Joseph Ranger left the scene of the triple wedding early in the afternoon in quest of the missing bridegroom, and was overtaken by the storm before riding a dozen miles. But the hospitable welcome of the pioneers awaited him at Foster’s; and a substantial breakfast was ready for him before the dawn. The sun was barely up before he left the valley and entered the mountain pass. His faithful horse, who seemed to understand that he was bound on no ordinary errand, carefully chose his steps among the rocks and gullies, and bore him onward with gratifying speed.
Night overtook him long before he had descended the last of the rugged steeps that crossed his path after passing the summit of the range.
Bands of elk and antelope crossed his track at intervals; and at night, when he stopped to camp under a great pine-tree, when his fire was built, and his faithful horse and himself had feasted together upon the bag of roasted wheat he had brought along for sustenance, a band of deer, kindly eyed, graceful, and not afraid, came near him, attracted by the blaze and smoke, and circled around his bed at a respectful distance long after he had retired among his blankets upon a couch of evergreen boughs.
“That’s right! Come close, my beauties!” he exclaimed, as a doe and her daughter came close enough to breathe in his face. “I wouldn’t shoot one of you for the world. Your confidence is not misplaced.” But when he put out his hand to fondle them, they bounded away as light as birds, only to approach again and paw the blankets with their nimble hoofs, and awaken him from his coveted sleep. Finally, to frighten them away, he fired his revolver into the air, and the entire herd scampered away into the darkness.
“The gun is the wild animal’s master,” he said as he fell asleep, to be awakened again by the neighing of his tethered horse.
The fire of pitch-pine was still burning, and a pair of eyes glowed near his face like coals.
“This is no deer,” he thought, as he very cautiously clasped his “pepper-box” repeater.
A heavy paw was placed upon his breast, and the hot breath of a bear came close enough to nauseate him. There was no time to lose. As a mountaineer, he knew the nature of his foe too well to await the inevitable embrace of Bruin. Little by little he moved his repeater, and, when the weight of the animal was wellnigh crushing him, he sent a bullet through his eye. But the danger was by no means past, as the beast, though wounded unto death, was yet alive, and furious with rage and pain.
Just how he extricated himself from the peril of that eventful encounter, Joseph Ranger never knew, but he lived to narrate the adventure to children and grandchildren, and preserved to his dying day that long-outdated “pepper-box” revolver with which his great-grandchildren now delight to fire a volley in his honor on Washington’s Birthday and the Fourth of July.
Once safely through the Cascade Mountains, Joseph found little to impede his progress. Some friendly Indians were encountered at the base of the Blue Mountains, who gave him a hearty meal of bear-meat and wapatoes, and supplied his weary horse with hay and oats.
“Mika closh cumtux Wahnetta. Heap good Injun squaw! Ugh! Wake Mika potlatch chickimin! Hy-as closh muck-a-muck! Heap good. Cultus potlatch!” was the way in which his Indian host expressed his hospitality and refused compensation. And Joseph Ranger, acquainted with the jargon of many native tribes, further ingratiated himself in the Indian’s favor by presenting his squaw with a few gaudy trinkets such as an experienced borderer always carries when crossing an Indian country.
On and on he hurried toward the valley of Great Salt Lake, impelled by an irresistible impulse he could not have explained to any one. The weather was in his favor in crossing the Blue Mountains, though the air was cold, and the wind sometimes blew furiously. Water was low in all the smaller streams, and the beds of many of them were dry. Ice formed at night in swampy places and thawed by day, making travelling slippery and tedious; but on and on he hurried, knowing time was precious and yet not clearly understanding why.
At the Ogden Gateway he gained some information that doubled his impatience and quickened his speed. A man was being held on a charge of murder at Salt Lake City who he instinctively felt was Ashleigh. His informant, a Spanish half-breed, did not know his name, but he said an Indian girl was the victim, and her name was Le-Le.
On and on he journeyed, till he reached the verge of the little border city of Salt Lake. The Mormon Temple was not yet built, but a tabernacle had already arisen as its herald; and the Bee Hive House and Lion House were filled with wives and children of the prophet, who regularly toiled and spun. Joseph hastened to the adobe jail, where, after a brief delay, which seemed to him like an age, he was conducted to a dingy little cell, reserved for criminals of the lowest type.
A tall man, unshaven and in his shirt-sleeves, was pacing back and forth in his narrow quarters like a caged animal. He paused as the bolt flew back; and, as the light fell upon the face of his astonished visitor, he exclaimed, “Good God! Joseph Addicks! Can this be you?”
“I am Joseph Ranger, my boy! And I have come here all the way from the farthest West. But sit down here on the edge of your bed, and tell me all about it.”
“You remember the Indian maiden, Le-Le, whom I purchased and ransomed?”
“Yes.”
“And you recall the fact that I left her with her brother, Siwash, at my Green River cave at the time I came to you?”
“I remember that you said so.”
“Can you recall the date of my visit to you at the trading-post?”
“No; but there must be memoranda somewhere that will settle that. Why?”
“Because nothing will save me, Joseph, from the hangman’s rope unless I can prove an alibi. I forwarded a letter to you at Oregon City—or tried to—after this mishap befell me; but a courier can be bribed sometimes, you know, and Henry Hankins, who failed to capture my bride, is bent upon revenge. His incarceration doesn’t keep him out of reach of pals. But how is my bonnie Jean?”
“I left home too hurriedly to get much information. But her father said she was strangely calm, and full of faith in you.”
“Then my darling is not ill?”
“I certainly did not leave her well, Ashleigh, but she is in good hands. Do you know the particulars of Le-Le’s death?”
“I only know that her body was found in an eddy in Green River about a fortnight after I last saw her. Just as I was on the eve of starting to Oregon to claim my bride, I was arrested, charged with murder, and brought to this villanous den.”
“Be of good cheer, Ashleigh; I will find Siwash. Say nothing to any one. The darkest hour of the night is just before the morning. Good-bye, and may God bless you!”