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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Eighty One.</h3> <h4>The Death-Song.</h4> Prostrated in spirit, I sunk down among the rocks, covering my face with my hands. So occupied was I with wild imaginings, that I saw not the Utah women as they passed down the valley. They did not approach the butte, nor make halt near, but hastened directly onward to the scene of conflict. I had for the moment forgotten them; and was only reminded of their proximity on hearing the death-wail, as it came pealing up the valley. It soon swelled into a prolonged and plaintive chorus—interrupted only by an occasional shriek—that denoted the discovery of some relative among the slain—father, brother, husband—or perhaps still nearer and dearer, some worshipped lover—who had fallen under the spears of the Arapahoes. Was Maranee among them?—the wailing women? The thought roused me from my reverie of wretchedness. A gleam of joy shot suddenly across my mind. It was the wild huntress that had given origin to the thought. On her I had founded a new hope. She must be seen! No time should be lost in communicating with her? Had she accompanied the women of the tribe? Was she upon the ground? I rose to my feet, and was going for my horse. I saw Wingrove advancing towards me. The old shadow had returned to his brow. I might exult in the knowledge of being able to dispel it—once and for ever? Fortunate fellow! little suspected he at that moment how I held his happiness in my hand—how, with one word, I could raise from off his heart the load, that for six long months had weighed heavily upon it! Yes—a pleasant task was before me. Though my own heart bled, I could stop the bleeding of his—of hers, both in a breath. Now, or not yet? I hesitated. I can scarcely tell why. Perhaps it was that I might enjoy a double delight—by making the disclosure to both of them at once? I had a sweet surprise for them. To both, no doubt, it would be a revelation that would yield the most rapturous joy. Should I bring them face to face, and leave them to mutual explanations? This was the question that had offered itself, and caused me to hesitate and reflect. No. I could not thus sport with hearts that loved. I could not procrastinate that exquisite happiness, now so near. At once let them enter upon its enjoyment! But both could not be made happy exactly at the same instant? One or other must be first told the glad truth that was in store for them? Apart they must be told it; and to which was I to give the preference? I resolved to follow that rule of polite society, which extends priority to the softer sex. Wingrove must wait! It was only with an effort, I could restrain myself from giving him a hint of his proximate bliss. I was sustained in the effort, however, by observing the manner in which he approached me. Evidently he had some communication to make that concerned our future movements? Up to that moment, there had been no time to talk—even to think of the future. “I’ve got somethin’ to say to you, capt’n,” said he, drawing near, and speaking in a serious tone; “it’s better, may be, ye shed know it afore we go furrer. The girl’s been givin’ me some partickalers o’ the caravan that I hain’t told you.” “What girl?” “The Chicasaw—Su-wa-nee.” “Oh—true. What says she? Some pleasant news I may anticipate, since she has been the bearer of them?” It was not any lightness of heart that caused me to give an ironical form to the interrogative. Far from that. “Well, capt’n,” replied my comrade, “it is rayther ugly news the red-skinned devil’s told me; but I don’ know how much truth thar’s in it; for I’ve foun’ her out in more ’n one lie about this bizness. She’s been wi’ the carryvan, however, an’ shed know all about it.” “About what?” I asked. “Well—Su-wa-nee says that the carryvan’s broke up into two.” “Ha!” “One helf o’ it, wi’ the dragoons, hes turned south, torst Santa Fé; the other, which air all Mormons, hev struck off northardly, by a different pass, an’ on a trail thet makes for thar new settlements on Salt Lake.” “There’s not much news in that. We had anticipated something of the kind?” “But thar’s worse, capt’n.” “Worse!—what is it, Wingrove?” I put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety. “Holt’s gone wi’ the Mormons.” “That too I had expected. It does not surprise me in the least.” “Ah! capt’n,” continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, “thar’s uglier news still.” “Ha!” I involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind. “News of her? Quick! tell me! has aught happened to her?” “The worst that kud happen, I reck’n—she’s dead.” I started as if a shot had passed through my heart. Its convulsive throbbing stifled my speech. I could not get breath to utter a word; but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony. “Arter all,” continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, “I don’t know if it air the worst. I sayed afore, an’ I say so still, thet I’d ruther she war dead that in the arms o’ thet ere stinkin’ Mormon. Poor Marian! she’s hed but a short life, o’ ’t, an’ not a very merry one eyether.” “What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?” “Why, sartin, capt’n. Who else shed it be?” “Marian dead?” “Yes—poor girl, she never lived to see that Salt Lake city—whar the cussed varmint war takin’ her. She died on the way out, an’ war berryed som’rs on the paraireys. I wish I knew whar—I’d go to see her grave.” “Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?” My companion looked at me in amazement. The laugh, at such a time, must have sounded strange to his ears. “The Injun heerd it from Lil,” replied Wingrove, still puzzled at my behaviour. “Stebbins had told it to Holt, an’ to her likeways. Poor young creetur! I reck’n he’ll be a wantin’ her too—now thet he’s lost the other. Poor little Lil!” “Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied—belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive the girl’s father—the Indian to do the same with you. The story is false, Marian Holt is not dead.” “Marian ain’t dead?” “No, she lives—she has been true to you. Listen.” I could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. The reaction—consequent on the bitter pang I had just experienced, while under the momentary belief that it was Lilian who was dead—had stirred my spirit, filling it with a wild joy. I longed to impart the same emotions to my suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, I ran over the events that had occurred since our parting. To the revelations which the Mexican had made, Wingrove listened with frantic delight—only interrupting me with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. When I had finished, he cried out: “She war forced to go! I thort so! I knew it! Whar is she, capt’n! Oh, take me to her! I’ll fall on my knees. I’ll axe her a thousand times to pardon me. ’Twar the Injun’s fault. I’ll swar it war the Chicasaw. She’s been the cuss o’ us both. Oh! whar is Marian? I love her more than iver! Whar is she?” “Patience!” I said; “you shall see her presently. She must be down the valley, among the Indian women. Mount your horse, and follow me!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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