A Fortune Hunter; Or, The Old Stone Corral: A Tale of the Santa Fe Trail. John Dunloe Carteret
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John Dunloe Carteret
A Fortune Hunter; Or, The Old Stone Corral: A Tale of the Santa Fe Trail
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066187071
Table of Contents
COLONEL WARLOW'S STORY—CONTINUED.
COLONEL WARLOW'S STORY—CONTINUED.
COLONEL WARLOW'S STORY—CONTINUED.
COLONEL WARLOW'S STORY—CONTINUED.
COLONEL WARLOW'S STORY—CONCLUDED.
" OUR BODIES MAY BE TENANTED BY SOULS THAT HAVE LIVED BEFORE. "
A FORTUNE HUNTER:
OR,
THE OLD STONE CORRAL.
Chapter I.
The sinking sun threw its amber beams over the wide valley, rolling hills, and the dim buttes, wreathed in the blue haze of distance and looming with vague outlines in the wavering shimmer 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 butte 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 sunshine of the fleecy clouds that floated overhead. On the south the level prairie melted away into the limitless distance, clothed in the tender grasses 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 grasses 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