Part 32 (2/2)
My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was paramount; and after a.s.suaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The n.o.ble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even changed his att.i.tude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted the n.o.ble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge!
When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by the _ovis ammon_ in descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body?
I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun--that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs--told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot?
If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game.
Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, a _free_ trapper. I knew that upon several head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these singular men.
From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears--”Off there, Wolf! off, villain dog! Don't you see that the creature is killed--no thanks to you, sirrah?” Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman!
While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes--a girl majestically beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown--cheeks of purplish red--a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve--eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope--a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of s.h.i.+ning black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes--such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view--equally striking and picturesque.
I need not say that it was of perfect shape--bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself--hence the perfect correspondence of its parts.
And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation.
The costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. About both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself--for those sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw the snowy cone of Pike's Peak rising over the crest of the cliff, I might have fancied myself in the Sierra Asturias, with a beautiful _gitana_ standing before me. The soft fawn-skin _tilma_, with its gaudy broidering of beads and stained quills--the fringed skirt and buskined ankles--the striped Navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders-- all presented a true gipsy appearance. The plumed circlet upon the head was more typical of Transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a female hand was still another idiosyncracy of America. It was from that rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low the bighorn! It was not a _hunter_ then who had killed the game; but she who stood before me--a huntress--the Wild Huntress.
CHAPTER SEVENTY.
THE WILD HUNTRESS.
No longer was it from fear that I held back; but a hesitancy springing from surprise mingled with admiration. The sight of so much beauty-- grand as unexpected--was enough to unnerve one, especially in such a place--and one to whose eye the female form had so long been a stranger.
Su-wa-nee's I had seen only at a distance; and hers, to my sight, was no longer beautiful. I hesitated to show myself--lest the sight of me should alarm this lovely apparition, and cause her to take flight. The thought was not unnatural--since the tricoloured pigments of black, red, and white were still upon my skin; and I must have presented the picture of a chimney-sweep with a dining-plate glued upon his breast. In such a guise I knew that I must cut a ludicrous figure, and would have slipped back to the pool, and washed myself; but I dreaded to take my eyes from that beautiful vision, lest I might never look upon it again! In my absence, she would be gone? I feared even then, that on seeing me she might take flight: and I was too faint to follow her. For this reason, I stood silently gazing through my leafy covert, like one who watches the movements of some shy and beautiful bird. I almost dreaded to breathe lest the sound might alarm her. I was planning, at the same time, how I should initiate an interview.
Her voice again reached me, as she recommenced scolding the dog: even its chiding tones were sweet. She had approached, and stooped for a moment over the bighorn, as if to satisfy herself that the animal was dead. Her canine companion did not appear to be quite sure of the fact: for he continued to spring repeatedly upon the carca.s.s with open mouth, as if eager to devour it.
”Off, off!” cried she, threatening the dog with the b.u.t.t of her rifle.
”You wicked Wolf! what has got into you? Have I not told you that the thing is dead--what more do you want? Mind, sirrah!” continued she, shaking her finger significantly at the dog--”mind, my good fellow!
_you_ had no part in the killing of it; and if you spoil the skin, you shall have no share in the flesh. You hear me? Not a morsel!”
Wolf appeared to understand the hint and retired. Impelled by hunger, I accepted the cue:
”You will not refuse a morsel to one who is starving?”
”Aha! who speaks?” cried the huntress, turning round with a glance rather of inquiry than alarm. ”Down, Wolf!” commanded she, as the dog bounded forward with a growl. ”Down, you savage brute! Don't you hear that some one is starving? Ha! a negro! Poor devil! where can he have come from, I wonder?”
Only my head was visible--a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. The coat of char upon my face was deceiving her.
”No, not a negro,” said I, stepping out and discovering my person--”not a negro, though I have been submitted to the treatment of one.”
”Ho! white, red, and black! Mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin!
Ha, ha, ha!”
”My toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? I might apologise for it--since I can a.s.sure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than--”
”You are a white man, then?” said she, interrupting me--at the same time stepping nearer to examine me.
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