CHAPTER XLI.
THE BRANDED BROTHERHOOD.
Picture to yourself a bivouac of outlaws, a wild-looking but picturesque camp scene far out in the “land of the setting sun.” A “prairie sea” is upon every hand, here and there dotted with a timber island, a cool and refreshing covert from the heat of the plain.
Miles and miles of land, unfurrowed by the plowshare, untilled by human hands, stretch away in boundless expanse as far as mortal vision can sweep. Winding its silvery length along, like a huge serpent crawling across the rolling prairies, is a clear and lazy river, its waters cold and inviting, coming from the icy fountains in the hills, and its banks flower-spangled and many-hued, while here and there a motte, or growth of timber, casts fantastic shadows across the stream.
In the deep recesses and shady retreats of one of the larger of these mottes is this bivouac of bandits. The day is far spent, the sun is near its setting, and its last rays cause the tall trees to stretch their shadows far out over the waving grass, which, under the influence of a light wind, resembles the restless waves of the ocean.
Into this encampment of the outlaws I would have the reader accompany me, in imagination, for there he will behold a scene never to be met with amid the boundaries of civilization. These men formed a wild and striking assemblage of horsemen, dismounted and gathered in groups, either preparing their evening meal around the blazing camp fires, or else indifferently lounging around, awaiting the completion of the culinary arrangements.
A strange set of human beings they were, of many tongues and costumes, but with the buckskin leggings, flannel shirt, and slouch hat predominating. They were men outlawed from the homes of civilization; men upon whose brows rested the curse of Cain, and who were branded, far and wide, as a brotherhood of bandits.
Many of them were dashing, daring, and gallant fighters, but turned the gifts God had given them to prey upon the lives and fortunes of their fellow men. Amid that motley group might be seen the deserter from the army of the United States, the lively Frenchman, the florid Englishman, the beer-loving German, the swarthy Spaniard, the half-breed, the full-blooded Indian, and the American.
Truly they were a bold and reckless set, held in check by one man, who, half reclining before a bright fire, watched the movements of his negro cook, and ever and anon addressed some words to the three or four of his comrades around him.
Once that elegant but powerful form had been clad in the uniform of an honored cavalry officer of his country’s service, and the dark and lustrous eyes had, amid the brilliant saloons of the distant cities,
Looked love to eyes