Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 01

by The Prairie Flower (lit)

  Home. ! In that word 1 beheld the loved faces of my parents. In that word I be

  held the welcome visages of my friends. In that word, more than all, I beheld the sweet, rv^lancholy countenance of Lilian !

  Lilian ! how this name stirred the, se cret emotions of a passionate soul ' H;d I forgotten her ? Had I, through all the varied scenes I had passed, for a moment lost sight of her lovely countenance of her sweet eyes beaming upon me the warm affections of an ardent soul ? No I had not forgot, I never could forget, her. She was woven among the libers of my existence. To tear her hence, would be to rend and shatter the soul itself. Thou sands of miles away, she was not absent. She was with me in all my trials, suffer ings and perils. Present by day, with her eyes of love. Hovering around me in the still watches of night, as it were the guar dian angel of my destiny. Lilian was loved. Time and distance proved it. Loved with a heart that could never for sake never so love another. I had done her wrong. But should God spare my life, and permit us again to meet, how quickly, by every means in my power, would I strive to repair it.

  Such and similar were our thoughts, as we again bent our steps upon a long jour ney. But I will not test your patience, reader, with more. Neither am I going to weary you with along detail of common place events. In other words, I am not going to describe our journey to the south. Like similar journeys, it was full of fatigue, with here and there an incident, or a curi osity, perhaps a danger which, were I making an official report to government, would be necessary to note but over which you, doubtless, would yawn and call the writer stupid.

  Suffice it, then, that with me you let a year pass unnoted. That you imagine us having gone a thousand miles into the heart of Mexico, and, heartily sick and dis gusted with our travels, the people, and for the most part the country, you now rind us on our glad journey to the north fully determined, in our own minds, from this time forward, to let such as choose go among barbarians worse than savages, so they seek not us for companions. From this sweeping clause of condemnation, lei me save the Mexican ladies ; who, for the most part, exercise Christian virtues w irthj

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  THE PRAIRIE FLOWER; OR,

  of a better fate than being yoked ;md bound to such lazy, filthy, treacherous brutes as hold over them the dominion of lord and muster. But enough! The bare thought of the latter puts me in a passion ; and so to get an even temper once more, let me consign them to oblivious contempt.

  You 'will fancy, then, that a year has passed, and that we, having so far escaped with our lives, are now on our return to Upper California, thence to shape our route to Oregon, and then, ho ! for the far dis tant land of our childhood.

  Little did we dream in that happy mo ment of contemplation, of the terrible ca lamity about to befall us. Little did we think that our hearts, bright with hope and joy, were soon to be clouded with woe un utterable grief inconsolable. And why should we '? We who had been through so many perils, and made so many miracu lous escapes, where death seemed inevita ble why should we now, comparatively safe, already on our return, for a moment harbor the thought that a misfortune, be fore which all we had suffered sunk into insignificance, was impending us ? How little does man know his destiny ! Poor, blind mortal ! what presumption in him to attempt to read the scroll of fate ! But let me not anticipate.

  It was a bright, warm day in the spring of 1842, that we arrived at Pueblo de los Angelos, where the Great Spanish Trail comes in from Santa Fe. We had been on the move day after day for nearly a month, during which time we had traveled some five hundred miles, and our horses were very much fatigued in consequence. Besides, their shoes being worn out and their feet sore, we resolved to remain here a few days, to have them shod, recruited, and put in a good traveling condition, while our time was to be spent in hunting, and examining the country round about.

  Giving our beasts in charge of a respon sible person, with orders to see them well attended to, we set forward with our rifles, and taking the Spanish Trail, which here ran due east and west, we followed it some two miles, and then leaving it to the right, struck off into the mountains known as the Coast Range.

  About noon we came to a point where '.he touutry assumed a very rough and wild

  appearance. Cliff upon cliff rose one the other, above which, still, a few peaks shot up far heavenward, capped -with ever lasting snows. Tremendous precipices, deep caverns, and wild gorges, could be seen on every hand, full of danger to the unwary explorer.

  Making a hak, we were already debating whether to advance or retrace our steps, when, as if to decide and lure us forward, a fine antelope was discovered on a rock above us, not over a hundred yards dis- ' tant, coolly eyeing us from his supposed sale retreat. Scarce a moment elapsed, so quick were the motions of each, ere our pieces, speaking together, told him too late of his error. lie was wounded, this we could see, but not enough to prevent his flight, and he turned and bounded over tha rocks up the steep.

  " By heavens ! Frank," cried Huntly, with enthusiasm, " here is sport in earnest. Nothing to do but give chase. He must not escape us. Dart you up the mountain, while I, by going round, will perhaps head him off on the other side. At all events, we will soon meet again."

  On the impulse of the moment, I sprang forward in one direction and Huntly in another. To the great danger of my neck, I clambered up the steep aclivity, over precipitous rocks, gaping fissures, and through a dense brushwood, and stood at last upon the spot where we had first seen the goat. Here was a small pool of blood, and a bloody trail marked the course ot the animal ; and I pressed on again, right ly judging, from the quantity of blood left behind, that he could not hold out any great distance. But the distance proved farther than I had anticipated, and half an hour found me completely out of breath, on the brow of one of the lower ridges, without having come in sight of the ante lope. Here the trail, more bloody than ever, took a downward course, and 1 counted on finding the chase between me and the foot of the hill. At this moment I heard, as I fancied, the shout of my friend ; and thinking it one of delight, on being the first to reach the goat, 1 gave an an swering one of joy, and descended rapidly on the red trail.

  Within fifty yards of the the valley, I discovered the object of my search, lying

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  on his side, pierced by two bullets, and in the last agonies of death. Applying my knife to his throat, I made an end of his sufferings, and then looked eagerly around for my .friend. He was nowhere to be seen. I called but no answer. This somewhat surprised me, as I felt certain of having heard his voice in this direction. Thinking he could not be far off, I repeated bis name at the top of my lungs, but with no better success.

  Although somewhat alarmed, I consoled myself by thinking I must have been mis taken in the sound I had heard, and that at » 11 events he would soon make his ap pearance. With this, I seated myself on the ground, and throwing the breech of my rifle down the mountain, occupied my self in loading it.

  Minute after minute went by, but no Huntly appeared, and I began to grow ex ceedingly uneasy. For a while I fancied he might be watching me from some, near covert, just to note the eflect of his ab sence ; but when a half hour had rolled around, and nothing had been seen nor heard of him, I became alarmed in earnest.

  Springing to my feet, I shouted his name several times, with all the accents of fright and despair. Then darting down to the valley, I ran round the foot of the mountain, making the woods echo with my calls at every step. In half an hour more I had gained the point where we parU'd but still no Huntly. God of mercy ! who can describe my feelings then ! Nearly frantic, I retraced my 'steps, touting till my lungs were sore but, alas! with no better success. There lay the an telope, as I had left it, showing that no one had been there during my absence.

  Until the shades of night began to settle over the earth, I continued my almost frantic iearch ; and then, thinking it possi ble H 1 ntly might have returned to the set tlement, 1 set out for Los Angelos, with the bpeed and feelin
gs of madman.

  When I arrived there, it had long been night. To my eager inquiries, each and ail shook their heads, and replied that my

  friend had not been seen sine B we departed in the morning. Who could describe, who imagine, my anguish on hearing this 1 Huntly, my bosom companion, was lost. Capturud it might be by guerrillas, or by Indians. Destroyed, perhaps, by some wild beast, or by falling down some preci pice, or into some chasm. Gone he was, most certainly ; and I wrung my hands in terrible agony, and called wildly upon his name, though I knew he could not hear me. So great was my distress, that it ex cited the pity of the spectators, several of whom volunteered to go back with me and search for him with torches. The propo sition I accepted eagerly, and that night the mountains sparkled with flaming lights, and their deep recesses resounded the name of my friend, and cries of anguish. All night long we searched faithfully, and shouted with all our might. But, alas ! all to no avail. My friend came not answer ed not perhaps never would again.

  When daylight once more lighted that fatal spot, and those who had assisted me, declared it useless to search longer that Huntly was either dead or a prisoner my anguish exceeded the strength of my rea son to bear, and I became a raving maniac.

  For two months from that date, I had no knowledge of what transpired ; and when, by the grace of God, consciousness again returned, I found myself in a feeble state, a close prisoner at Pueblo de los Angelos.

  To a noble-hearted Mexican lady, wife of a Mexican military officer, for her kind ness to, and care of, a forlorn stranger, is due a debt of gratitude, which, perhaps, I may never have power to cancel ; but which, it is my daily prayer, may be found written upon the eternal pages of the Great Book of All -Good.

  In June, a sad, emaciated, almost heart broken being, I resumed my journey to the north. But alas ! alas ! poor Charles Huntly ! His fate was still unknown. His last words to me, spoken gaily, " At all events we shall soon meet again, 1 " had ntrei been fulfilled.

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  THE PRAIRIE FLOWER; OR,

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  ON THE ROCKT MOUNTAINS EOMEWARD

  BOUND SAD REFLECTIONS RAPIU DE-

  BCENT TWO ENCAMPMENTS MEET OLD

  FRIENDS INCOG. THEIR FRIENDSHIP

  TESTED MAKE MYSELF KNOWN FRANTIC

  JOY VISIT THE SICK PAINFUL AND UN EXPECTED MEETING.

  I stood upon the summit of the Rocky Mountains. 1 stood upon that point of land which divides the rivers of the Atlan tic from the Pacific oceans. Upon that mighty barrier, which bids its gushing riv ulets roll eastward and westward. Where, springing from the same source, as chil dren from the same parents, they are sep arated by the hand of fate, to end their course thousands of miles apart.

  I stood upon the great dividing ridge of the North American Continent, and cast my eyes over a mighty expanse of territo ry. But with what feelings did I gaze sround me! Were they feelings of joy ! NTo ! they could not be joyous. There was one absent from my side, that made them sad. I needed the bright eye, noble face, commanding form, warm heart, and strong hand of one who was now perhaps no more. Had he been by my now melancholy gaze had been one of intoxicating, enthusiastic rapture. In every hill, in every tree, in every rock, in every rill, I would have be held something to make my heart leap with delight for now I was homeward bound.

  What a strange creature is man ' It is said that he sees with his eyes but I con tend that his heart gives color to his vision. Jf not, why do the same scenes, unchang ed in their appearance, to him present different aspects? Why does that which to-day he beholds coleur de rose, to-mor row wear the sable hue of gloom ? Is not the scene the same? Are not his eyes the same ? Ay ! but yesterday his heart was light and bounding with joy to-day it is dark and oppressed with grief All the change, then, lies in the heart.

  Yes ! here I stood alone my face set eastward my steps bent to the still far distant land of my youth. What had I not been through, what had 1 not suffered, wnoe quitting that roof under which I had

  known nothing but happiness and ease ? In little more than two years, I felt I had lived an age, and even fancied my hair growing gray at twenty-two.

  Yes ! I was wending my way to my na tive land ; but should God permit me to reach there alive, what an unenviable lot was mine, to make the home of my friend the house of lamentation and woe ! And Lilian, dear Lilian, to whom, would to God, I could bring nothing but joy I must be doomed, too, to make her weep, to till her bright eyes with tears, and robe her fair form in funeral weeds. Alasl alas ! what bitter necessity ! How my soul groaned in anguish at the thought, until I envied the supposed cold death- sleep of him I wept.

  Such were some of my thoughts and feelings, as I commenced descending the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. I have said nothing of my route hither, since leaving Pueblo de los Angelos, and forth very reason there was little or nothing to say. My horse had borne me hither ; my hand had guided him ; my food had been such as came in my way ; my sleep hail been mostly upon the hard earth in th open air ; my route had occasionally be?a pointed out to me occasionally had beer taken at a venture : I had sometimes h.id companions sometimes had traveled bj myself; and, lastly, was here now, alonti, and that was the most I knew. Oppress- ed with a burden of grief almost insup portable, I had taken little note of external objects. With a sort of instinct, I had day after day, pursued my journey, pel fectly reckless of that life which to m seemed more an affliction than a comfort I had been surrounded by dangers at all times ; I had been less cautious than pre vious in guarding against them ; and yel here I was alive in fair bodily health preserved how, and for what purpose, God only knew.

  It was near the close of August, and the day v/as clear and cold, the sun, some three hours advanced toward noon, streamed over the scene his bright light, but without much apparent warmth. The north wind, sweeping down from th icjr peaks of the Wind River Mountains looming up in rugged masses away to the left seemed to chill my very blood; anu

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  purring my noble horse onward, I dashed down the long slope before me at a fast gallop.

  A little after nightfall, I came to a ro mantic valley, shut in by hills, through which a bright stream rolled, and foamed, and murmured over its rocky bed. Here I beheld the fires of two encampments. The one nearest the bank of the river, was evidently a party of emigrants ; for by the dim light, I coul J just trace the white out line of seveial covered wagons, and a few dark, moving objects near them, which I took to be their animals. I could also see A few figures fritting to and fro, some /ound the fire-lights, and some more dis tant engaged, to all appearance, in pre paring the evening's repast, and settling themselves down for the night. The other encampment, separated from the first some thirty or forty rods, consisted of only one fire, around which were squatted a small group of mountaineers. To this I directed 017 horse, and, on coming up, said :

  " Gentlemen, will you permit a solita* ry traveler to mess with you for the nitfht ? "

  " Well, we won't do nothin else," re plied a voice which I fancied was not un familiar to me.

  Although this answer signified I was wrlcome to join them, yet not a man mov ed, nor appeared to notice me at all. This, however, did not disconcert me in the least, as I knew so well the morose, semi- eocial habits of the mountaineer, that, to gain a grunt of assent to my request, was the utmost I could expect. I therefore dismounted, and, approaching the tire, scrutinized the faces of the party closely, as, rolling out clouds of tobacco smoke, they remained fixed like posts in a circle, their eyes apparently seeing nothing but the flames. Judge of my astonishment, reader, on discovering in this party of five, two of my old acquaintances Black George, and Teddy O'Lagherty. My first impulse was to spring f orward, and make myself known at once. But on second thought, 1 concluded to remain incog., and see what would be the result.

  Removing the saddle and trappings from my horse, I hoppled and left him to crop the green grass of the valley. Then drawing nwir the firt, I squatted my
self

  down in the ring, just far enough back to bave a shade upon my face. The trappers were engaged in conversation of more than ordinary interest, and appeared not to notice me ; while, for my own part, I determined not to interrupt them.

  " Think she'll hevto go under," observ ed Black George, with an omincnis shako of the head. Thar's many places better to be sick in nor this here."

  " Ah, jabers ! but it's har-r-d now, so it is," rejoizied Teddy, looking very solemn, " Howty murther ! but I wish mesilf a doc- thor now barring the physicing, that I don't like at all at all if ounly to make the face of that swaat crathur glad, by tilling her I knows her mother's ailment. Ochone ! but she's the purtiest live' one I've saan since laving ould Ireland, where I wish mesilf back again. I could love her, for looking so much like me young masther, that's 'dead and gone, pace to his bones. Ochone ! this is a sorry world, so it is."

  " How she looked, when she axed for a doctor of me," observed another. " Ef I hadn't left soon, I'd a done somethin wo manish, sartin."

  "Augh ! " grunted Black George, knock ing the ashes from his pipe ; "sich sights as them aint fit for us mountaineers."

  "Of whom are you speaking, friends ? " I now inquired, deeply interested.