Part 25 (2/2)
THE ABANDONED BOUQUET.
Having pa.s.sed Bent's Fort--of wide celebrity in trapper lore--whilom the scene of many a wild revel of the ”mountain-men,” but now abandoned and in ruins--we arrived at the confluence of the Huerfano. As we expected, the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream--thus deciding the route taken by the caravan.
We rode on through a forest of grand cotton-woods and willows; and at about seven miles distant from the mouth of the Huerfano river, reached a point, where the caravan had crossed over to its left bank. On the other side, we could see the ground of their encampment of the night before. We could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and waggons-- debris of the morning's repast--and half-burnt f.a.ggots of the tires that had cooked it, still sending up their clouds of oozing smoke.
The stream at this point was fordable; and crossing over, we stood upon the deserted camp-ground. With singular emotions, I walked amid the smouldering fires--forming conjectures as to which of them might have been graced by that fair presence. Where had she pa.s.sed the night, and what had occupied her thoughts? Were those gentle words still lingering in her memory? Were they upon her lips? It was pleasant for me to repeat them. I did not need to draw the writing forth. Long since were the lines fixed in my remembrance--oft through my heart had vibrated the burden of that sweet song:
”I think of thee--I think of thee!”
My reflections were not altogether unmingled with pain. Love cannot live without doubts and fears. Jealousy is its infallible concomitant-- ever present as the thorn with the rose. How could I hope that one hour of my presence had been sufficient to inspire in that young bosom the pa.s.sion of a life? It could scarcely be other than a slight impression--a pa.s.sing admiration of some speech, word, or gesture--too transient to be true? Perhaps I was already forgotten? Perhaps only remembered with a smile, instead of a sigh? Though still but a short time since our parting, many scenes had since transpired--many events had occurred in the life of that young creature to give it experience.
Forms of equal--perhaps superior elegance--had come before her eye.
Might not one of these have made its image upon her heart?
The caravan was not a mere conglomeration of coa.r.s.e rude adventurers.
There were men of all cla.s.ses composing it--not a few of accomplished education--not a few who, using a hackneyed phrase, were ”men of the world,”--familiar with its ways and its wiles--and who perfectly understood all those intricate attentions and delicate lures, by which the virgin heart is approached and captured. There were military men too--those ever to be dreaded rivals in love--young officers of the escort, laced, booted, and spurred--bedecked, moreover, with that mysterious influence which authority ever imparts to its possessor.
Could these be blind to the charms of such a travelling companion?
Impossible. Or could she--her young bosom just expanding to receive the G.o.d of love--fail to acknowledge the nearest form as his image?
Painfully improbable!
It was therefore with feelings of no very pleasant kind that I sought around for some souvenir. The remains of a fire, a little apart from the rest, near the edge of a piece of copsewood, drew my attention. It looked as if it had been a spot on which some family group had encamped.
I was led to this conjecture, by observing some flowers scattered near--for the gra.s.sy sward showed no other sign. The flowers betokened the presence of womankind. Fair faces--or one at least--had beamed in the light of that fire. I felt morally certain of it. I approached the spot. The shrubbery around was interlaced with wild roses; while blue lupins and scarlet pelargoniums sparkled over the glade, under the sheltering protection of the trees. By the edge of the shrubbery lay a bouquet, that had evidently been put together with some care!
Dismounting, I took it up. My fingers trembled as I examined it: for even in this slight object I read indications of design. The flowers were of the rarest and prettiest--of many kinds that grew not near.
They had been plucked elsewhere. Some one had given both time and attention to their collection and arrangement. Who? It would have been idle to shape even a conjecture, but for a circ.u.mstance, that appeared to offer a certain clue; and, not without bitter thoughts, did I try to unwind it. The thread which was warped around the flower-stalks was of yellow silk. The strands were finely twisted; and I easily recognised the bullion from the ta.s.sel of a sash. That thread must have been taken from the sash of a dragoon officer!
Had the bouquet been a gift? To whom? and by whom? Here all conjecture should have ended; but not without a feeling of painful suspicion did I examine those trivial signs; and the feeling continued to annoy me, long after I had flung the flowers at my feet.
A reflection came to my relief, which went far towards restoring my spirits' equanimity. If a gift, and to Lilian Holt, she had scarcely honoured it--else how could the flowers have been there? Had they been forgotten, or left unregarded? There was consolation in either hypothesis; and, in the trust that one or the other was true, I sprang back into my saddle, and with a more cheerful heart, rode away from the spot.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE.
AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE.
The finding of the flowers, or rather the reflections to which they gave rise, rendered me more anxious than ever to come up with, the caravan.
The little incident had made me aware of a new danger hitherto unthought of. Up to that hour, my chief anxiety with regard to Lilian Holt had been the companions.h.i.+p of the Mormon. This had been heightened by some information incidentally imparted by the deserters--chiefly by Sure-shot. It related to the destination of a number of the emigrants, who accompanied the caravan; and with whom the rifleman had held intercourse, previous to their departure from Van Buren. These were not prospective gold-diggers, but persons migrating westward from motives more spiritual: they were _Saints_ bound for the Salt Lake--there intending to stay and settle.
There was a large party of these ”Latter-day” converts under the conduct of an apostolic agent. This much had Sure-shot ascertained. He had not seen their leader, nor heard his name. Joshua Stebbins might be the very man? Even as a conjecture, this was bitter enough. Up to the time of joining with the deserters, I had consoled myself with the belief, that California was the destination of this saint and his squatter protege; though at times I was troubled with the remembrance of Su-wa-nee's words. Their truth was almost confirmed by the report of the ex-rifleman. I could not now think otherwise, than that Stebbins was bound for the Mormon city; and that he was the fox in charge of the flock of geese that accompanied the emigrant train. It was more than probable. While waiting in Swampville for the letter of Lilian, I had learnt something of the history of the _ci-devant_ schoolmaster--not much of the period subsequent to his departure from that place--little more than the fact that he had joined the Mormons, and had risen to high office in their church--in short, that he was one of their ”apostles.”
This fact, however, was one of primary significance.
Had the squatter also submitted to the hideous delusion? Was he also on his way to the shrine of the faith? The answer to the former question was of slight importance, so long as that to the latter might be conceived in the affirmative. If Holt was bound to the Salt Lake, then was the fate of his daughter to be dreaded. Not long there may a virgin dwell. The baptism of the New Jordan soon initiates its female neophytes into the mysteries of womanhood--absolutely compelling them to the marriage-tie--forcing them to a wedlock loveless and unholy.
Suffering under such apprehensions, I scarcely needed the additional stimulus of jealousy to urge me onward; and yet, strange as it may appear, the finding of the bouquet had produced this effect. I would have ridden on, without halt, but our animals required rest. We had been travelling nearly all night, and throughout the morning--under the friendly shelter of the cotton-wood forest. We all needed an hour or two of repose; and, seeking a secure place near the ground of the deserted camp, we stopped to obtain it. The train could not be far ahead of us. While seated in silence around the fire we had kindled, we could hear at intervals the reports of guns. They came from up the valley, and from a far distance. The sounds reached us but faintly--now single shots, and then two or three together, or following in quick succession. We were at no loss to account for the reports. They were caused by the hunters of the caravan, in pursuit of game. We had now entered that charming region where elk and antelope abounded. On our morning-march we had seen herds of both trooping over the sward--almost within range of our rifles. Even as we sat, a band of beautiful antelopes appeared in the open ground near our bivouack fire; and, after satisfying their curiosity by gazing at us for a moment, they trotted off into the covert. It was a tempting sight--too tempting for the young backwoods hunter to resist. Seizing his rifle, he took after them--promising us as he went off a more savoury breakfast than the dry buffalo-meat we were broiling. Soon after, we heard the report of his piece; and, presently, he re-appeared with a dead ”p.r.o.ng-horn” upon his shoulders.
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