A Fortune Hunter; Or, The Old Stone Corral: A Tale of the Santa Fe Trail. John Dunloe Carteret
For an hour or more the dark-eyed young heiress sang songs of Spain in a voice of cultured melody, while her white fingers swept the gilded harp, that vibrated in tones of sweetest harmony under her skillful touch.
"As a compliment to us she also sang several Scotch and English ballads, and we were pleasantly surprised to learn that she had received an education in England, and spoke our own tongue with remarkable fluency.
"From that night we were accorded all the privileges of honored guests in the great hacienda."
Here the colonel paused, remarking that as the hour was growing late his hearers would excuse him, which they promised to do providing he would continue his narrative on the morrow. As the party arose from about the camp-fire, Robbie said he felt heroic enough to eat several Mexicans, not to mention such relishes as wine, cake, and peons, at which very broad hint the tea-kettle was soon humming on the embers; and when the cups of the soothing beverage were handed around, Grace passed a basket, which, if not filled with such luxuries as those which had graced the Mexican saloon, were at least very acceptable to our friends.
Scott, whose attention was divided between a chicken-bone and reverie, suddenly inquired if they thought there would ever be another war with Mexico. As the party broke up with a laugh at his expense, the quiet of nature once more reigned over the valley, broken only by the hoarse croak of the frogs in the dark pools and the shrill cry of the cicada in the grass.
The moon threw a pale, silvery light upon the row of white tents, where our friends were soon dreaming of the new homes that they would build in this tranquil valley; yet no vision of the strange events which fate held in store for them came to prepare them for the life of trial and adventure which they were now entering upon.
One day more of quiet rest, then would begin a life new and strange for them all. They had left their old selves forever behind; their past was a blank; new faces and new friends awaited them here in their future home, which had never been even claimed as the property of any man since the dawn of creation.
Yes, fate is both unkind and compassionate in withholding a knowledge of the blessings and trials that await them here; so they slumber on, while unseen destiny begins to weave her web, checkered and mysterious as the veil of moonlight that wavers through the willows.
Chapter III.
COLONEL WARLOW'S STORY—CONTINUED.
The morning of that Sabbath broke calm and serene. A warm haze brooded over the valley or danced in lines of quivering heat across the green prairies of the upland, and the dew had long since ceased to glitter on the rank blue-stem grass when our friends awoke.
The breakfast which followed almost caused them to forget the fact that they were out upon the borders of the "Great American Desert," and they might have fancied that they were once more but picnicking under the shade of their native groves; for it was a meal that had exhausted the culinary art of both matrons. Wild mushrooms, stewed in sweet cream, deliciously fragrant and hinting of the wild-wood near by, delicate brook-trout from the stream, mingled their aroma with the elder-bloom fritters which Maud was preparing; and on the snowy damask, spread on the grass, Mrs. Moreland's golden honey-comb vied with the Warlow jelly and crimson marmalade, while the coffee would make one dream of Araby the blest.
An hour after the morning meal we find our friends seated under the shade of the great elm among the ruins, the sunlight struggling faintly through the verdant canopy and weaving a golden veil over the ashen buffalo-grass, starred by daisies and violets. The spring welled out with a sleepy murmur, and overhead an oriole, near its swinging nest, caroled forth a stream of bubbling melody.
"A month passed," continued the colonel, "and we still lingered in the stately mansion, daily and hourly meeting the young heiress, who was always accompanied by her matronly kinswoman. But one morning, as Bruce was loitering in the court, he glanced up and saw the smiling face of Ivarene, framed by the passion-flowers, fuchsias, and jasmine which festooned the walls within the court and wreathed the lattice above her balcony.
"With an impulse which he could not resist our young hero swung himself up by the vines, and stood, with his sunny hair and smiling blue eyes, within the balcony. He wore the uniform of a captain of cavalry—soft gray, with cords and lace of frosted gilt over the breast—top-boots, embossed with gold, and a hat half concealed by the drooping plumes.
"She threw back the gilded jalousies which guarded her window, and, smiling graciously, held out her hand, which he clasped with all the rapture of an infatuated lover.
"She was robed in soft, rose-colored India muslin, embroidered in white lilies, and over her breast and arms fell a cascade of lace, caught lightly over her raven tresses, in that graceful manner which the ladies of Spanish America wear the mantilla; gleaming through its filmy folds could be seen the rubies which burned in her hair.
"Within that flower-entwined balcony was re-enacted that tender scene—old as the dawn of creation, still ever new. How he told the tale, or how she answered, I can not say, but may readily surmise from the brilliant wedding which followed in the old cathedral a few months later.
"Bruce had become very popular with the young officers of our army, and I have often seen him riding about the city with McClellan, and—"
"What! not our 'Little Mac?'" cried Squire Moreland, springing to his feet, transformed into an impetuous soldier by the magic of a name, and while the others regarded him with amazement, as he paced back and forth with clenched hands, he continued in a tone of repressed vehemence: "If there is one name that would cause me to leap from the grave, it is that of 'Little Mac,' the Giant of Antietam; and, as there is a God above, I believe it was McClellan who led us to victory at Gettysburg. Oh, can I ever forget that terrible day when the host of Lee beat and broke in thunder over the hills like the ocean on a rocky shore, drenching our ranks in a surf of blood—when reckless Longstreet charged like a whirlwind through smoke and flame, while our columns staggered under the shock? The scream of countless shells and the stunning belch and roar of a thousand cannon mingled with the trample of the Southern cavalry as it hurled its squadrons upon us like the throes of an earthquake, their storm of rebel yells rising above the notes of Dixie and all the din of conflict with the roar of a hurricane. Oh, Heaven! how then we longed for one hour of 'Little Mac!' That day our Nation's fate trembled in the balance; a few more shocks and all would be lost; then this fierce army—another such the world has never seen—would sweep over the North like an avalanche! Every moment hurried myriads into eternity, wringing loving hearts and breaking many a home from Maine to Texas. But when the word, like an electric shock, flashed along our hopeless ranks, 'Little Mac has come,' can I ever, ever, forget the shout of delight that burst from the parched lips of threescore thousand men? the rapid rush of marching ranks as they hurried to death, shouting, 'Little Mac, Little Mac!' when squadrons flashed by to the cannon's mouth, shaking the earth with their thunders of that mighty name? Oh! the wild delight and glory of that hour, when the fierce but baffled hosts of Lee broke and fled! But at the battle's close they claimed that it was only a ruse, and that McClellan was not there. Yet I shall always believe he did lead us that day; but, unwilling to impair the laurels of Meade, he has kept silent all these years—only such a man is capable of that grand heroism. I have interrupted you, Colonel. Please excuse me, and proceed with your narrative."
After a moment's silence, the colonel said:
"Bruce Walraven was descended from a noble English family that had settled in New York in the earliest colonial days, but their fortunes had waned until himself and his sword were all that remained of that once powerful house. He was an orphan, who had graduated with honor at West Point Military Academy, and was utterly alone in the world, with no one to love but Ivarene and myself, yet no brothers could have been more deeply attached than we soon became to each other.
"I