CHAPTER XII.
LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS—AN UNEXPECTED GUIDE—REST.
When the battle between the Mormons and the Indians composing the company of Black Eagle was at its height, Esther Morse was forced to be a looker on. Tied firmly to her seat in the saddle, with only her hands at liberty and with her savage captor at her very side, she dared not make a movement toward escape. But when the strong arm of the white man had stricken the red one to the earth, and she was comparatively unwatched, the brave girl gave her steed the rein, and urging him forward soon disappeared up the valley.
So intently had the combatants been playing the game of blood that no one saw her go, knew of her going, or could tell when or whither she had flown.
Ah! a noble steed was the one that Esther Morse rode that night, worthy to carry so fair a load. Whirling around the nearest point of rocks, she paused but long enough to release her limbs from their bonds and prepare herself in the best manner in her power for easy horsemanship. Then, without the slightest knowledge of the road she must travel in order to gain her friends, she hurried on, striking into a downward path that she hoped would end in the prairie. The fear of recapture was greater in her breast than death itself; so she rode on recklessly over paths that, at another time, would have made her heart sink and her head turn giddy. Many a time she looked anxiously back, thinking that she heard the clatter of pursuing footsteps; then finding that it was the echo of the hoofs that were so faithfully and swiftly bearing her on, a faint smile would ripple for a moment over her face, banishing the stern lines of anxiety and pain. But these gleams of incipient joy were transient as summer lightning, for reality stood too near with its stern danger. The sky was too black, and heavily vailed with clouds, to admit of the star-light flashing through, unless by chance there might be parting rifts that permitted a gleam now and then to reveal how dreary her path was.
Alone in the mountains! Few minds can compass the meaning of the words, for they know neither of the dangers or the fears that surround a position so terrible. But that brave rider was thinking only of escape, and when night and storm indeed settled around her, she awoke as from a pleasant dream. The companionship of any one wearing the semblance of mortality would have been pleasant then, for the fearful stories she had heard and read came back to her mind with terrible acuteness, and in each shadow darker than the rest she saw the form of a wild beast panting for her blood. There were wild beasts abroad it is true, but the storm that drove them to their dens and hiding places—the pitiless rain that drenched her through and through, was her safety.
Storm? Yes; for the same lurid glare and terrific thunder that appalled even Waltermyer was sweeping and crashing around her. An untrained horse would have swerved and been dashed to atoms on the ragged rocks hundreds of feet below—would have missed his footing and plunged down the gulf, hurling his rider a shapeless mass to the bottom. It was a terrible ride—terrible for any one, and how much more so for a feeble girl, lost in the rocky wastes of the inhospitable mountains and fleeing for her very life.
The bridle slipped from her grasp. The cold rain and numbing atmosphere rendered the hand powerless to hold it longer, and while the clang of the firmly-placed hoofs fell hopefully upon her ears in the lull of the tempest, she poured out her soul in prayer to Him who holds the earth in the hollow of his hand.
Up! still up! Oh! how strangely she has missed her road! Not to the sloping prairie—not to the level paths, where her father’s train was camped, did she bend her way, but still higher—ever higher, toward the dizzy summits where the eagle builds its nest and seeks no companionship save from its kind.
Upward! still upward, where the sure foot of the mountain goat dare hardly travel, and where the mists hang heavy with death and chilling dews. Oh! will that rising trail never end? Will the point never be reached where the foot can no higher press the flinty road—the winding, serpent-like course that glides along the frowning wall above and perpendicular precipice below?
A sudden, blinding flash! A glare as if the vail of night had been rent, and in one unbroken flood let the starry glory through. Then all was utter blackness! Chilled to the very heart, unable longer to retain her upright position, she crouches in the saddle, and bends downward until her long hair, loosened from confinement, mingled with the milky, wind-tossed mane of the gallant steed. Her arms clasp his arched neck—she clings to it for life, and, half fainting, with closed eyes, is borne along—whither?