Part 1 (1/2)
A Fortune Hunter; Or, The Old Stone Corral.
by John Dunloe Carteret.
Chapter I.
The sinking sun threw its amber beams over the wide valley, rolling hills, and the dim b.u.t.tes, wreathed in the blue haze of distance and looming with vague outlines in the wavering s.h.i.+mmer of the evening mirage.
A silvery stream, half hidden by fringing trees, wound through the prairie valley, but was lost to sight where a lofty b.u.t.te shouldered boldly down from the highland on the south, as if to catch a view of the Eden-like landscape that dreamed below, while far away to the north a line of galloping hills bounded the vision, their mantles of tender green dappled by the shadow and suns.h.i.+ne of the fleecy clouds that floated overhead. On the south the level prairie melted away into the limitless distance, clothed in the tender gra.s.ses and flowers of early spring-time, while on every hand stretched away the horizon-bound prairies of the Western plains.
A wide meadow-land, made perfect by the hand of nature, but lacking that soul and animation which human occupancy alone can impart to any scene.
No homes are visible; nothing but the blank page of nature, waiting to be written over with the histories of the people, which, something whispers to me, will soon invade this peaceful scene, over which now broods the unnatural calm of utter solitude.
Out beyond that blue line of hills, which flame up in the east, is raging the fierce conflict which we call civilization; but the shock and din, the roar and turmoil of the mighty battle die fitfully away long before reaching the quivering line of that dim horizon. I stand alone upon the crest of a breeze-kissed hill, listening to the moan and whisper of the wind sighing through the gra.s.ses at my feet, or the notes of a meadow lark, thrilling and sweet, as it flits by.
To the westward, on a lofty knoll, are visible the broken arches and ruined walls of the Old Stone Corral; rank vines now veil the loop-holes where once had flashed forth the leaden death-messenger for many a savage warrior that had tried to storm the impregnable inclosure, which had been built as a place of refuge for travelers on the Santa Fe Trail, that here crossed the Cottonwood on a stony ford. A giant elm, centuries old, stood amid the ruins, its drooping boughs of feathery spray weeping like a fountain of verdure over the spring that welled out from among its roots, then went gurgling away, a purling brook, to join the narrow stream in the valley.
The river here at the ruins had nearly encircled the hill on which they stood, and after half embracing the knoll in its timber-fringed course had wound away down the valley, but where the groves grew in ma.s.ses of darkest green, there the stream had widened to miniature lakelets that flashed like silver in the slanting sunbeams.
On a low mound near by I see a great stone, like a rude monument, and drawing near I can barely decipher this dim and weather-worn inscription, carved on the red sandstone:
Erected to the Memory OF FIFTY-THREE VICTIMS OF THE CHEYENNES, AUGUST 22, 1849.
NAMES ALL UNKNOWN.
Here is a dim, dark tragedy, buried within this gra.s.sy knoll, but within these pages all the mystery which haunts the flower-bespangled hillock will be cleared away. A difficult task indeed; but without those graves my story would never have been written.
I stand silent and thoughtful, gazing out over the tranquil landscape, which had once witnessed a scene of revolting horror here on this quiet spot; but all is peaceful now, the only sign of life visible being the long file of antelope that hurry by from the north. Halting on a lofty headland, they pause a moment, stretching their graceful necks to gaze back along their pathway, then with loud snorts wheeling and swiftly fleeing away.
At this moment the distant sound of hoofs was heard, becoming momentarily louder; then a group of riders dash up on their sleek, superb horses, and draw rein at the rude monument.
”It must be here, Clifford, at this low mound,” said one of the riders, a graceful girl of seventeen, with nut-brown hair and blue eyes.
”Yes, Maud, I recognize the knoll from father's and Uncle Roger's description. It was uncle who carved this inscription upon the stone, little dreaming then that we should all come here a quarter of a century later to secure a new home,” replied a youth of near twenty years; handsome, golden-haired, and symmetrical, with eyes of pansy blue, and a look of pride and good birth about him which showed plain through the dust and tan of a long journey.
”Ah, dear Bruce and Ivarene! how sad to end their romance with such a tragedy!” said Maud tearfully, as Clifford dismounted; then, as he helped her to alight, they stood for a moment in mute sorrow while deciphering the inscription upon the stone.
”Maud, it is hard to believe that the heiress of grand old Monteluma, with her millions of gold and gems at command, who wedded n.o.ble Bruce in the great cathedral before the dignitaries and amba.s.sadors of half Christendom with a pomp and splendor new to even luxury-steeped Mexico, is sleeping with her husband in the silence of this lonesome grave,”
Clifford said in a tone of deep sadness.
”Oh! how vivid the picture returns, of the silken and lace-robed heiress, who threw back the gilded lattice of her window, and with pearls glinting, and rubies burning in her raven hair, smiled as her handsome lover, in his uniform of gray and gold lace, swung himself up to her window by the pa.s.sion-vines and fuchsias, that rained a shower of purple, white, and rose on his sunny hair. I can almost see the love-look in his blue eyes yet,” said Maud with a flood of tears, as she leaned against the rude monument and covered her face with her hands.
”I have sometimes fancied that they escaped; for there was no one left but father to inquire, and you know how long he was covered with the stones of that old wall, remaining delirious for months after Uncle Roger found him,” said Clifford, ”and that million of their gold and gems, with father's store of gold, I have often fancied, Maud, was hidden near here; for there has never been a search made since the terrible ma.s.sacre.”
”That looks so improbable, Clifford. If the savages murdered them for plunder, as they certainly did, then it is idle to think that they would have left anything of value behind. Even the jewels would have been fought for, as savages are very fond of glitter and splendor,” Maud replied.
”Yes, that very disposition of theirs to wrangle over their booty has given me a hope that the leader might have buried the gold, for the reason that it would have been impossible to carry away a ton of coin without first dividing it. I shall make the search at any rate, though it does look like a forlorn hope,” he added with a sigh.
”Miss Warlow, there seems to have been a great tragedy enacted here in the past,” said a young man of near Clifford's age, who had been silently regarding them from a distance, in company with a flaxen-haired girl, younger than Maud, who still sat upon her horse by his side.