he said, becoming in his turn the comforter. "We are hardly safe yet," he added, looking uneasily to the east. "If those prowling scoundrels should discover our loss, they would be after us with a vengeance. I will look well to my arms, and then we will take up our march without delay. Poor child! how do you think you can stand thirst, hunger and fatigue? I will try to shoot some stray game before night; but it's scarce here, I can tell you, and we may not find a drop of water till we get to the next station."
"I do not fear any thing in the world but those hateful Indians," was the reply. "I had rather starve to death in the desert, than to ever see one again. Oh, sir, let us get as far from them as we can."
He laughed at the beautiful, frightened eyes, lifted so confidingly and appealingly to his own.
"I don't wonder they make you nervous, little girl. Wait until I cut a lock of hair from Kit Carson's mane, and we will speed along. Poor Kit, good-by!"
"Cut a lock for me, too," whispered Elizabeth.
Tears were in the eyes of both as they took their last look at their murdered friend; but the presence of still imminent danger, and the necessity of losing no time in seeking their party before their strength should be exhausted, admonished them to linger no longer. Under a burning sky, across the desolate, hot, unsheltered desert, without food or water to refresh them, they took up their march.