At earliest dawn, and long before the sun had gilded the snowy summits of the Spanish peaks, we were all afoot. A breakfast—similar in materials to our supper of the preceding night was hastily prepared, and still more hastily eaten. After that we proceeded to equip ourselves for the masquerade. Peg-leg acted as principal costumier; and well understood he the rôle he was called upon to perform. Perfectly acquainted with the Utah costume—both that used for war and the chase—there was no fear about the correctness of his heraldry being called in question. He knew every quartering: of the Utah escutcheon, with a minuteness of detail that would have done credit to a King-at-arms.
For himself he needed no disguise. As a trapper of Taos, he might also be an associate of Utah hunters; and personally unknown to the Mormons, they would have no other thoughts about him—further than that their friend Wa-ka-ra had sent him to guide them across the deserts of the Colorado. At the Mormon camp, therefore, he could present himself in his Mexican costume, without the Saints having the slightest suspicion as to his true character. This left him free to lend his services to the rest of us, and assist in our heraldic emblazonment. His first essay was upon myself. My features being sufficiently pronounced, rendered it all the more easy to make an Indian of me; and a uniform coat of vermilion over my neck, face, and hands, transformed me into a somewhat formidable-looking warrior. A buckskin hunting tunic, leggings and mocassins concealed the remainder of my skin; while some locks of long hair extracted from the mane and tail of my Arab, and craftily united to my own dark tresses, with the plumed bonnet and drooping crest overall, completed a costume that would have done me credit at a Parisian bal masqué.
With equal facility was accomplished the metamorphosis of the young backwoodsman, but not so easily that of Sure-shot. The nez retroussé, thin yellow hair, and green-grey eyes appeared to be insurmountable obstacles to the Indianising of the ex-rifleman. Peg-leg, however, proved an artist of skill. The chevelure of Sure-shot, well saturated with charcoal paste, assumed a different hue. A black circle around each eye neutralised the tint of both iris and pupil. To his face was given a ground-coat of red ochre; while some half-dozen dark stripes, painted longitudinally over it, and running parallel to the nose, extinguished the snub—transforming the Yankee into as good an Indian as any upon the ground!
Marian was her own “dresser;” and while we were engaged outside, was making her toilet within the tent. Her costume would require but little alteration: it was Indian already. Her face alone needed masking—and how was that to be done? To speak the truth, I was apprehensive upon the score of her disguise. I could not help reflecting on the fearful fate that awaited her, should the counterfeit be detected, and the girl identified. All along, I had felt uneasy upon this point; and had been endeavouring to devise some scheme by which to avoid the imprudence of her presenting herself in the Mormon camp. But the thought of Lilian—the perilous situation in which she was placed—perhaps more than all, the selfishness of my own love, had hindered me from thinking of any definite alternative.
When I saw the huntress-maiden issue forth from her tent—her face empurpled with the juice of the allegria berries—her cheeks exhibiting, each a circle of red spots, with a line of similar markings extended across her forehead—I no longer felt apprehension for the result. Though the hideous tattooing could not hide the charms of her speaking countenance, it had so changed its expression, that even Wingrove himself would not have recognised her! More like was it to baffle the scrutiny of father and false husband.
In due time we were all dressed for the drama; and, after making a cache of our cast-off garments, we struck tents, and moved forward to the performance. The faithful Wolf accompanied us. It was against my wish, and contrary to the counsel of our guide; but Marian would not part with a companion that more than once had protected her from cruel enemies. The dog had been disguised, as the rest of us. Shorn of his shaggy coat, with his tail trimmed smooth as that of a greyhound—his skin, moreover, stained Indian fashion—there seemed but slight danger that the animal could be recognised.