At any other time, Dacotah as she was, Waupee would have carefully scrutinized the path, for well she knew that the gaunt bear of the mountain made his den in the caverns and hollow trees around her; that the monarch of the fastnesses growled his anger when wandering footsteps sounded near his den, and tore the intruder on his domains piecemeal. She knew that each step was margined with danger, from the sliding debris on the narrow path, and pitfalls lurked unseen to tempt the foot to press the mimic bridge that concealed destruction. But all fear was swallowed up in one giant heart-pain, and, half distraught, she rushed along, unthinking, and heedless of the end. The serpents of despised, cruelly disdained love, had coiled themselves upon her breast, and stung it into despair. The full wealth of her wifely affection had been crushed and flung wantonly aside, trampled ruthlessly under foot, ground down in the dust, annihilated while yet in the spring-time of its bloom and fragrance. What was left for her but death? She had not been nurtured in the schools of civilized life, which train the lip and eye into smiles, give false roses for the cheeks and lying words of happiness for the tongue, when the only music of the heart is a funeral wail. Poor, uneducated eaglet of the wilderness! Thy pinion had been broken even when soaring most proudly! The shaft of the hunter has found thee! Broken-winged and brokenhearted, what was left for thee but to creep into some lone cavern and die?
The sleep of the party of Black Eagle was long and sound, but their leader was the first astir. Short time was devoted to the preparation of food, and shorter still for council. Night and storm had passed. The glorious morning sun swept away their somber foot-prints, and those savage hearts buoyantly lifted themselves out of their fear, and, forgetful of the stern resolves and penitential promises they had made, clothed anew with daring, went defiantly forth to battle and to sin.
Most craftily Black Eagle worked upon the minds of his followers, painting what sweet revenge it would be upon the white men to repossess themselves of their wandering prisoner, for wandering, unless dead, she must be. The luring bait of gold he also held out to them, and was eloquent on the pleasures of its possession, until, with one accord, his warriors consented to accompany him, and the march of the rescue began.
Rescue? When the fowler takes the bird or the fisherman the spotted trout from the net, is it for rescue? When the strong-willed and strong-armed man beats back the angry waves, bears the drowning victim ashore on the rocky heights of Patagonia, is it for rescue? See! poised on its light wings, a very spot in the ether, sails the hawk. His slender form is mirrored in the placid tide below, and his keen eye is watching for his scaly prey. There is a sudden dart, a plashing of the water, and a writhing body is torn from its native element, and borne aloft in the talons of the victor. But see, again! like an avalanche an eagle rushes through the startled air, from its lookout on the dry old pine. In mid-air he strikes the conqueror down. Is not he intent upon rescuing the feeble fish? Truly, yes, but for what? Earth is everywhere filled with the answer, and it needs no written words to blazon the burning shame so often hidden in the single word.
Off they go, that dark band of Indian warriors—black wolves, following on the trail of a wounded doe. Better for the poor girl they hunted to have perished in the glare of the lightning, amid the rolling music of the thunder, than meet them in the hour of their wrath.
CHAPTER XIV.
WALTERMYER—A CHAMPION.
“Waal,” exclaimed Kirk Waltermyer, as his good horse floundered along in the darkness, “of all the rides I ever had this is the beat. I’ve hearn tell of storms in the mountings, and thought I had seen them, but they were nowhar compared to this. Whew! how the wind tussles with the tree-tops and whistles in the gulches. I tell you, this is some! I’ve half a mind to camp, and would, only—poor little Est! I wonder if the rain falls as heavily, and the wind soughs as mournfully around your grave, my poor gal?”
The recollection of his little dead sister, now ever kept in memory by the name of the young creature he was seeking to save, humanized and softened his usual rough speech. Still he continued, as if addressing a companion who could reply, and not his faithful horse, with whom his one-sided conversation was held. And yet, if the doctrine of the transmigration of souls were true, might not this matchless steed have been gifted with the keen perception of some great man whose death the world still mourns? We know the foolish falsehood of the story, and yet there exist examples in the brute creation, that, weighed in the scale of worth, would make many a man shrink into littleness.
“I know some horses, Star,” he continued, “that I wouldn’t ride across this mountain in a dark night—nary a time. No, not for all the gold in Shasta. Hello! what kind of a caper is that?”
The horse had come to a sudden stop—so sudden as to shake even his perfect rider, and stood with braced feet, snorting nostrils, and eyes flashing fire, immovable in limb as if sculptured from the very rock on which he stood, and yet his whole body trembling with fear. His keen sight—far more keen than mortal eye in the darkness—had discovered something unusual in the path before him.