The Wild Huntress Part 34

"It is not usual for so small a party to pa.s.s over the prairies alone.

There is always danger from the Indians. Sometimes from whites too! Ah me! there are white savages--worse savages than red--far worse--far worse!"

These strange speeches, with the sigh that accompanied them, caused me to turn my head, and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion.

It was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. She, too, suffering from the past? In this glance I again remarked what had already attracted my notice--a resemblance to Lilian Holt! It was of the slightest, and so vague, that I could not tell in what it lay.

Certainly not in the features--which were signally unlike those of Lilian; and equally dissimilar was the complexion. Were I to place the resemblance, I should say that I saw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. The similitude of tone was striking. Like Lilian's, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beautiful women are gifted--those having the full round throat so proudly possessed by the damsels of Andalusia. Of course, reflected I, the likeness must be accidental. There was no possibility of its being otherwise; and I had not a thought that it was so. I was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recall them. The souvenirs so excited hindered me from making an immediate reply.

"Your observations are somewhat singular?" I remarked at length.

"Surely you have not verified them by your own experience?"

"I have. Yes--and too sadly, ever to think them otherwise than just. I have had little reason to love those of my own colour--that is, if I am to consider myself a white."

"But you are so, are you not?"

"Not altogether. I have Indian blood in my veins."

"Not much, I should fancy?"

"Enough to give me Indian inclinings--and, I fear, also a dislike to those of my own complexion."

"Indeed?"

"Perhaps less from instinct than experience. Ah! stranger! I have reason. Is it not enough that all have proved false--father, lover, husband?"

"Husband! You are married, then?"

"No."

"You have been?"

"No."

"Why did you say _husband_!"

"A husband only in name. I have been married, but never a wife; wedded, but never--"

The speaker paused. I could feel her arm quivering around my waist.

She was under the influence of some terrible emotion!

"Yours must be a strange story?" I remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. "You have greatly excited my curiosity; but I know that I have no claim to your confidence."

"You may yet win it."

"Tell me how."

"You say you intend returning to the States. I may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. It is not much. Only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless--her father untrue to his paternal trust--her husband a cheat, a perjured villain."

"Your relations.h.i.+ps have been singularly unfortunate; but your words only mystify me the more. I should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither?"

"Not now--time presses. Your comrades, if still alive, are in peril.

That is your affair; but mine is that the Red-Hand may not escape. If he do, there's one will grieve at it--one to whom I owe life and protection."

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Of the mortal enemy of Red-Hand and his Arapahoes--of Wa-ka-ra."

"Wa-ka-ra?"

"Head chief of the Utahs--you shall see him presently. Put your horse to his speed! We are close to the camp. Yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! On stranger! on!"

As directed, I once more urged my Arab into a gallop. It was not for long. After the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the canon suddenly opened into a small but beautiful _vallon_--treeless and turfed with gra.s.s. The white cones, appearing in serried rows near its upper end, were easily identified as an encampment of Indians. "Behold!"

exclaimed my companion, "the tents of the Utahs!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

WA-KA-RA.

The lodges were aligned in double row, with a wide avenue between them.

At its head stood one of superior dimensions--the wigwam of the chief.

They were all of conical shape; a circle of poles converging at their tops, and covered with skins of the buffalo, grained and bleached to the whiteness of wash-leather. A slit in the front of each tent formed the entrance, closed by a list of the hide that hung loosely over it. Near the top of each appeared a triangular piece of skin, projecting outward from the slope of the side, and braced, so as to resemble an inverted sail of the kind known as _lateen_. It was a wind-guard to aid the smoke in its ascent. On the outer surface of each tent was exhibited the biography of its owner--expressed in picture-writing. More especially were his deeds of prowess thus recorded--encounters with the couguar and grizzly bear--with Crows, Cheyennes, p.a.w.nees, and Arapahoes--each under its suitable symbol. The great marquee of the chief was particularly distinguished with this kind of emblematical emblazonment--being literally covered with signs and figures, like the patterns upon a carpet. No doubt, one skilled in the interpretation of these Transatlantic hieroglyphs, might have read from that copious cipher many a tale of terrible interest. In front of the tents stood tall spears, with s.h.i.+elds of _parfleche_ leaning against them; also long bows of _bois d'arc (Maclura aurantica_), and shorter ones of horn--the horns of the mountain-ram. Skin-quivers filled with arrows, hung suspended from the shafts; and I observed that, in almost every grouping of these weapons, there was a gun--a rifle. This did not much astonish me. I knew that, to the Utah, the medicine weapon is no longer a mystery. Here and there, hides freshly flayed were pegged out upon the gra.s.s, with squaws kneeling around them, engaged in the operation of graining. Girls, with water-tight baskets, poised upon the crown of the head, were coming from or going towards the stream. Men stood in groups, idly chatting, or squatted upon the turf, playing at games of chance. Boys were busy at their bow-practice; and still younger children rolled their naked bodies over the gra.s.s, hugging half-grown puppies--the companions of their infant play. Troops of dogs trotted among the tents; while a mixed herd of horses, mules, sheep, goats, and a.s.ses browsed the plain at a little distance from the camp. Such was the _coup d'oeil_ that presented itself to my gaze, as we rode up to the Utah encampment.

As might be expected, our arrival caused a change in the occupation of everybody. The dicers leaped to their feet--the squaws discontinued their work, and flung their sc.r.a.pers upon the skins. "_Ti-ya_!" was the exclamation of astonishment that burst from hundreds of lips. Children screamed, and ran hiding behind their dusky mothers; dogs growled and barked; horses neighed; mules hinnied; a.s.ses brayed; while the sheep and goats joined their bleating to the universal chorus. "On to the chief's tent!" counselled my companion, gliding to the ground, and preceding me on foot, "Yonder! the chief himself--Wa-ka-ra!"

An Indian of medium size and perfect form, habited in a tunic of embroidered buckskin, leggings of scarlet cloth, head-dress of coloured plumes, with crest that swept backward and drooped down to his heels. A gaily striped _serape_, suspended scarf-like over the left shoulder, with a sash of red China c.r.a.pe wound loosely around the waist, completed a costume more picturesque than savage. A face of n.o.ble type, with an eye strongly glancing, like that of an eagle; an expression of features in no way fierce, but, like the dress, more gentle than savage; a countenance, in repose mild--almost to meekness. Such saw I.

Had I known the man who stood before me, I might have remarked how little this latter expression corresponded with his real character. Not that he was cruel, but only famed for warlike prowess. I was face to face with the most noted war-chief of America: whose name, though new to me, was at that moment dreaded from Oregon to Arispe, from the banks of the Rio Bravo to the sierras of Alta California. It was _Walker_--the war-chief of the Utahs--the friend of the celebrated trapper, whose name he had adopted; and which, by the modification of Utah orthoepy, had become _Wa-ka-ra_.

An odd individual--a very odd one--was standing beside the chief as I rode up. He appeared to be a Mexican, to judge by his costume and the colour of his skin. The former consisted of _jaqueta_ and _calzoneros_ of dark-coloured velveteen, surmounted by a broad-brimmed _sombrero_ of black glaze; while the complexion, although swarthy, was several shades lighter than that of the Indian. He was a man of diminutive stature, and with a countenance of a serio-comical cast. An expression of this kind pervaded his whole person--features and figure included--and was heightened by the presence of a singular accoutrement that hung suspended from his leathern waist-belt. It was a piece of timber some eighteen inches in length, and looking like the section of a boot-tree, or the half of a wooden milk-yoke. At the thick end was a concavity or socket, with straps, by which it was attached to the belt; and this singular apparatus, hanging down over his thigh, added to the grotesque appearance of its owner. The little Mexican had all the cut of a "character;" and he was one, as I afterwards ascertained. He was no other than the famous Pedro Archilete--or "Peg-leg," as his comrades called him--a trapper of Taos, and one of the most expert and fearless of that fearless fraternity.

The odd accoutrement which had puzzled me was nothing more than an artificial leg! It was an implement, however, he only used upon occasions--whenever the natural one--the ankle of which had been damaged by some accident--gave out through the fatigue of a march. At other times he carried the wooden leg, as I first saw it, suspended from his belt!

His presence in the Indian encampment was easily accounted for. He was in alliance with their chief: for the Utahs were at that time _en paz_ with the settlements of the Taos Valley; and the Spanish trappers and traders went freely among them. Peg-leg had been on a trapping expedition to the Parks; and having fallen in with the Utahs, had become the guest of Wa-ka-ra.

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

PEG-LEG.

"The huntress has returned soon?" said the chief, interrogatively, as the girl glided up to him. "She brings strange game!" added he, with a smile. "Who is the young warrior with the white circle upon his breast?

He is a pale-face. It is not the custom of our white brothers to adorn themselves in such fas.h.i.+on?"

"The painting is not his," replied the girl. "It has been done by the hands of his enemies--by red men. The white circle was designed for a mark, at which many bullets have been fired. The red streaks you see are blood, that has streamed from wounds inflicted on the stranger's body! When Wa-ka-ra shall know who caused that blood to flow, he will hasten to avenge it."

"If it be the wish of the white huntress, Wa-ka-ra will avenge the blood--even though his own people may have spilled it. Speak, Ma-ra-nee! You say that red men have done this--were they Utahs?"

"No; but the enemies of the Utahs."