--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Merrill, Harrison R. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 25 number: 9 published: 1922-07 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Merrill Harrison R., "The Old Trail", *Improvement Era* 25, no. 9 (July 1922): 781–788.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2509unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2509unse start_page: 781 end_page: 788 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1922-07) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2509unse publication_year: 1922 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1922, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Old Trail The Old Trail By Harrison R. Merrill All my life the old trail has been the source of keenest pleasure to me. Even as a boy I used to hide in the willows beside the fence where the trail passed my father's farm, at the mouth of the canyon, my trusty, wooden gun all cocked and primed. There I would watch with eagle eyes the long line of tawny warriors that passed before me — in my fancy. Some- times I would leap from my hiding place, yelling and flourish- ing my tomahawk, scattering the unsuspecting warriors right and left. At other times I would lie quiet, and listen to the guttural conversation in which the squaws indulged as they passed near me. It was a romantic old trail, for, in days gone by, it had been the main thoroughfare of the Red Men who followed its devious way twice a year to and from their summer hunting grounds. It ran along the river bottom where the shade from the over- hanging willows served as a protection from the sun, up past the ice-cold Watercress Spring. Then it went on — and on — to the very head of the canyon where it left the noisy river and followed a dry canyon, filled with a dense growth of aspens, up to the foot of the highest mountain ridge which separates Cache and Bear Lake valleys. Here the trail left the shade of the aspens and see-sawed back and forth among the buck brush whose low, thick stems and glossy, green leaves made the bulging mountain face look like the gigantic, green skirt of some Titan's wife laced down the front with a bit of drab braid. Never yet had I gone over the old trail, although I had lived within a stone's throw of it all mv life. Often I had sat by the kitchen fire, listening, with alert ears and shining eyes, to the frontier tales my uncle told me. Upon such occasion I would vow that another summer would not pass without my having trod every inch of its enchanted length. At last the opportunity came. With a good horse I set out one morning upon my forty mile trip over the mountain. I followed the trail up along the river bottom, every sense actively alert. As I rode I dreamed and dreamed. The quietude of the canyon broken only by the singing river or an occasional harsh-voiced king fisher, so fired my imagination that, at every 782 IMPROVEMENT ERA turn, I half expected to meet a line of brawny warriors. I knew perfectly well, however, that not a moccasined foot had stirred the dust of the Old Trail for nearly half a century. It was long past noon when I reached the mountain. Here, where the aspens ended, the trail became so steep that I dis- mounted and went on foot, leading my horse in order to save his strength. Together we toiled up the almost perpendicular mountain side, puffing and perspiring from the strenuous exertion. Occasionally I would pause at some good place and look back into the world we had left. Far, far away the valley could be seen with its splotches of brown and green, and still farther, on the very edge of the world, it seemed, the great inland sea shone like a piece of silver trimming through the purple haze. We toiled up and ever up, though the sun beat down upon us mercilessly. As we crept up the last steep curve of the Old Trail, a tiny object, half concealed near the gnarled root of a pinion pine, standing silent guard at the top of the mountain, caught my eyes. I stopped and picked it up. It was half of a rude, obsidian heart, carefully scalloped around the outer edge. I scratched around in the dirt at the foot of the tree diligently searching for the other piece as I was a great lover of all kinds of Indian relics. When I removed the dirt and debris among the roots of the tree, I discovered a small cavity which had evi- dently been hollowed out by the hand of man; in fact, part of the root seemed to have been hacked away by a keen instru- ment of some kind. The cavity was evidently of great age, for the wood had decayed until, at the slightest touch of my hands, it crumbled into dust. As I felt around in the fine material which had col- lected on the floor of the aperture, my hand came in contact with something; soft. Drawing it out I discovered it was a very much decayed buckskin wallet the sides of which had once been beautifully decorated with Indian beads. Although many of the beads had fallen off, I could still make out the design. It was a crimson heart, scalloped around the edges in the same way as the one I held in my hand. I opened the wallet and, to my astonishment, the other half of the heart was disclosed. I fitted the broken sides together. There could be no doubt; those two halves had once formed a perfect heart. I carefully examined the wallet and the piece of stone and found iust above the bead-work heart a narrow slit such as might have been made by a thin, keen knife. I turned the wallet over, and there, extending half way down was a dark, irregular stain. I looked once more at the half heart the wallet THE OLD TRAIL 783 had contained and noticed that near one of its edges its black, glassy surface was dulled by some adhering substance. Although I examined every nook and corner of the cavity with great care not another thing could I find except a few small beads which had evidently fallen from the side of the bag. As my horse browsed among the buck-brush and Indian- root along the crest of the mountain, I sat down on the edge of the Old Trail and followed its meanderings with my eye, down the steep, almost perpendicular, mountain side for ten thousand feet where it wriggled out of the buck-brush into the stately grove of quaking aspens there to lose itself from sight for many miles. As I sat there, with those relics of a passing race in my hand, I could almost see the tawny forms of Indians as they toiled up the trail on their way to Bear Lake. I glanced up at the towering pine within whose pleasant shade I sat. Its out-spread arms, extended toward the listening sky, seemed to be alive. Its long, gray-green needles seemed to be delicate strings upon which the wind played the weird mel- odies of the past. As I looked, I wondered how many dusky forms had taken advantage of the old tree's shade; how many warriors had peered from behind its massive trunk in search of enemies; how many red-skinned lovers had made of it a trysting place in those wild, free days of long ago. I looked once more at the trinkets in my hand — a buckskin bag, and a broken heart tinged with a deep, dark stain! It was probably a love token which had brought a delightful thrill to the heart of some Indian maiden. As I sat there, the silent story came to me from the tree, from the wind, from the token itself, — or from out the infinite — who knows? * * * It was summer. The long, glorious days had once more come to the tent dwellers along the Logan river. They hunted and fished to their heart's content from the south edge of their beautiful valley to the point where the waters parted at the northern end, part rushing off to join its parent, the great and turbulent Snake river, and part following back along their trail in search of the inland sea. When the July sun had melted the snow from the trail which led up Cub river, over the high, dividing range, and down into the Bear Lake Valley, the Indians turned their steps eastward. They fished and hunted along the banks of the clear, cold Cub, each day moving farther and farther up the canyon until, at last, the camp stood at the foot of the mountain whose lofty summit seemed to touch the very stars. Here the old chief said they would camp for several days while the young men 784 IMPROVEMENT ERA hunted in the forks of the canyon. It was necessary, too, that some go over the mountain to see that the trail was clear. War Eagle, a straight, clean-built, agile, young warrior was selected for this important duty. Taking his gun and knife one morning he silently left the camp, upon his dangerous mis- sion. He was a sinewy fellow, strong and fleet of foot. He entered the trail, worn several feet deep by the passing of thousands of moccasined feet, and by the miniature spring floods that tumbled down it from the snow drifts at the top of the range. War Eagle climbed steadily up, now and again glancing over his shoulder at the canyon below. For more than two hours he climbed with that smooth, tiger-like movement char- acteristic of the Indian. At last, near noon, he stood on the top of the mountain in the shade of a great pinion pine-tree whose gnarled, old roots ran parallel to the trail. His dark eyes flashed as he looked out over the land of his inheritance. Truly it was a magnificent sight. Straight before him the mountain dropped away to the river bottom ten thousand feet below. Farther down the canyon walls seemed to hover over the tiny ribbon that seemed to be interlaced in a pattern of rich, dark green. Farther out the mountains merged into the foot-hills which, in turn, merged into the level plain. War Eagle stretched out his arms in a sweeping gesture. "My country!" he cried exultantly in a soft Indian dialect. "This is my country! I love it!" Turning he continued on his way over the rocky divide to a smooth, mountain meadow that swept up to within a few hundred feet of the summit. He followed the trail along a tiny mountain stream which rose from an ice-cold spring near the head of the meadow down to where it entered a dense, lofty growth of pines. Here the young Indian moved quietly and with great caution, not because he expected any danger but be- cause it was habitual. He was careful not to break a twig or make the slightest sound. At last he stood behind a tree on the edge of a little clearing in the middle of which was a deep- blue lake. On one side the rocks of a nearby peak reared them- selves two hundred feet above the liquid mirror, their every crevice and scar plainly visible in the water below. On the other three sides the dark pines crowded except in a narrow aisle through which the outlet ran. War Eagle looked stealthily around the small inclosure un- til his eyes paused near the foot of the rock. Not a muscle of his face moved, but an added sparkle in his piercing eyes be- tokened something unusual and unexpected. A slight Indian maiden stood leaning over a great boulder, THE OLD TRAIL 785 looking down at her image in the sleeping lake, her back toward the watching Indian. Again he glanced around the small en- closure, and after assuring himself that they two were the only human being presents, he walked cautiously up behind the ab- sorbed maiden. With a smile upon his face he looked over her shoulder at her reflection below him. For a moment the girl did not move, but stood staring into the handsome face of the stranger reflected in the water. Then, like a flash, she turned and faced him, a small steel dagger gleaming in her hand. "How!" he said calmly, standing back and leaning upon his rifle. Reassured by his friendly tone, she dropped her hand. In the days that followed War Eagle found many excuses for delaying his people and for climbing the steep, old trail. The first day or two he met the girl quite by accident, so she thought, in different parts of the woods, and on the mountain tops, but there came a day when he met her by appointment. Those were wonderful hours for the two young people, for, al- though their skins were dark, their hearts' blood was red, and the words of love spoken in an Indian tongue have the same power to thrill the being to the finger tips as the most melodious accents which drop from the full, ripe lips of a Caucasian princess. Together they would climb the jagged peaks and sit gazing out over the untamed wilderness, their wild hearts answering perfectly the sounds that can be heard only in the deep, cool canyons and on the wind-swept heights of the Rocky Mountains. Yes, those were glorious days filled to over-flowing with sensa- tions which never come to the dweller in the plains, — filled with ambition, with dreams of conquest, and with awe which the Infinite inspires. One morning when the camp was asleep, War Eagle left his tepee and quietly, beneath the stars, found his way to the pinion pine where he expected to find her whom he hoped one day would be his mate. As he stood beneath its out-stretched arms, the vibrating roar of the river came faintly to him from far below, and the innumerable fingers of the night toyed with his hair and stroked the feather which he wore. As he waited there for the sound of approaching footsteps, he stooped down and began silently to dig with the point of his knife a hole among the gnarled roots of the pinion tree. He was working diligently when suddenly two soft, round arms held him prisoner. The young chief rose to his feet in astonishment. The girl was abashed. Her love had carried her too far. War Eagle stood looking down at her, the fire gradually changing in his eyes to a softer light. 786 IMPROVEMENT ERA For days this clandestine courtship continued. Nearly every night the two would meet under the old tree, or, if one could not .fill the appointment, a token was left in the aperture War Eagle had made. July wore on and still the Indians hunted along the head waters of the Cub river. War Eagle had laid plans to carry his mate away, for between his people and her people un- friendly relations existed, owing to the fact that each tribe laid claim to certain portions of summer hunting grounds, each re- fusing to share them with the other. The feeling of estrange- ment had grown between the two tribes until a deadly feud finally existed between them. War Eagle knew that it would be folly even to approach his betrothed's father; in fact, he knew that such an act could result only in war. Besides, the girl had informed him long ago that she was expected to marry a young chief in her own tribe. One night as they stood by the ancient pine in silent com- radeship, the girl said in a low tone, "Pretty soon Kaomi must say goodby to War Eagle." "Goodby?" the young chief questioned in surprise. "Why goodby?" "Kaomi's people move in two days. She must move with them." "Never!" War Eagle vehemently declared. "Kaomi goes with me!" "Great Chief will not allow it." "Great Chief can't help himself. Won't go with me — Ka- omi?" The young fellow held out his arms pleadingly. "War Eagle loves Kaomi as the eagle loves the mountain peaks. Will she go with him?" "Kaomi must go back to her tepee once more. Tomorrow night," she said as she disengaged herself from his arms. "Here," War Eagle said, holding out a buckskin wallet on the side of which was a crimson heart worked in beads, "Take this, War Eagle's heart," he continued, smiling, as he dropped a carefully chipped obsidian heart in the wallet and handed it to her. With a buckskin string she fastened the wallet around her neck where it would be out of sight, and vanished in the darkness. War Eagle walked out into the trail, his heart pounding triumphantly. He looked up at the stars and then out into the darkness which filled the winding canyon, and then his moc- casined feet carried him noiselessly down the trail. The following evening he reached the trysting place early, carrying with him such things as were necessary for a journey, for, with his mate, he intended to strike south into the basin THE OLD TRAIL 787 country where his trail might be lost among the boulders and in the creek bottoms of a hundred different canyons. He expected that they would be followed, but he was confident that they would never be caught. He knew that he was staking his life and hers upon his skilfulness in eluding the pursuers. He sat quietly by the tree for some time patiently waiting for his mate to appear. In the twinkle of every star he read a message of love; in ever canyon sound he seemed to hear her voice. At last he grew restless. He felt anxiously in the aperture for any token which she might have left. Standing up he looked down into the black depths from whence she should ap- pear. As he was about to reseat himself, he heard her step into the well-worn trail and, in another moment, she was lean- ing against him, breathless with fear. "He saw me! He comes! Go!" "Never!" War Eagle replied through clenched teeth as he drew his trusty knife. "Let him come!" His eyes flashed as he peered into the darkness in search of any hidden foe. Kaomi cowered near him, her hands trem- bling as she clung to the strong, young chief. "War Eagle must go. He'll kill us both!" She half turned as if to leave him when a tawny figure leaped out of the darkness and struck for War Eagle's heart. The girl gave one wild scream as she staggered back, the blood gushing from a cruel wound in her breast. War Eagle caught her and gently laid her down. Then, with a savage growl, his assailant was upon him. War Eagle was young and strong. His great muscles moved like living bands of steel beneath his copper skin as he closed with his invisible opponent whose second knife thrust had laid his cheek wide open. Back and forth over the Old Trail they surged in a death struggle, clasped in each other's arms, each left hand grippling with all its strength the deadly right that strove to deliver one end-all blow. The warm blood from War Eagle's wounded face dripped in a red stream down his brawny breast. At last the strain began to tell. Perspiration in tiny freshets trickled down their backs and legs; their breath came in thick, harsh gasps, and the muscles on their powerful arms began to ache with the strain. With a mighty effort War Eagle threw his antagonist to the ground, never once relaxing his iron grasp upon that deadly hand. The breath of his opponent was now more of a wheeze filled with agony and effort than life giving respiration. War Eagle, with desperate power, put what force he could muster behind the hand that held the knife. Gradually the arm of his antagonist crumpled until the long, keen blade 788 IMPROVEMENT ERA was sheated in his quivering flesh. War Eagle leaped to his feet, almost too tired to stand. Staggering over to the silent form of the girl, he gently lifted her head and spoke to her, but there was no response. He put his hand over her heart but there was no movement. As he withdrew it, a string caught in his fingers and the wallet he had given her only the day before, stained and damp, came with them. He removed it from her neck and felt of it. A long, thin hole pierced it just above the bead work and inside there were two halves of a broken, obsidian heart. He kissed the dead lips and laid the loved heart back upon a pillow of leaves. Then he arose, placed the wallet and its token in the aperture among the gnarled roots of the old pine tree, carefully concealing its hiding place. Taking up his few scanty belongings, his blankets and tepee, he silently vanished down the Old Trail. * * * I glanced once more at the trinket in my hand. There, sure enough, was the chipped place where the knife had struck. "Too bad it wasn't a little thicker," I mused, glancing meditatively up at the whispering pine. Carefully I plugged the hole of the squirrel which had dese- crated the hiding place, then I placed the love token back in the aperture reverently covering it with dirt. M. I. A. Song (Air: "Battle Hymn of the Republic") We are the valiant army of the glorious M. I. A., With truth our mighty weapon, we rush to each great affray; To meet and conquer Satan is our constant rounde-lay, And we go marching on. Chorus: Glory, glory hallelujah, etc. We aim to have each passing sun set on a well spent day, Each yesterday a monument — each morn a greater fray, To lead the youth of Zion on to super-chastity, As we go marching on. The tea and coffee monster we have conquered on the field; John Barleycorn, with all his booze, has fallen on his shield; While old cyclops, tobacco, now must meet our burnished steel, As we go marching on. We'll never see our shadows if we always face the sun, So come along and join our song, the fight is just begun, We'll know no word like falter till the war of truth is won, As we go marching on. Lethbridge, Canada Octave F. Ursenbach