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Updated: May 11, 2025
The Mexican had ascertained that Wa-ka-ra was still unhurt, and heading the pursuit. Having myself no further interest in the scene, I turned away from it; and, with Wingrove by my side, rode back towards the butte. Some words passed between us as we went. For my companion, I had news that would make him supremely happy. Our conversation turned not on that.
They were pointing towards Sure-shot, who still lay, as I have described, flat upon his face. Wingrove was no longer there; nor yet Su-wa-nee! Where could they have gone? I had seen both but the moment before! Had she unbound, and rescued him? Was it about them that the savages were in consultation? No; the result proved not.
"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.
On arriving at the butte, the white canvas was still visible; though from our low position on the plain, only the top of the tilt could be seen. While Wingrove was unpacking our spare garments, I dismounted, and climbed to the summit of the mound in order to obtain a better view.
Our absence was of short duration a turn to the tents and back again. While there, I had spoken a word to Wingrove and Sure-shot. Archilete was still absent. I had warned my comrades not to picket our horses at too great a distance from the tents: as we knew not how soon we might need them.
His glance was fixed upon the two forms slowly receding across the plain. He was regarding every movement of both with that keen concentrated gaze, which jealousy alone can give. "Nonsense, Wingrove!" said I, reading the thoughts of his heart. "Don't let that trouble you: there's nothing between them, I can assure you."
A snig of the red blade severed the thong; and the Indian's body sliding down from the withers of the horse, fell with a dull dead sound upon the turf. "Here Americano!" cried the trapper, holding out the ensanguined knife to Wingrove; "take this weapon for want of a better. Let us on! See! the picaros are making off. Vamos! nos vamonos!"
Wingrove and I had been to the lavatory before them; and had succeeded to a certain extent in scouring our skins clear of the vermilion bedaubment. In the anticipation of this pleasant interview, it was natural we should seek to rescue ourselves from a disguise, that the eye of woman could not look upon otherwise than with degout.
A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable clapboard roof of the young backwoodsman Frank Wingrove.
Yesterday, I "dashed" three or four great characters with a bottle each; all choosing ale or porter bottles in preference to an octagonal-sided one, used by "J. Wingrove and Co." of London, in putting up their "Celebrated Raspberry Vinegar."
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