Seven and Nine years Among the Camanches and Apaches: An Autobiography

by Edwin Eastman

Near evening on the fourth day following, we arrived at the foot of the Sierra; and directly in front of us, about midway up the valley, or pass, more properly speaking, lay the Apache village. An exclamation of joy escaped my lips. At last, then, the hopes and longings of nine weary years were about to be satisfied. My reflections were abruptly terminated by Harding remarking that it was highly important that we seek cover and approach the village cautiously, if we expected our efforts to be crowned with success. All felt the justness of this observation, and seeking the cover of the mountain, we proceeded on our journey. In a short time we had advanced as near as we deemed it prudent, until the night should close in. Our reins were tightened, and we sat on our weary horses, looking over the plain. A magnificent panorama under any circumstances lay before us; but its interest was heightened by the peculiar circumstances under which we viewed it. The lodges were dotted over the plain in picturesque profusion, the smoke curling gracefully up in their dreamy spirals. One lodge stood apart, and from its size and decorations, we at once guessed it to be the abode of the chief. Harding confirmed our conjectures. Several droves of horses were quietly browsing on the open prairie. The sun was setting. The mountains were tinged with an amber colored light; and the quartz crystals sparkled on the peaks of the southern Sierras. It was a scene of silent beauty.

We remained for some time gazing up the valley, without any one uttering his thoughts. It was the silence that precedes resolve. An hour has fled; the sun sinks below the horizon, and the mountains take on a sombre hue. It is night. We urge our horses forward once more, keeping close to the mountain foot; conversing in whispers, we crawl around and among the loose boulders that have fallen from above, and after an hour's ride we find ourselves opposite the town.

The night passes slowly and silently; one by one the fires are extinguished, and the plain is wrapped in the gloom of a moonless night. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the stream, and the wolf howls on the skirts of the sleeping village.

Dismounting, we gather in a little knot, and consult as to what plan we shall pursue. It is finally determined that Harding and myself shall penetrate into the village, enter the chief's lodge, abduct my wife, and hastily rejoin our comrades, who will hold themselves in readiness to cover our retreat, and, if the worst comes to the worst, keep our pursuers at bay until we have made good our escape.

Hastily divesting ourselves of all unnecessary accoutrements, we started out on the plain, and cautiously approached the chief's lodge, which loomed up in the darkness like some hideous genii.

An Indian dog that was lurking about the door gave the alarm, but Harding's knife entered his vitals ere he could repeat it.

Now was the critical moment. Drawing the flap aside that served as a door, I peered cautiously in; all was silent; a small fire was burning in the center of the lodge, its fitful gleam dimly illuminating the interior. A number of low couches were ranged around the wall.

But at this juncture a dilemma presented itself. Here were a number of women, one of when was certainly my wife; but how was I to ascertain in which of these couches she reposed. If I should trust to chance, advance to the first one and peer in, and by so doing startle its inmate, even though that inmate were my wife, the peculiar nature of the visit would so startle her that she would not be enabled to recognize the intruder.

However, I determined to approach the first bed and trust to the chapter of accidents for the rest. Advancing noiselessly to the side of the couch, I lifted the curtain of dressed buffalo hide. The fire cast a dim light over the face of the sleeper, and, oh, joy, it was the loved features of my wife. I tried to speak, whisper her name; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I trembled like an aspen, and had to grasp the bed for support. This movement awakened the sleeper, and with an half-suppressed exclamation, she sprung to a sitting posture.

To breathe her name, clasp her in my arms, and rush for the door, was the work of an instant, and hastily snatching a robe that was suspended from the side of the lodge, I enveloped her in it, and rapidly gained the cover of the mountain. In a few moments our party was in full gallop down the valley.