Cascades

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14. Chapter 14



Long after the Indians went to sleep I lay there, looking into the fire and thinking. Many and varied were the fancies that chased each other through my restless brain--some pleasant, some unpleasant. I pondered on the novelty, even the danger, of my situation. I was away up there in that wild, trackless, mountain wilderness, alone, so far as any congenial companionship was concerned. Yes, I was worse than alone, for the moment I might close my eyes and sleep I would be at the mercy of these two reckless red men. True, they are not of a courageous, warlike race, but what might they not do for the sake of plunder? They could crush my skull at a blow and conceal my body beyond all possibility of discovery; or they could leave it and, saying I had killed myself by a fall, reveal its resting place to anyone who might care to go in search of me. I had some property with me, especially my rifle, sleeping-bag, and a small sum of money, that I knew they coveted, and I reflected that they might already have concocted some foul scheme for disposing of me and getting possession of my effects.

In their native tongue of strange, weird gutturals, hisses, and aspirations, they had conversed all the evening of--I knew not what. John had rather an honest, frank face, that I thought bespoke a good heart, but Seymour had a dark, repulsive countenance that plainly indicated a treacherous nature. From the first I had made up my mind that he was a thief, if nothing worse. He pretended not to be able to speak or understand English, although I knew he could. John spoke our tongue fairly, and through him all communication with either or both was held. Should they contemplate any violence I would welcome them both to an encounter, if only I could have notice of it a second in advance. Their two old smooth-bore muskets would cut no figure against the deadly stream of fire that my Winchester express could pour forth. But I dreaded the treachery, the stealth, the silent midnight assault that is a characteristic of their race. Yet, on further consideration, I dismissed all such forebodings as purely chimerical. These were civilized Indians, living within the sound of the whistle of a railroad engine, and would hardly be willing to place themselves within the toils of the law, by the commission of such a crime, even if they had the courage or the desire to do it, and I hoped they had neither.

Then my fancies turned to the contemplation of pleasanter themes. I thought of the dear little black-eyed woman, whom I had parted with on board the steamer nearly a week ago. She is homeward-bound and must now be speeding over the Dakota or Minnesota prairies, well on toward St. Paul. Will she reach home in safety? God grant it--and that in due time I may be permitted to join her there. Then other familiar images passed and repassed my mental ken. The kind acts of dear friends, the hospitalities shown me by strangers and passing acquaintances in distant lands and in years long agone came trooping through my memory, and a feeling of gratitude for those kindnesses supplanted for the time that of solitude. Gradually and sweetly I sank into a profound slumber and all was stillness and oblivion.

Several hours, perhaps, have passed, and I am thirsty. I get up and start to the little brook for water; to reach it a log, lying across a deep fissure in the rocks, must be scaled. With no thought of danger I essay the task by the dying fire's uncertain light and that of the twinkling stars. I have not counted on the heavy covering of frost that has been deposited on the log since dark, and stepping out upon the barkless part of the trunk, my moccasins slip, and with a shriek and a wild but unsuccessful grasp at an overhanging limb I fall twenty feet and land on the mass of broken and jagged granite beneath! The Indians, alarmed by my cries, spring to my relief, carry me to the fire, give me stimulants, bind up my broken arm, and do all in their power to alleviate my sufferings.

They are not the crafty villains and assassins that my fancy had painted. They are kind, sympathetic friends. I realize that my right collar-bone and three ribs on the same side are broken, and when I remember where I am, the deplorableness and utter helplessness of my condition appal me.

EN ROUTE TO THE INDIAN VILLAGE

The long hours until daylight drag slowly by, and at last, as the sun tips the distant mountain tops with golden light, we start on our perilous and painful journey to the Indian village and to the steamboat landing. The two red men have rigged a litter from poles and blankets, on which they carry me safely to their homes, and thence in a canoe to the landing below. How the long, tedious journey thence, by steamer and rail, to my own home is accomplished; how the weary days and nights of suffering and delirium which I endure en route were passed, are subjects too painful to dwell upon. I am finally assisted from the sleeper at my destination. My wife, whom the wire has informed of my misfortune and my coming, is there. She greets me with that fervent love, that intensity of pity and emotion that only a wife can feel. Her lips move, but her tongue is paralyzed. For the time she can not speak; the wells of her grief have gone dry; she can not weep; she can only act. I am taken to my home, and the suspense, the anxiety, having been lived out, the climax having been reached and passed I swoon away. Again the surgeon appears to be racking me with pain in an effort to set the broken ribs, and seems to be making an incision in my side for that purpose, when I awake.

The stars shone brightly above me, the frost on the leaves sparkled brightly in the fire-light. It took me several minutes to realize that I had been dreaming. I searched for the cause of the acute pain in my side, and found it to be the sharp point of a rock that my cedar boughs had not sufficiently covered and which was trying to get in between two of my ribs. I got up, removed it and slept better through the remainder of the night.