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The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #28033 · 881,278 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28033]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28033

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILD HUNTRESS: LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Wild Huntress, by Captain Mayne Reid.

________________________________________________________________________
This book is divided up into 105 chapters of roughly the same length and
each moving forward the events with some significant incident.  It must
be remembered that the author was one of the very first writers to
describe the Wild West, and this book, first published in 1855, his
ninth book to appear in this genre, is very masterly.

After a little scene-setting the story opens with Frank Wingrove, who
had bought an area of land in Tennessee that was already in the hands of
a squatter, Hickman Holt, coming to explain the situation to the
squatter who, not unnaturally is rather annoyed.  They are just about to
have a duel to the death when a third party arrives on the scene.  This
is the start of the main events of the book, for Frank has fallen in
reciprocated love with one of the two beautiful daughters of the
squatter.  I will not spoil the story for you, but it takes you in the
direction of California, and into the hands of the Indians.  It also
takes you into the encampment of a Mormon train, that is making its way
towards Salt Lake City.  It is rather an exciting, and indeed
interesting tale, well worth reading.  Listening to it may be harder to
accomplish, because so many of the people in the story talk in
various forms of uneducated English, but it's worth a try.
________________________________________________________________________
THE WILD HUNTRESS, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE SQUATTER'S CLEARING.

The white-headed eagle, soaring above the spray of a Tennessean forest,
looks down upon the clearing of the squatter.  To the eye of the bird it
is alone visible; and though but a spot in the midst of that immense
green sea, it is conspicuous by the colour of the trees that stand over
it.  They stand, but grow not: the girdling ring around their stems has
deprived them of their sap; the ivory bill of the _log-cock_ has
stripped them of their bark; their leaves and twigs have long since
disappeared; and only the trunks and greater branches remain, like
blanched skeletons, with arms upstretched to heaven, as if mutely
appealing for vengeance against their destroyer.

The squatter's clearing, still thus encumbered, is a mere vistal opening
in the woods, from which only the underwood has been removed.  The more
slender saplings have been cut down or rooted up; the tangle of
parasitical plants have been torn from the trees; the cane-brake has
been fired; and the brush, collected in heaps, has melted away upon the
blazing pile.  Only a few stumps of inferior thickness give evidence,
that some little labour has been performed by the axe.

Even thus the clearing is a mere patch--scarcely two acres in extent--
and the rude rail-fence, that zig-zags around it, attests that the owner
is satisfied with the dimensions of his agricultural domain.  There are
no recent marks of the axe--not even the "girdling" of a tree--nothing
to show that another rood is required.  The squatter is essentially a
hunter; and hates the sight of an extensive clearing--as he would the
labour of making one.  The virgin forest is his domain, and he is not
the man to rob it of its primeval charms.  The sound of the lumberer's
axe, cheerful to the lonely traveller, has no music for his ear: it is
to him a note of evil augury--a knell of dread import.  It is not often
that he hears it: he dwells beyond the circle of its echoes.  His
nearest neighbour--a squatter like himself--lives at least a mile off;
and the most proximate "settlement" is six times that distance from the
spot he has chosen for his cabin.  The smoke of his chimney mingles with
that of no other: its tall column ascends to heaven solitary as the
squatter himself.

The clearing is of an irregular semi-circular shape--a deep narrow
stream forming the chord, and afterwards cleaving its way through the
otherwise unbroken forest.  In the convexity of the arc, at that point
most remote from the water, stands the cabin--a log "shanty" with
"clapboard" roof--on one side flanked by a rude horse-shed, on the other
by a corn-crib of split rails.

Such a picture is almost peculiar to the backwoods of America.  Some may
deem it commonplace.  For my part, I cannot regard it in this light.  I
have never looked upon this primitive homestead of the pioneer without
receiving from it an impression of romantic pleasure.  Something seems
to impart to it an air of vague and mystic grandeur.  Perhaps I
associate the picture with the frame in which it is set--the magnificent
forest that surrounds it, every aisle of which is redolent of romance.
Such a scene is suggestive of hunter lore and legend--of perils by flood
and field, always pleasant to be remembered--of desperate deeds of
heroism performed by gallant backwoodsmen or their equally gallant
antagonists--those red warriors who once strode proudly along the
forest-path, but whose upright forms are no longer seen under the
shadows of its trees.

Perhaps it is from reflections of this kind, that I view with interest
the clearing and cabin of the squatter; or it may be from having at one
period of my life encountered incidents, in connection with such a
scene, of a character never to be forgotten.

In spring this picture is transformed--suddenly as by the shifting of a
panoramic view; or, as upon the stage, the Harlequin and brilliant
Columbine emerge from the sober disguisement of their dominoes.  If in
winter the scene might be termed rude or commonplace, it now no longer
merits such titles.  Nature has girded on her robe of green, and by the
touch of her magical wand, has toned down its rough features to an
almost delicate softness.  The young maize--planted in a soil that has
lain fallow, perhaps for a thousand years--is rapidly culming upward;
and the rich sheen of the long lance-like leaves, as they bend
gracefully over, hides from view the sombre hues of the earth.  The
forest trees appear with their foliage freshly expanded--some; as the
tulip-tree, the dogwood, and the white magnolia, already in the act of
inflorescence.  The woods no longer maintain that monotonous silence
which they have preserved throughout the winter.  The red cardinal
chatters among the cane; the blue jay screams in the pawpaw thicket,
perhaps disturbed by the gliding of some slippery snake; while the
mock-bird, regardless of such danger, from the top of the tall
tulip-tree, pours forth his matchless melody in sweet ever-varying
strain.  The tiny bark of the squirrel, and the soft cooing of the
Carolinian dove, may be heard among other sounds--the latter suggestive
of earth's noblest passion, as its utterer is the emblem of devotion
itself.  At night other sounds are heard, less agreeable to the ear: the
shrill "chirrup" of cicadas and tree-toads ringing so incessantly, that
only when they cease do you become conscious of their existence; the
dull "gluck-gluck" of the great bullfrog; the sharp cries of the heron
and _qua-bird_; and the sepulchral screech of the great horned owl.
Still less agreeable might appear the fierce miaulling of the red
_puma_, and the howl of the gaunt wolf; but not so to the ears of the
awakened hunter, who, through the chinks of his lone cabin, listens to
such sounds with a savage joy.

These fierce notes are now rare and exceptional--even in the backwoods--
though, unlike the war-whoop of the Indian, they have not altogether
departed.  Occasionally, their echo may be heard through the aisles of
the forest, but only in its deepest recesses--only in those remote river
"bottoms" where the squatter delights to dwell.  Even there, they are
heard only at night; and in the morning give place to softer and sweeter
sounds.

Fancy, then, a fine morning in May--a sunshine that turns all it touches
into gold--an atmosphere laden with the perfume of wild-flowers--the hum
of honey-seeking bees--the song of birds commingling in sweetest
melody--and you have the _mise en scene_ of a squatter's cabin on the
banks of the Obion, half an hour after the rising of the sun.  Can such
a picture be called _commonplace_?  Rather say it is enchanting.

Forms suddenly appear upon the scene--forms living and lovely--in the
presence of which the bright sunshine, the forest glories of green and
gold, the bird-music among the trees, the flowery aroma in the air, are
no longer needed to give grace to the clearing of the squatter.  It
signifies not that it is a morning in the middle of May: were it the
dreariest day of December, the effect would be the same; and this
resembles enchantment itself.  The rude hut seems at once transformed
into a palace--the dead trunks become Corinthian columns carved out of
white marble--their stiff branches appear to bend gracefully over, like
the leaves of the recurrent _acanthus_--and the enclosure of carelessly
tended maize-plants assumes the aspect of some fair garden of the
Hesperides!

The explanation is easy.  Magic is not needed to account for the
transformation: since there exists a far more powerful form of
enchantment in the divine presence of female beauty.  And it is present
there, in its distinct varieties of _dark_ and _fair_--typified in the
persons of two young girls who issue forth from the cabin of the
squatter: more than typified--completely symbolised--since in these two
young girls there appears scarce one point of resemblance, save the
possession of a perfect loveliness.  The eye of the soaring eagle may
not discover their charms--as did the bird of Jove those of the lovely
Leda--but no _human_ eye could gaze for a moment on either one, without
receiving the impression that it was looking upon the fairest object on
earth.  This impression could only be modified, by turning to gaze upon
the other.

Who are these young creatures?  Sisters?

There is nothing in their appearance to suggest the gentle relationship.
One is tall, dark, and dark-haired, of that golden-brown complexion
usually styled _brunette_.  Her nose is slightly aquiline, and her eye
of the oblique Indian form.  Other features present an Indian character,
of that type observable in the nation of the Chicasaws--the former lords
of this great forest.  She may have Chicasaw blood in her veins; but her
complexion is too light for that of a pure Indian.

Her dress strengthens the impression that she is a _sang-mele_.  The
skirt is of the common homespun of the backwoods, striped with a
yellowish dye; but the green bodice is of finer stuff, with more
pretensions to ornament; and her neck and wrists are embraced by a
variety of those glancing circlets so seductive in the eyes of an Indian
belle.  The buskin-mocassin is purely Indian; and its lines of
bead-embroidery gracefully adapt themselves to the outlines of feet and
ankles of perfect form.  The absence of a head-dress is another point of
Indian resemblance.  The luxuriant black hair is plaited, and coiled
like a coronet around the head.  There are no combs or pins of gold, but
in their place a scarlet plumelet of feathers--from the wings of the red
cardinal.  This, set coquettishly behind the plaits, shows that some
little attention has been given to her toilet; and simple though it be,
the peculiar _coiffure_ imparts to the countenance of the maiden that
air usually styled "commanding."

Although there is nothing masculine in this young girl's beauty, a
single glance at her features impresses you with the idea of a character
of no ordinary kind--a nature more resolute than tender--a heart endowed
with courage equalling that of a man.  The idea is strengthened by
observing that in her hand she carries a light rifle; while a horn and
bullet-pouch, suspended from her left shoulder, hang under the right
arm.  She is not the only backwoods' maiden who may be seen thus armed
and accoutred: many are even skilled in the use of the deadly weapon!

In striking contrast with all this is the appearance of her companion.
The impression the eye receives in looking on the latter is that of
something soft and beautiful, of a glorious golden hue.  It is the
reflection of bright amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin, tinted with
vermilion imparting a sort of luminous radiance divinely feminine.
Scrutinise this countenance more closely; and you perceive that the
features are in perfect harmony with each other, and harmonise with the
complexion.  You behold a face, such as the Athenian fancy has
elaborated into an almost living reality in the goddess Cytherea.

This creature of golden roseate hue is yet very young--scarcely more
than a child--but in the blue sky above her burns a fiery sun; and in
twelve months she will be a woman.

Her costume is still more simple than that of her companion: a sleeved
dress of the same striped homespun, loosely worn, and open at the
breast; her fine amber-coloured hair the only covering for her head--as
it is the only shawl upon her shoulders, over which it falls in ample
luxuriance.  A string of pearls around her neck--false pearls, poor
thing!--is the only effort that vanity seems to have made in the way of
personal adornment.  Even shoes and stockings are wanting; but the most
costly _chaussure_ could not add to the elegance of those pretty
_mignon_ feet.

Who are they--these fair flowers of the forest?

_Let_ the mystery end.  They _are_ sisters--though not the children of
one mother.  They are the daughters of the hunter--the owner of the
cabin and clearing--his only children.

Happy hunter! poor you may be, and your home lowly; it can never be
lonely in such companionship.  The proudest prince may envy you the
possession of two such treasures--beyond parallel, beyond price!



CHAPTER TWO.

MARIAN AND LILIAN.

Passing outward from the door, the two young girls pause in their steps:
an object has attracted their attention.  A large dog is seen running
out from the shed--a gaunt fierce-looking animal, that answers to the
very appropriate name of "Wolf."  He approaches the sisters, and salutes
them with an unwilling wag of his tail.  It seems as though he could not
look pleased, even while seeking a favour--for this is evidently the
purpose that has brought him forth from his lair.

He appeals more especially to the older of the girls--Marian.

"Ho, Wolf!  I see your sides are thin, old fellow: you want your
breakfast!  What can we give him, Lil?"

"Indeed, sister, I know not: there is nothing for the poor dog."

"There is some deer-meat inside?"

"Ah!  I fear father will not allow Wolf to have that.  I heard him say
he expected one to take dinner with him to-day?  You know who?"

An arch smile accompanies this half-interrogatory; but, for all that,
the words do not appear to produce a pleasant effect.  On the contrary,
a shade is observable on the brow of her to whom they are addressed.

"Yes, I _do_ know.  Well, he shall not dine with _me_.  'Tis just for
that I've brought out my rifle.  To-day, I intend to make my dinner in
the woods, or go without, and that's more likely.  Never fear, Wolf! you
shall have your breakfast; whether I get my dinner or not.  Now, for the
life of me, Lil, I don't know what we can give the poor brute.  Those
buzzards are just within range.  I could bring one of _them_ down; but
the filthy creatures, ugh! even a dog won't eat them."

"See, sister! yonder is a squirrel.  Wolf will eat squirrels, I know:
but, ah! it's a pity to kill the little creature."

"Not a bit.  Yon little creature is a precious little thief; it's just
been at our corn-crib.  By killing it, I do justice in a double sense: I
punish the thief, and reward the good dog.  Here goes!"

The squirrel, scared from its depredation on the corn, sweeps nimbly
over the ground towards the nearest tree.  Wolf having espied it, rushes
after in headlong pursuit.  But it is a rare chance indeed when a dog
captures one of these animals upon the ground; and Wolf, as usual, is
unsuccessful.

He has "treed" the squirrel; but what of that?  The nimble creature,
having swooped up to a high limb, seats itself there, and looks down
upon its impotent pursuer with a nonchalant defiance--at intervals more
emphatically expressing the sentiment by a saucy jerk of its tail.  But
this false security proves the squirrel's ruin.  Deceived by it, the
silly animal makes no effort to conceal its body behind the branch; but,
sitting upright in a fork, presents a fair mark to the rifle.  The girl
raises the piece to her shoulder, takes aim, and fires.

The shot tells; and the tiny victim, hurled from its high perch--after
making several somersaults in the air--falls right into the jaws of that
hungry savage at the bottom of the tree.  Wolf makes his breakfast upon
the squirrel.

This young Diana of the backwoods appears in no way astonished at the
feat she has performed; nor yet Lilian.  Doubtless, it is an everyday
deed.

"You must learn to shoot, Lil."

"O sister, for what purpose?  You know I have neither the taste for it,
nor the skill that you have."

"The skill you will acquire by practice.  It worth knowing how, I can
assure you.  Besides it is an accomplishment one might stand in need of
some day.  Why, do you know, sister, in the times of the Indians, every
girl understood how to handle a rifle--so father says.  True, the
fighting Indians are gone away from here; but what if you were to meet a
great hear in the woods?"

"Surely I should run away from him."

"And surely I shouldn't, Lil.  I have never met a bear, but I'd just
like to try one."

"Dear sister, you frighten me.  Oh, do not think of such a thing!
Indeed, Marian, I am never happy when you are away in the woods.  I am
always afraid of your meeting with some great wild beast, which may
devour you.  Tell me, why do you go?  I am sure I cannot see what
pleasure you can have in wandering through the woods alone."

"Alone!  Perhaps I am not _always alone_."

These words are uttered in a low voice--not loud enough for Lilian to
hear, though she observes the smile that accompanies them.

"You see, sister Lil," continues Marian in a louder tone our tastes
differ.  You are young, and like better to read the story-books your
mother left you, and look at the pictures in them.  My mother left me no
story-books, nor pictures.  She had none; and did not care for them, I
fancy.  She was half-Indian, you know; and I suppose I am like her: for
I too, prefer realities to pictures.  I love to roam about the woods;
and as for the danger--pooh, pooh--I have no fear of that.  I fear
neither bear nor panther, nor any other quadruped.  Ha!  I have more
fear of a two-legged creature I know of; and I should be in greater
danger of meeting with that dreaded biped by _staying at home_?

The speech appears to give rise to a train of reflections in which there
is bitterness.  The heroine of the rifle remains silent while in the act
of reloading; and the tinge of melancholy that pervades her countenance
tells that her thoughts are abstracted.  While priming the piece, she is
even _maladroit_ enough to spill a quantity of the powder--though
evidently not from any lack of practice or dexterity.

Lilian has heard the concluding words of her sister's speech with some
surprise, and also noticed the abstracted air.  She is about to ask for
an explanation, when the dialogue is interrupted.  Wolf rushes past with
a fierce growl: some one approaches the clearing.

A horseman--a man of about thirty years of age, of spare form and
somewhat sinister aspect--a face to be hated on sight.  And at sight of
it the shadow deepens on the brow of Marian.  Her sister exhibits no
particular emotion.  The new-comer is no stranger: it is only Josh
Stebbins, the schoolmaster of Swampville.  He is their father's friend,
and comes often to visit them: moreover, he is that day expected, as
Lilian knows.  Only in one way does she show any interest in his
arrival; and that is, on observing that he is better dressed than usual.
The _cut_ of his dress too, is different.

"See, sister Marian!" cries she in a tone of raillery, "how fine Mister
Josh is! black coat and waistcoat: a standing collar too!  Why, he is
exactly like the Methody minister of Swampville!  Perhaps he has turned
one.  I shouldn't wonder: for they say he is very learnt.  Oh, if that
be, we may hear him preach at the next camp-meeting.  How I should like
to hear him hold forth!--ha, ha, ha!"

The young creature laughs heartily at her own fantastic conceits; and
her clear silvery voice for a moment silences the birds--as if they
paused to listen to a music more melodious than their own.  The
mock-bird echoes back the laugh: but not so Marian.  She has observed
the novelty as well as her sister; but it appears to impress her in a
very different manner.  She does not even smile at the approach of the
stranger; but, on the contrary, the cloud upon her brow becomes a shade
darker.

Marian is some years older than her sister--old enough to know that
there is _evil_ in the world: for neither is the "backwoods" the home of
an Arcadian innocence.  She knows the schoolmaster sufficiently to
dislike him; and, judging by his appearance, one might give her credit
for having formed a correct estimate of his character.  She suspects the
object of his visit; more than that, she knows it: _she is herself its
object_.  With indifferent grace, therefore, does she receive him:
scarcely concealing her aversion as she bids him the customary welcome.
Without being gifted with any very acute perception, the new-comer might
observe this _degout_ on the part of the young girl.  He takes no notice
of it however--either by word, or the movement of a feature.  On the
contrary, he appears perfectly indifferent to the character of the
reception given him.  Not that his manner betrays anything like
swagger--for he is evidently not one of the swaggering sort.  Rather is
his behaviour characterised by a cool, quiet effrontery--a sort of
sarcastic assurance--ten times more irritating.  This is displayed in
the laconic style of his salutation: "Morning girls! father at home?"--
in the fact of his dismounting without waiting to be invited--in sharply
scolding the dog out of his way as he leads his horse to the shed; and,
finally, in his throwing the saddle-bags over his arm, and stepping
inside the cabin-door, with the air of one who is not only master of the
house, but of the "situation."

Inside the door he is received by the squatter himself; and in the
exchange of salutations, even a casual observer might note a remarkable
difference in the manner of the two men; the guest cool, cynical,
confident--the host agitated, with eye unsteady, and heart evidently ill
at ease.  There is a strange significance in the salutation, as also in
the little incident that follows.  Before a dozen words have passed
between the two men, the schoolmaster turns quietly upon his heel, and
closes the door behind him--the squatter making no objection to the act,
either by word or gesture!  The incident may appear of trifling
importance; but not so to Marian, who stands near, watching every
movement, and listening to every word.  Why is the door closed, and by
Josh Stebbins?--that rude door, that, throughout the long summer-day, is
accustomed to hang open on its raw-hide hinges?  All day, and often all
night--except during the cold wintry winds, or when rain-storms blow
from the west?  Why is it now closed, and thus unceremoniously?  No
wonder that Marian attaches a significance to the act.

Neither has she failed to note the agitated mien of her father while
receiving his visitor--that father, at all other times, and in the
presence of all other people, so bold, fierce, and impassible!  She
observes all this with a feeling of pain.  For such strange conduct
there must be a cause, and a serious one: that is her reflection.

The young girl stands for some moments in the attitude she has assumed.
Her sister has gone aside to pluck some flowers growing by the bank of
the stream, and Marian is now alone.  Her eye is bent upon the door; and
she appears to hesitate between two thoughts.  Shall she approach and
listen?  She knows _a little_--she desires to know _more_.

She has not merely conjectured the object of the schoolmaster's visit;
she is _certain_ it concerns herself.  It is not simply that which
troubles her spirits.  Left to herself, she would make light of such a
suitor, and give him his _conge_ with a brusque promptitude.  But her
father--why does _he_ yield to the solicitations of this man?  This is
the mystery she desires to unravel.

Can it be a _debt_?  Scarcely that.  In the lawless circle of backwoods'
Society, the screw of the creditor has but little power over the victim
of debt--certainly not enough to enslave such a free fearless spirit as
that of Hickman Holt.  The girl knows this, and hence her painful
suspicion that points to some _other cause_.  What cause?  She would
know.

She makes one step towards the house, as if bent upon espionage.  Again
she pauses, and appears undecided.  The chinks between the logs are open
all round the hut--so, too, the interstices between the hewn planks of
the door.  No one can approach near to the walls without being seen from
the inside; and a listener would be sure of being discovered.  Is it
this reflection that stays her in her steps? that causes her to turn
back?  Or does the action spring from a nobler motive?  Whichever it be,
it seems to bring about a change in her determination.  Suddenly turning
away, she stands facing to the forest--as if with the intention of
launching herself into its sombre depths.  A call of adieu to her
sister--a signal to Wolf to follow--and she is gone.

Whither, and for what purpose?  Why loves she these lone rambles under
the wild-wood shade?  She has declared that she delights in them; but
can we trust her declaration?  True, hers a strange spirit--tinged, no
doubt, with the moral tendencies of her mother's race--in which the love
of solitude is almost an idiosyncrasy.  But with her this forest-ranging
is almost a new practice: only for a month or so has she been indulging
in this romantic habit--so incomprehensible to the home-loving Lilian.
Her father puts no check upon such inclinations: on the contrary, he
encourages them, as if proud of his daughter's _penchant_ for the chase.
Though purely a white man, his nature has been Indianised by the habits
of his life: and in his eyes, the chase is the noblest accomplishment--
even for a woman?  Does the fair Marian think so?  Or has she another
motive for absenting herself so frequently from her home?  Let us follow
her into the forest.  There, perhaps, we may find an answer to the
enigma.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE LOVERS' RENDEZVOUS.

Glance into the forest-glade!  It is an opening in the woods--a
_clearing_, not made by the labour of human hands, but a work of Nature
herself: a spot of earth where the great timber grows not, but in its
place shrubs and tender grass, plants and perfumed flowers.

About a mile distant from the cabin of Hickman Holt just such an opening
is found--in superficial extent about equal to the squatter's
corn-patch.  It lies in the midst of a forest of tall trees--among which
are conspicuous the tulip-tree, the white magnolia, cotton-woods, and
giant oaks.  Those that immediately encircle it are of less stature:
graduating inward to its edge, like the seats in an amphitheatre--as if
the forest trees stooped downward to kiss the fair flowers that sparkle
over the glade.

These lesser trees are of various species.  They are the sassafras
laurel, famed for its sanitary sap; the noble Carolina bay, with its
aromatic leaves; the red mulberry: and the singular Osage orange-tree
(_Maclura aurantica_), the "bow-wood" of the Indians.  The pawpaw also
is present, to attest the extreme richness of the soil; but the
flowering plants, that flourish in profuse luxuriance over the glade,
are sufficient evidence of its fertility.  Why the trees grow not there,
is one of Nature's secrets, not yet revealed to man.

It is easier to say why a squatter's cabin is not there.  There is no
mystery about this: though there might appear to be, since the
_clearing_ is found ready to hand.  The explanation is simple: the glade
is a mile distant from water--the nearest being that of the creek
already mentioned as running past the cabin of the squatter.  Thus
Nature, as if jealous of this pretty wild-wood garden, protects it from
the defilement of man.

Nevertheless, the human presence is not unknown to it.  On this very
morning--this fair morning in May, that has disclosed to our view the
cabin and clearing of the squatter--a man may be observed entering the
glade.  The light elastic step, the lithe agile form, the smooth face,
all bespeak his youth; while the style of his dress, his arms and
equipments proclaim his calling to be that of a hunter.

He is a man of the correct size, and, it may be added, of the correct
shape--that is, one with whose figure the eye finds no fault.  It is
pleased at beholding a certain just distribution of the members
promising strength and activity for the accomplishment of any possible
physical end.  The countenance is equally expressive of good mental
qualities.  The features are regular and open, to frankness.  A
prominent chin denotes firmness; a soft hazel eye, gentleness; and a
full rounded throat, intrepid daring.  There is neither beard upon the
chin, nor moustache upon the lip--not that the face is too young for
either, but both have been shaven off.  In the way of hair, a
magnificent _chevelure_ of brown curls ruffles out under the rim of the
cap, shadowing over the cheeks and neck of the wearer.  Arched eyebrows,
a small mouth, and regular teeth, give the finish to a face which might
be regarded as a type of manly beauty.

And yet this beauty appears under a russet garb.  There is no evidence
of excessive toilet-care.  The brush and comb have been but sparingly
used; and neither perfume nor pomatum has been employed to heighten the
shine of those luxuriant locks.  There is sun-tan on the face, that,
perhaps with the aid of soap, _might_ be taken off; but it is permitted
to remain.  The teeth, too, might be made whiter with a dentifrice and
brush; but in all likelihood the nearest approach to their having ever
been cleansed has been while chewing a piece of tough deer-meat.
Nevertheless, without any artificial aids, the young man's beauty
proclaims itself in every feature--the more so, perhaps that, in gazing
upon his face, you are impressed with the idea that there is an
"outcome" in it.

In his dress, there is not much that could be altered for the better.
The hunting-shirt of the finest buckskin leather with its fringed cape
and skirt, hangs upon his body with all the grace of an Athenian tunic;
while its open front permits to be seen the manly contour of his breast,
but half concealed under the softer fawn-skin.  The wrappers of green
baize, though folded more than once around his legs, do not hide their
elegant _tournure_; and an appropriate covering for his feet is a pair
of strong mocassins, soled with thick leather.  A coon-skin cap sits
high upon his head slightly slouched to the right.  With the visage of
the animal turned to the front, and the full plume-like tail, with its
alternate rings, drooping to the shoulder, it forms a head-dress that is
far from ungraceful.  A belt around the waist--a short hunting-knife in
its sheath--a large powder-horn hanging below the arm-pit--a
bullet-pouch underneath, and _voila tout_!  No, not all, there remains
to be mentioned the rifle--the arm _par excellence_ of the American
hunter.  The portrait of Frank Wingrove--a dashing young backwoodsman,
whose calling is the chase.

The hunter has entered the glade, and is advancing across it.  He walks
slowly, but without caution--without that habitual stealthy tread that
distinguishes the sons of Saint Hubert in the West.  On the contrary,
his step is free, and the flowers are crushed under his feet.  He is not
even silent; but humming a tune as he goes.  Notwithstanding that he
appears accoutred for the chase, his movements are not those of one in
pursuit of game.  For this morning, at least, he is out upon a different
errand; and, judging from his jovial aspect, it should be one of
pleasure.  The birds themselves seem not more gay.

On emerging from the shadow of the tall trees into the open glade
effulgent with flowers, his gaiety seems to have reached its climax: it
breaks forth in song; and for some minutes the forest re-echoes the
well-known lay of "_Woodman spare that tree_."  Whence this joyous
humour?  Why are those eyes sparkling with a scarce concealed triumph?
Is there a sweetheart expected?  Is the glade to the scene of a
love-interview--that glade perfumed and flowery, as if designed for such
a purpose?  The conjecture is reasonable: the young hunter has the air
of one who keeps an assignation--one, too, who dreams not of
disappointment.  Near the edge of the glade, on the side opposite to
that by which the hunter has come in, is a fallen tree.  Its branches
and bark have long since disappeared, and the trunk is bleached to a
brilliant white.  In the phraseology of the backwoods, it is no longer a
tree, but a "log."  Towards this the hunter advances.  On arriving at
the log he seats himself upon it, in the attitude of one who does not
anticipate being for long alone.

There is a path that runs across the glade, bisecting it into two nearly
equal parts.  It is a tiny track, evidently not much used.  It conducts
from the stream on which stands the cabin of the squatter Holt, to
another "fork" of the same river--the Obion--where clearings are
numerous, and where there is also a large settlement bearing the
dignified title of "town."  It is the town of Swampville--a name perhaps
more appropriate than euphonious.  Upon this path, where it debouches
from the forest, the eye of Frank Wingrove becomes fixed--not in the
direction of Swampville, but towards the clearing of the squatter.  From
this, it would appear probable that he expects some one; and that the
person expected should come from that side.  A good while passes, and
yet no one answers his inquiring glance.  He begins to manifest signs of
impatience.  As if to kill time, he repeatedly rises, and again reseats
himself.  With his eye he measures the altitude of the sun--the watch of
the backwoodsman--and as the bright orb rises higher in the heavens, his
spirits appear to sink in proportion.  His look is no longer cheerful.
He has long since finished his song; and his voice is now heard again,
only when he utters an ejaculation of impatience.  All at once the
joyous expression is restored.  There is a noise in the woods, and it
proceeds from the right direction--a rustling of dead leaves that litter
the path, and occasionally the "swish" of recoiling branches.  Some one
approaches the glade.  The young hunter springs to his feet, and stands
listening.

Presently, he hears voices; but he hears them rather with surprise than
pleasure--as is indicated by another quick change passing over his
countenance.  The cheerful aspect has again given place to a look of
disappointment--this time approaching to chagrin.  "Thar's talk goin'
on;" mutters he to himself.  "Then she's not alone!  Thar's someb'dy
along wi' her.  Who the darnation can it be?"

After this characteristic soliloquy, he remains silent listening far
more eagerly than before.  The noises become more distinct, and the
voices louder.  More than one can be distinguished mingling in the
conversation.

For some seconds, the hunter maintains his attentive attitude--his eye
sternly fixed upon the _embouchure_ of the path.  His suspense is of
short duration.  Hearing the voices more plainly, he recognises their
tones; and the recognition appears to give another sudden turn to his
thoughts.  The expression of chagrin gives place to one of simple
disappointment.  "Bah!" exclaims he, throwing himself back upon the
dead-wood.  "It ain't _her_, after all!  It's only a gang o' them rovin'
red-skins.  What, in Old Nick's name, fetches 'em this way, an' jest at
the time when they ain't wanted?"

After a moment's reflection, he starts up from the log, continuing to
mutter: "I must hide, or they'll be for havin' a parley.  That 'ud never
do, for I guess _she_ can't be far off by this.  Hang the crooked luck!"

With this elegant finish, the speaker glides rapidly round the end of
the fallen tree, and makes for the nearest underwood--evidently with the
design of screening himself from sight.  He is too late--as the "Ugh"
uttered on the opposite side of the glade convinces him--and changing
his intention, he fronts round, and quietly returns to his former
position upon the log.

The hunter's conjecture has proved correct.  Bronzed faces show
themselves over the tops of the bushes on the opposite edge of the
glade; and, the moment after, three Indians emerge into the open ground.
That they are Indians, their tatterdemalion dress of coloured blankets,
leggings, and mocassins would indicate; but their race is even
recognisable in their mode of march.  Though there are but three of
them, and the path runs no longer among trees, they follow one another
in single file, and in the true typical "trot" of the red aboriginal.

The presence of Indians in these woods requires explanation--for their
tribe has long before this time been transported to their new lands west
of the Mississippi.  It only needs to be said that a few families have
preferred to remain--some from attachment to the scenes of their youth,
not to be severed by the prospect of a far happier home; some from
associations formed with the whites; and some from more trivial causes--
perhaps from being the degraded outcasts of their tribes.  Throughout
the whole region of the backwoods, there still exists a sparse
population of the indigenous race: dwelling, as their ancestors did,
under tents or in the open air; trafficking in small articles of their
own manufacture; in short, performing very much the same _metier_ as the
Gitanos in Europe.  There are other points of resemblance between these
two races--amounting almost to family likeness--and which fairly
entitles the Indians to an appellation sometimes bestowed upon
them--_the Gipsies of the New World_.

The three Indians who have entered the glade are manifestly what is
termed an "Indian family" or part of one.  They are father, and mother,
and daughter--the last a girl just grown to womanhood.  The man is in
the lead, the woman follows, and the young girl brings up the rear.
They are bent upon a journey, and its object is also manifest.  The
pannier borne upon the back of the woman, containing fox and coon-skins,
with little baskets of stained wicker--and the bead-embroidered
mocassins and wampum belts that appear in the hands of the girl--bespeak
a purposed visit to the settlement of Swampville.

True to the custom "of his fathers," the Indian himself carries
nothing--if we except a long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small
hatchet in his belt: rendering him rather a formidable-looking fellow on
his way to a market.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS.

The log on which the young hunter had seated himself is some paces
distant from the path.  He has a slight knowledge of this Indian family,
and simply nods to them as they pass.  He does not speak, lest a word
should bring on a conversation--for the avoidance of which he has a
powerful motive.

The Indian makes no halt, but strides silently onward, followed by his
pannier-laden squaw.  The girl, however, pauses in her steps--as if
struck by some sudden thought.  The action quickly follows the thought;
and, turning out of the path, she approaches the spot where the hunter
is seated.

What wants she with him?  Can this be the _she_ he has been expecting
with such impatience?  Surely not!  And yet the maiden is by no means
ill-looking.  In her gleaming oblique eyes there is a certain sweetness
of expression; and a tinge of purple-red, bursting through the bronze of
her cheeks, lends to her countenance a peculiar charm.  Add to this,
luxuriant black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines--which the sparse
savage costume but half conceals--and you have a portrait something more
than pretty.  Many a time and oft, in the history of backwoods life, has
the heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at such a shrine.  Is
this, then, the expected one?  No.  Her actions answer the question; and
his too.  He does not even rise to receive her, but keeps his seat upon
the log--regarding her approach with a glance of indifference, not
unmingled with a slight expression of displeasure.

_Her_ object is presently apparent.  A bullet-pouch of white buckskin,
richly worked with porcupine quills, is hanging over her arm.  On
arriving before the hunter she holds it out, as if about to present it
to him.  One might fancy that such is her intention; and that the pouch
is designed as a _gage d'amour_; but the word "dollar," which
accompanies the offer, precludes the possibility of such a supposition.
It is not thus that an Indian girl makes love.  She is simply soliciting
the pale-face to purchase.  In this design she is almost certain to be
successful.  The pouch proclaims its value, and promises to sell itself.
Certainly it is a beautiful object--with its quills of brilliant dye,
and richly-embroidered shoulder-strap.  Perhaps no object could be held
up before the eyes of Frank Wingrove more likely to elicit his
admiration.

He sees and admires.  He knows its value.  It is cheap at a dollar;
besides, he was just thinking of treating himself to such a one.  His
old catskin is worn and greasy.  He has grown fastidious of late--for
reasons that may be guessed.  This beautiful pouch would sit well over
his new hunting-shirt, and trick him out to a T.  In the eyes of
Marian--

His desire to become the possessor of the coveted article hinders him
from continuing the reflection.  Fortunately his old pouch contains the
required coin; and, in another instant, a silver dollar glances in the
palm of the Indian girl.

But the "goods" are not delivered over in the ordinary manner.  A
thought seems to strike the fair huckster; and she stands for a moment
gazing upon the face of the handsome purchaser.  Is it curiosity?  Or is
it, perhaps, some softer emotion that has suddenly germinated in her
soul?  Her hesitation lasts only for an instant.  With a smile that
seems to solicit, she approaches nearer to the hunter.  The pouch is
held aloft, with the strap extended between her hands.  Her design is
evident--she purposes to adjust it upon his shoulders.

The young hunter does not repel the proffered service--how could he?  It
would not be Frank Wingrove to do so.  On the contrary, he leans his
body forward to aid in the action.  The attitude brings their faces
almost close together: their lips are within two inches of touching!
For a moment the girl appears to have forgotten her purpose, or else she
executes it in a manner sufficiently _maladroit_.  In passing the strap
over the high coon-skin cap, her fingers become entangled in the brown
curls beneath.  Her eyes are not directed that way: they are gazing with
a basilisk glance into the eyes of the hunter.

The attitude of Wingrove is at first shrinking; but a slight smile
curling upon his lip, betokens that there is not much pain in the
situation.  A reflection, however, made at the moment, chases away the
smile.  It is this:--"'Tarnal earthquakes! were Marian to see me now!
She'd never believe but that I'm in love with this young squaw: she's
been jealous o' her already."

But the reflection passes; and with it, for an instant, the remembrance
of "Marian."  The sweetest smelling flower is that which is nearest--so
sings the honey-bee.  Human blood cannot bear the proximity of those
pretty lips; and the kindness of the Indian maiden must be recompensed
by a kiss.  She makes no resistance.  She utters no cry.  Their lips
meet; but the kiss is interrupted ere it can be achieved.  The bark of a
dog--followed by a half-suppressed scream in a female voice--causes the
interruption.  The hunter starts back, looking aghast.  The Indian
exhibits only surprise.  Both together glance across the glade.  Marian
Holt is standing upon its opposite edge!

Wingrove's cheek has turned red.  Fear and shame are depicted upon his
face.  In his confusion he pushes the Indian aside--more rudely than
gently.  "Go!" he exclaims in an under voice.  "For God's sake go!--you
have ruined me!"

The girl obeys the request and gesture--both sufficiently rude after
such sweet complaisance.  She obeys, however; and moves off from the
spot--not without reproach in her glance, and reluctance in her steps.
Before reaching the path she pauses, turns in her track, and glides
swiftly back towards the hunter.

Wingrove stands astonished--half afrighted.  Before he can recover
himself, or divine her intent, the Indian is once more by his side.  She
snatches the pouch from his shoulders--the place where her own hands had
suspended it--then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in
a loud angry tone the words, "False pale-face!" she turns from the spot,
and glides rapidly away.  In another moment she has entered the
forest-path, and is lost to the sight.

The scene has been short--of only a few seconds' duration.  Marian has
not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed
scream.  She stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had
deprived her of speech and motion.  Her fine form picturesquely draped
with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled
coronet of shining hair surmounting her head; the rifle in her hand,
resting on its butt, as it had been dashed mechanically down; the huge
gaunt dog by her side--all these outlined upon the green background of
the forest leaves, impart to the maiden an appearance at once majestic
and imposing.  Standing thus immobile, she suggests the idea of some
rival huntress, whom Diana, from jealousy, has suddenly transformed into
stone.  But her countenance betrays that she is no statue.  The colour
of her cheeks--alternately flushing red and pale--and the indignant
flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you look upon a living woman--one
who breathes and burns under the influence of a terrible emotion.

Wingrove is half frantic.  He scarce knows what to say, or what to do.
In his confusion he advances towards the young girl, calling her by
name; but before he has half crossed the glade, her words fall upon his
ear, causing him to hesitate and falter in his steps.  "Frank Wingrove!"
she cries, "come not near me.  Your road lies the other way.  Go! follow
your Indian damsel.  You will find her at Swampville, no doubt, selling
her cheap kisses to triflers like yourself.  Traitor! we meet no more!"

Without waiting for a reply, or even to note the effect of her words,
Marian Holt steps back into the forest, and disappears.  The young
hunter is too stupefied to follow.  With "false pale-face" ringing in
one ear, and "traitor" in the other, he knows not in what direction to
turn.  At length the log falls under his eye; and striding mechanically
towards it, he sits down--to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, and
the unpleasant consequences of an unhallowed kiss.



CHAPTER FIVE.

SQUATTER AND SAINT.

Return we to the squatter's cabin--this time to enter it.  Inside, there
is not much to be seen or described.  The interior consists of a single
room--of which the log-walls are the sides, and the clapboard roof the
ceiling.  In one corner there is a little partition or screen--the
materials composing it being skins or the black bear and fallow deer.
It is pleasant to look upon this little chamber: it is the shrine of
modesty and virgin innocence.  Its presence proves that the squatter is
not altogether a savage.

Rude as is the interior of the sheiling, it contains a few relics of
bygone, better days--not spent there, but elsewhere.  Some books are
seen upon a little shelf--the library of Lilian's mother--and two or
three pieces of furniture, that have once been decent, if not stylish.
But chattels of this land are scarce in the backwoods--even in the
houses of more pretentious people than a squatter; and a log-stool or
two, a table of split poplar planks, an iron pot, some pans and pails of
tin, a few plates and pannikins of the same material, a gourd "dipper"
or drinking-cup, and half-a-dozen common knives, forks, and spoons,
constitute the whole "plenishing" of the hut.  The skin of a cougar, not
long killed, hangs against the wall.  Beside it are the pelts of other
wild animals--as the grey fox, the racoon, the rufous lynx, musk-rats,
and minks.  These, draping the roughly-hewn logs, rob them to some
extent of their rigidity.  By the door is suspended an old saddle, of
the fashion known as _American_--a sort of cross between the high-peaked
_silla_ of the Mexicans, and the flat pad-like English saddle.  On the
adjacent peg hangs a bridle to match--its reins black with age, and its
bit reddened with rust.  Some light articles of female apparel are seen
hanging against the wall, near that sacred precinct where, during the
the night-hours, repose the fair daughters of the squatter.

The cabin is a rude dwelling indeed--a rough casket to contain a pair of
jewels so sparkling and priceless.  Just now, it is occupied by two
individuals of a very different character--two men already mentioned--
the hunter Hickman Holt, and his visitor Joshua Stebbins, the
schoolmaster of Swampville.  The personal appearance of the latter has
been already half described.  It deserves a more detailed delineation.
His probable age has been stated--about thirty.  His spare figure and
ill-omened aspect have been alluded to.  Add to this, low stature, a
tripe-coloured skin, a beardless face, a shrinking chin, a nose
sharp-pointed and peckish, lank black hair falling over the forehead,
and hanging down almost low enough to shadow a pair of deep-set
weazel-like eyes: give to this combination of features a slightly
sinister aspect, and you have the portrait of Joshua Stebbins.  It is
not easy to tell the cause of this sinister expression: for the features
are not irregular; and, but for its bilious colour, the face could
scarcely be termed ill-looking.  The eyes do not squint; and the thin
lips appear making a constant effort to look smiling and saint-like.
Perhaps it is this _outward_ affectation of the saintly character--
belying, as it evidently does, the spirit within, that produces the
unfavourable impression.  In earlier youth, the face may have been
better favoured; but a career, spent in the exercise of evil passions,
has left more than one "blaze" upon it.

It is difficult to reconcile such a career with the demeanour of the
man, and especially with his present occupation.  But Joshua Stebbins
has not always been a schoolmaster; and the pedagogue of a border
settlement is not necessarily, expected to be a model of morality.  Even
if it were so, this lord of the hickory-switch is comparatively a
stranger in Swampville; and, perhaps, only the best side of his
character has been exhibited to the parents and guardians of the
settlement.  This is of the saintly order; and, as if to strengthen the
illusion, a dress of clerical cut has been assumed, as also a white
cravat and black boat-brimmed hat.  The coat, waistcoat, and trousers
are of broad-cloth--though not of the finest quality.  It is just such a
costume as might be worn by one of the humbler class of Methodist border
Ministers, or by a Catholic priest--a somewhat rarer bird in the
backwoods.

Joshua Stebbins is neither one nor the other; although, as will shortly
appear, his assumption of the ecclesiastical style is not altogether
confined to his dress.  Of late he has also affected the clerical
calling.  The _ci-devant_ attorney's clerk--whilom the schoolmaster of
Swampville--is now an "apostle" of the "Latter-day Saints."  The
character is new--the faith itself is not very old--for the events we
are relating occurred during the first decade of the Mormon revelation.
Even Holt himself has not yet been made aware of the change: as would
appear from a certain air of astonishment, with which at first sight he
regards the clerical habiliments of his visitor.

It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that presented
in the appearance of these two men.  Were we to select two parallel
types from the animal world, they would be the sly fox and the grizzly
bear--the latter represented by the squatter himself.  In Hickman Holt
we behold a personage of unwonted aspect: a man of gigantic stature,
with a beard reaching to the second button of his coat, and a face not
to be looked upon without a sensation of terror--a countenance
expressive of determined courage, but at the same time of fierceness,
untempered by any trace of a softer emotion.  A shaggy sand-coloured
beard, slightly grizzled; eyebrows like a _chevaux de frise_ of hogs'
bristles; eyes of a greenish-grey, and a broad livid scar across the
left cheek--are component parts in producing this aspect; while a red
cotton kerchief, wound turban-like around the head, and pulled low down
in front, renders its expression more palpable and pronounced.

A loose surtout of thick green blanket-cloth, somewhat faded and worn,
adds to the colossal appearance of the man: while a red-flannel shirt
serves him also for a vest.  His huge limbs are encased in pantaloons of
blue Kentucky "jeans;" but these are scarcely visible--as the skirt of
his ample coat drapes down so as to cover the tops of a pair of rough
horse-skin boots, that reach upwards to his knees.  The costume is
common enough on the banks of the Mississippi; the colossal form is not
rare; but the fierce, and somewhat repulsive countenance--that is more
individual.

Is this father of Marian and Lilian?  Is it possible from so rude a stem
could spring such graceful branches--flowers so fair and lovely?  If so,
then must the mothers of both have been beautiful beyond common!  It is
even true, and true that both were beautiful--were for they are gone,
and Hickman Holt is twice a widower.  Long ago, he buried the half-blood
mother of Marian; and at a later period--though still some years ago--
her gentle golden-haired successor was carried to an early grave.

The latter event occurred in one of the settlements, nearer to the
region of civilised life.  There was a murmur of mystery about the
second widowhood of Hickman Holt, which only became hushed on his
"moving" further west--to the wild forest where we now find him.  Here
no one knows aught of his past life or history--one only excepted--and
that is the man who is to-day his visitor.

Contrasting the two men--regarding the superior size and more formidable
aspect of the owner of the cabin, you would expect his guest to make
some show of obeisance to him.  On the contrary, it is the squatter who
exhibits the appearance of complaisance.  He has already saluted his
visitor with an air of embarrassment, but ill-concealed under the words
of welcome with which he received him.  Throughout the scene of
salutation, and afterwards, the schoolmaster has maintained his
characteristic demeanour of half-smiling, half-sneering coolness.
Noting the behaviour of these two men to one another, even a careless
observer could perceive that the smaller man is the _master_!



CHAPTER SIX.

AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT.

The morning needed no fire, but there were embers upon the clay-hearth--
some smouldering ends of faggots--over which the breakfast had been
cooked.  On one side of the fireplace the squatter placed a stool for
his visitor; and then another for himself, as if mechanically on the
opposite side.  A table of rough-hewn planks stood between.  On this was
a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey--or, "bald face," as it is more
familiarly known in the backwoods--two cracked cups to drink out of; a
couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco.  All these
preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped
from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had been expected.  Beyond the
customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the
host and guest, until both had seated themselves.  The squatter then
commenced the conversation.

"Yev hed a long ride, Josh," said he, leaning towards the table and
clutching hold of the bottle: "try a taste o' this hyur
_rot-gut_--'taint the daintiest o' drink to offer a man so genteelly
dressed as you air this morning; but thur's wuss licker in these hyur
back'oods, I reckun.  Will ye mix?  Thur's water in the jug thar."

"No water for me," was the laconic reply.  "Yur right 'bout that.  Its
from old Hatcher's still--whar they us'ally put the water in afore they
give ye the licker.  I s'pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o'
mixing--Ha! ha! ha!"  The squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he
enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his
visitor in good-humour.  The only evidence of his success was a dry
smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically
than otherwise.

There was silence while both drank; and Holt was again under the
necessity of beginning the conversation.  As already observed, he had
noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster's costume; and it was to
this transformation that his next speech alluded.  "Why, Josh," said he,
attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, "ye're bran new, spick span,
from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o' them ere
cantin' critters o' preechers I often see prowlin' about Swampville.
Durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now.  _You_ hain't got rileegun,
I reck'n?"

"I have," gravely responded Stebbins.

"Hooraw! ha, ha, ha!  Wal--what sort o' thing is't anyhow?"

"My religion is of the right sort, Brother Holt."

"Methody?"

"Nothing of the kind."

"What then?  I thort they wur all Methodies in Swampville?"

"They're all _Gentiles_ in Swampville--worse than infidels themselves."

"Wal--I know they brag mightily on thur genteelity.  I reckon you're
about right thur--them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin'."

"No, no; it's not that I mean.  My religion has nothing to do with
Swampville.  Thank the Lord for his mercy, I've been led into a surer
way of salvation.  I suppose, Brother Holt, you've heard of the new
Revelation?"

"Heern o' the new rev'lation.  Wal, I don't know as I hev.  What's the
name o't?"

"The book of _Mormon_?"

"Oh!  Mormons!  I've hearn o' them.  Hain't they been a fightin' a spell
up thur in Massouray or Illinoy, whar they built 'em a grandiferous
temple?  I've hearn some talk o't."

"At Nauvoo.  It is even so, Brother Holt the wicked Gentiles have been
persecuting the Saints: just as their fathers were persecuted by the
Egyptian Pharaohs."

"An' hain't they killed their head man--Smith he wur called, if I
recollex right."

"Alas, true!  Joseph Smith has been made a martyr, and is by this time
an angel in heaven.  No doubt he is now in glory, at the head of the
angelic host."

"Wal--if the angels are weemen, he'll hev a good wheen o' 'em about him,
I reck'n.  I've hearn he wur at the head of a putty consid'able host o'
'em up thur in Massoury--fifty wives they said he hed!  Wur that ere
true, Josh?"

"Scandal, Brother Holt--all scandal of the wicked enemies of our faith.
They were but wives _in the spirit_.  That the Gentiles can't
comprehend; since their eyes have not been opened by the Revelation."

"Wal, it 'pears to be a tol'able free sort o' rileegun anyhow.  Kind o'
Turk, aint it?"

"Nothing of the kind.  It has nothing in common with the doctrines of
Mohammedanism."

"But whar did _you_ get it, Josh Stebbins?  Who gin it to you?"

"You remember the man I brought over here last fall?"

"Sartint I do.  Young he wur--Brig Young, I think, you called him."

"The same."

"In coorse, I remember him well enough; but I reckon our Marian do a
leetle better.  He tried to spark the gurl, an' made fine speeches to
her; but she couldn't bar the sight o' him for all that.  Ha! ha! ha.
Don't ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him?  She unbuckled
the girt o' his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin' to mount, and down he
kim--saddle, bags, and all--cawollup to the airth! ha! ha!  Arter he wur
gone, I larfed till I wur like to bust."

"You did wrong, Hickman Holt, to encourage your daughter in her
sauciness.  Had you known the man--_that man, sir, was a prophet_!"

"A prophet!"

"Yes--the greatest perhaps the world ever saw--a man in direct
communication with the Almighty himself."

"Lord!  'Twan't Joe Smith, wur it?"

"No; but one as great as he--one who has inherited his spirit; and who
is now the head of all the Saints."

"That feller at thur head?  You 'stonish me, Josh Stebbins."

"Ah! well you may be astonished.  That man has astonished me, Hickman
Holt.  He has turned me from evil ways, and led me to fear the Lord."
The squatter looked incredulous, but remained silent.  "Yes--that same
man who was here with me in your humble cabin, is now Chief Priest of
the Mormon Church!  He has laid his hands on this poor head, and
constituted me one of his humble Apostles.  Yes, one of the _Twelve_,
intrusted with spreading the true faith of the Saints over all the
world."

"Hooraw for you, Josh Stebbins!  You'll be jest the man for that sort o'
thing; ye've got the larnin' for it, hain't you?"

"No doubt, Brother Holt, with the help of the Lord, my humble
acquirements will be useful; for though _He_ only can open for us poor
sinners the kingdom of grace, he suffers such weak instruments, as
myself, to point out the narrow path that leads to it.  Just as with the
Philistines of old, the hearts of the Gentiles are hardened like
flint-stones, and refuse to receive the true faith.  Unlike the
followers of Mohammed, _we_ propagate not by the sword, but by the
influence of ratiocination."

"What?"

"Ratiocination."

"What mout that be?"

"Reason--reason."

"Oh! common sense you mean, I s'pose?"

"Exactly so--reasoning that produces conviction; and, I flatter myself,
that, being gifted with some little sense and skill, my efforts may be
crowned with success."

"Wal, Josh, 'ithout talkin' o' common sense, ye've good grist o'
lawyers' sense--that I know; an' so, I suppose, ye've tuk it into your
head to make beginnin' on me.  Aint that why ye've come over this
mornin'?"

"What?"

"To make a Mormon o' me."

Up to this time the conversation had been carried on in a somewhat stiff
and irrelevant manner; this more especially on the side of the squatter,
who--notwithstanding his endeavours to assume an air of easy
nonchalance--was evidently labouring under suspicion and constraint.
From the fact of Stebbins having sent a message to forewarn him, of this
visit, he knew that the schoolmaster had some business with him of more
than usual importance; and it was a view to ascertain the nature of this
business, and relieve himself from suspense, that the interrogatory was
put.  He would have been right glad to have received an answer in the
affirmative--since it would have cost him little concern to turn Mormon,
or profess to do so, notwithstanding his pretended opposition to the
faith.  He was half indulging himself in the hope that this might be the
errand on which Stebbins had come: as was evinced by a more cheerful
expression, on his countenance; but, as the Saint lingered long before
making a reply, the shadows of suspicion again darkened over the brow of
the squatter; and with a nervous uneasiness, he awaited the answer.

"It'll be a tough job, Josh," said he, with an effort to appear
unconcerned--"a tough job, mind ye."

"Well, so I should expect," answered the apostle drily; "and, just for
that reason, I don't intend to undertake it: though I should like,
Brother Holt, to see you gathered into the fold.  I know our great High
Priest would make much of a man like _you_.  The Saints have many
enemies; and need strong arms and stout hearts such as yours, Hickman
Holt.  The Lord has given to his Prophet the right to defend the true
faith--even with carnal weapons, if others fail; and woe be to them who
make war on us!  Let them dread the _Destroying Angels_!"

"The Destroying Angels!  What sort o' critters be they?"

"They are the _Danites_."

"Wal I'm jest as wise as ever, Josh.  Dod rot it, man! don't be
mystiferous.  Who air the Danites, I shed like to know?"

"You can only know them by initiation; and you _should_ know them.
You're just the man to be one of them; and I have no doubt you'd be made
one, as soon as you joined us."

The apostle paused, as if to note the effect of his words; but the
colossal hunter appeared as if he had not heard them.  It was not that
he did not comprehend their meaning, but rather because he was not
heeding what had been said--his mind being occupied with a presentiment
of some more unpleasant proposal held in reserve by his visitor.  He
remained silent, however; leaving it to the latter to proceed to the
declaration of his design.  The suspicions of the squatter--if directed
to anything connected with his family affairs--were well grounded, and
soon received confirmation.  After a pause, the Mormon continued:

"No, Hickman Holt, it aint with _you_ my business lies to-day--that is,
not exactly with you."

"Who, then?"

"_Your daughter_!"



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE MORMON'S DEMAND.

A shudder passed through the herculean frame of the hunter--though it
was scarcely perceptible, from the effort he made to conceal it.  It was
noticed for all that; and the emotion that caused it perfectly
understood.  The keen eye of the _ci-devant_ law clerk was too skilled
in reading the human countenance, to be deceived by an effort at
impassibility.

"My daughter?" muttered Holt, half interrogatively.

"Your daughter!" echoed the Mormon, with imperturbable coolness.

"But which o' 'em?  Thur's two."

"Oh! you know which I mean--Marian, of course."

"An' what do ye want wi' Marian, Josh?"

"Come, Brother Holt? it's no use your feigning ignorance.  I've spoken
to you of this before: you know well enough what I want with her."

"Durn me, if I do!  I remember what ye sayed afore; but I thort ye wur
only jokin'."

"I was in earnest then, Hickman Holt; and I'm still more in earnest now.
I want a wife, and I think Marian would suit me admirably.  I suppose
you know that the saints have moved off from Illinois, and are now
located beyond the Rocky Mountains?"

"I've heern somethin' o't."

"Well, I propose going thereto join them; and I must take a wife with
me: for no man is welcome who comes there without one."

"Y-e-s," drawled the squatter, with a bitter smile, "an' from what I've
heern, I reckon he'd be more welkum if he fetched half-a-dozen."

"Nonsense, Hickman Holt.  I wonder a man of your sense would listen to
such lies.  It's a scandal that's been scattered abroad by a set of
corrupt priests and Methody preachers, who are jealous of us, because
we're drawing their people.  Sheer wicked lies, every word of it!"

"Wal, I don't know about that.  But I know one thing, to a sartinty--you
will niver get Marian's consent."

"I don't want Marian's consent--that don't signify, so long as I have
yours."

"Myen?"

"Ay, yours; and I must have it.  Look here, Hickman Holt!  Listen to me!
We're making too long a talk about this business; and I have no time to
waste in words.  I have made everything ready; and shall leave for the
Salt Lake before three more days have passed over my head.  The caravan
I'm going with is to start from Fort Smith on the Arkansas; and it'll be
prepared by the time I get there, to move over the plains.  I've bought
me a team and a waggon.  It's already loaded and packed; and there's a
corner in it left expressly for your daughter: therefore, she must go."

The tone of the speaker had suddenly changed, from that of saintly
insinuation, to bold open menace.  The squatter, notwithstanding his
fierce and formidable aspect, did not dare to reply in the same strain.
He was evidently cowed, and suffering under some fearful apprehension.
"_Must_ go!" he muttered, half involuntarily, as if echoing the other's
words.  "Yes, _must_ and _shall_!"

"I tell ye, Josh Stebbins, she'll niver consent."

"And I tell you, Hickman Holt, I don't want her consent.  That I leave
_you_ to obtain; and if you can't get it otherwise, you must _force_ it.
Bah! what is it for?  A good husband--a good home--plenty of meat,
drink, and dress: for don't you get it into your fancy that the
Latter-Day Saints resemble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, who
think they please God by their miserable penances.  Quite the reverse, I
can assure you.  We mean to live as God intended men should live--eat,
drink, and be merry.  Look there!"  The speaker exhibited a handful of
shining gold pieces.  "That's the way our church provides for its
apostles.  Your daughter will be a thousand times better off there, than
in this wretched hovel.  Perhaps _she_ will not mind the change so much
as _you_ appear to think.  I know many a first-rate girl that would be
glad of the chance."

"I know _she_ won't give in--far less to be made a Mormon o'.  I've
heern her speak agin 'em."

"I say again, she must give in.  After all, you needn't tell her I'm a
Mormon: she needn't know anything about _that_.  Let her think I'm only
moving out west--to Oregon--where there are plenty of respectable
emigrants now going.  She'll not suspect anything in that.  Once out at
Salt Lake City, she'll soon get reconciled to Mormon life, I guess."

The squatter remained silent for some moments--his head hanging forward
over his broad breast--his eyes turned inward, as if searching within
his bosom for some thought to guide and direct him.  In there, no doubt,
a terrible struggle was going on--a tumult of mixed emotions.  He loved
his daughter, and would leave her to her own will; but he feared this
saintly suitor, and dared not gainsay him.  It must have been some dread
secret, or fiendish scheme, that enabled this small insignificant man to
sway the will of such a giant!

A considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer.
He was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should
make.

Twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to
the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the
latter, a fixed and implacable purpose.  There was no mercy there.

All at once, a change came over the colossus.  A resolution of
resistance had arisen within him--as was evinced by his altered attitude
and the darkening shadow upon his countenance.  The triumphant glances
of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter
in dispute.  Like the buffalo of the plains stung with Indian arrows, or
the great _mysticetus_ of the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler,
all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from
their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the
presence of his tormentor.  "Damnation!" cried he, striking the floor
with his heavy heel, "she won't do it--she won't, and she _shan't_!"

"Keep cool, Hickman Holt!" rejoined the Mormon, without moving from his
seat--"keep cool!  I expected this; but it's all bluster.  I tell you
she will, and she _shall_!"

"Hev a care, Josh Stebbins!  Hev a care what yur about!  Ye don't know
what you may drive me to--"

"But I know what I may _lead_ you to," interrupted the other with a
sneering smile.

"What?" involuntarily inquired Holt.

"The gallows," laconically answered Stebbins.

"Devils an' damnation!"  This emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a
furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling--as if the angry
spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace.

"It's no use swearing about it, Holt," continued the Mormon, after a
certain time had passed in silence.  "_My_ mind's made up--the girl must
go with me.  Say _yes_ or _no_.  If yes, then all's well--well for your
daughter, and well for you too.  I shall be out of your way--Salt Lake's
a long distance off--and it's _not likely you'll ever set eyes on me
again_.  You understand me?"

The saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and
then paused, as if to let them have their full weight.  They appeared to
produce an effect.  On hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of
sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter.  It appeared the
outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its
continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view
of the Mormon's proposal.  He spoke at length; but no longer in the tone
of rage--for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had
sprung up.

"An' s'pose I say _no_?"

"Why, in that case, I shall not start so soon as I had intended.  I
shall stay in the settlements till I have performed a duty that, for a
long time, I have left undone."

"What duty is't you mean?"

"One I owe to society; and which I have perhaps sinfully
neglected--_bring a murderer to justice_!"

"Hush!  Josh Stebbins--for Heaven's sake, speak low!  _You know it isn't
true_--but, hush! the gurls are 'thout.  Don't let them hear sech talk!"

"Perhaps," continued Stebbins, without heeding the interruption,
"perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape.  He is mistaken if he
do.  One word from me in Swampville, and the hounds of the law would be
upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear of _them_, he could not
escape out of my power.  I have told you I am an Apostle of the great
Mormon Church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the
vengeance of our Destroying Angels.  Now, Hickman Holt, which is it to
be? _yes or no_?"  The pause was ominous for poor Marian.

The answer decided her doom.  It was delivered in a hoarse husky voice:
"_Yes--yes--she may go_!"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A SPLENDID PENSION.

The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was followed by an extensive
_debandement_, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into
their scabbards--some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of
freedom, calumniously called "filibustering;" others perhaps destined
never to be drawn again.  Using a figurative expression, not a few were
converted into spades; and in this _pacific_ fashion, carried to the far
shores of the Pacific Ocean--there to delve for Californian gold--while
still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust
in inglorious idleness.  A three years' campaign under the sultry skies
of Mexico--drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms
of the American youth--had satisfied the ambition of most.  It was only
those who arrived late upon the field--too late to pluck a laurel--who
would have prolonged the strife.

The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield--_ci-devant_ captain of a
corps of "rangers"--was not one of the last mentioned.  With myself, as
with many others, the great Mexican campaign was but the continuation of
the little war--_la petite guerre_--that had long held an intermittent
existence upon the borders of Texas, and in which we had borne part; and
the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher
and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of Anahuac, constituted
a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time.  For my part,
notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, I was
tired of the toils of war, and really desired a "spell" of peace: during
which I might indulge in the _dolce far niente_, and obtain for my
wearied spirit a respite of repose.  My wishes were in similitude with
those of the poet, who longed for "a lodge in some vast wilderness--some
boundless contiguity of shade;" or perhaps, more akin to those of that
other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the "desert as
a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!"  In truth, I
felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in
all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference
of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best
intentions.  A phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance
that offered opposition to my will: "want of the wherewith to support a
wife."

I had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a "dwelling
in the desert" cannot be maintained without expense; and that however
pure the desert air, the _fairest_ "spirit" would require something more
substantial to live upon.  Under this prudential view of the case,
marriage was altogether out of the question.  We, the _debandes_, were
dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements
being a piece of "land scrip," good for the number of acres upon the
face of it--to be selected from "government land," wherever the holder
might choose to "locate."  The scrip was for greater or less amount,
according to the term of the receiver's service.  Mine represented a
"section" of six hundred and forty acres--worth in ordinary times, a
dollar and quarter per acre; but just then--on account of the market
being flooded by similar paper--reduced to less than half its value.
With this magnificent "bounty" was I rewarded for services, that
perhaps--some day--might be--never mind!--thank heaven for blessing me
with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment!  This bit of
scrip then--a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and
through the smoke of more than one red fray--a true rifle, that I had
myself carried equally as far--a pair of Colt's pistols--and a steel
"Toledo," taken at the storming of Chapultepec--constituted the bulk of
my available property.  Add to this, a remnant of my last month's pay--
in truth, not enough to provide me with that much coveted article, a
_civilian's suit_: in proof of which, my old undress-frock, with its
yellow spread-eagle buttons, clung to my shoulders like a second shirt
of Nessus.  The vanity of wearing a uniform, that may have once been
felt, was long ago threadbare as the coat itself; and yet I was not
wanting in friends, who fancied that it might still exist!  How little
understood they the real state of the case, and how much did they
misconstrue my _involuntary_ motives!

It was just to escape from such unpleasant associations, that I held on
to my "scrip."  Most of my brother-officers had sold theirs for a
"song," and spent the proceeds upon a "supper."  In relation to mine, I
had other views than parting with it to the greedy speculators.  It
promised me that very wilderness-home I was in search of; and, having no
prospect of procuring a fair spirit for my "minister," I determined to
"locate" without one.

I was at the time staying in Tennessee--the guest of a campaigning
comrade and still older friend.  He was grandson of that gallant leader,
who, with a small band of only forty families, ventured three hundred
miles through the heart of the "bloody ground" and founded Nashville
upon the bold bluffs of an almost unknown river!  From the lips of their
descendants I had heard so many thrilling tales of adventures,
experienced by this pioneer band, that Tennessee had become, in my fancy
a region of romance.  Other associations had led me to love this
hospitable and chivalric state; and I resolved, that, within its
boundaries, I should make my home.  A visit to the Land-office of
Nashville ended in my selection of Section Number 9, Township --, as my
future plantation.  It was represented to me as a fertile spot--situated
in the "Western Reserve"--near the banks of the beautiful Obion, and not
far above the confluence of this river with the Mississippi.  The
official believed there had been some "improvement" made upon the land
by a _squatter_; but whether the squatter still lived upon it, he could
not tell.  "At all events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise the
_pre-emption right_, and of course must move off."  So spoke the land
agent.  This would answer admirably.  Although my Texan experience had
constituted me a tolerable woodsman, it had not made me a woodcutter;
and the clearing of the squatter, however small it might be, would serve
as a beginning.  I congratulated myself on my good luck; and, without
further parley, parted with my scrip--receiving in return the necessary
documents, that constituted me the legal owner and lord of the soil of
Section 9.  The only additional information the agent could afford me
was: that my new purchase was all "heavily timbered," with the exception
before referred to; that the township in which it was situated was
called Swampville; and that the section itself was known as "Holt's
Clearing"--from the name, it was supposed, of the squatter who had made
the "improvement."

With this intelligence in my head, and the title-deeds in my pocket, I
took leave of the friendly official; who, at parting, politely wished me
"a pleasant time of it on my new plantation!"



CHAPTER NINE.

FRIENDLY ADVICE.

On returning to the house of my friend, I informed him of my purchase;
and was pleased to find that he approved of it.  "You can't be taken
in," said he, "by land upon the Obion.  From what I have heard of it, it
is one of the most fertile spots in Tennessee.  Moreover, as you are
fond of hunting, you'll find game in abundance.  The black bear, and
even the panther--or `painter,' as our backwoodsmen have it--are still
common in the Obion bottom; and indeed, all throughout the forests of
the Reserve."

"I'm rejoiced to hear it."

"No doubt," continued my friend, with a smile, "you may shoot deer from
your own door; or trap wolves and wild-cats at the entrance to your
hen-roost."

"Good!"

"O yes--though I can't promise that you will see anything of _Venus_ in
the woods, you may enjoy to your heart's content the noble art of
_venerie_.  The Obion bottom is a very paradise for hunters.  It was it
that gave birth to the celebrated Crockett."

"On that account it will be all the more interesting to me; and, from
what you say, it is just the sort of place I should have chosen to
_squat_ upon."

"_By_ the by," interrupted my friend, looking a little grave as he
spoke, "your making use of that familiar phrase, recalls the
circumstance you mentioned just now.  Did I understand you to say, there
was a _squatter_ on the land?"

"There _was_ one--so the agent has told me; but whether he be still
_squatted_ there, the official could not say."

"Rather awkward, if he be," rejoined my friend, in a sort of musing
soliloquy; while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept pulling
his "goatee" to its full length.

"In what way awkward?"  I asked in some surprise.  "How can _that_
signify?"

"A great deal.  These squatters are queer fellows--_ugly_ customers to
deal with--especially when you come to turn them out of their house and
home, as they consider it.  It is true, they have the _pre-emption
right_--that is, they may purchase, if they please, and send you to seek
a location elsewhere; but this is a privilege those gentry rarely please
to indulge in--being universally too poor to purchase."

"What then?"

"Their motto is, for `him to keep who can.'  The old adage, `possession
being nine points of the law,' is, in the squatter's code, no
dead-letter, I can assure you."

"Do you mean, that the fellow might refuse to turn out?"

"It depends a good deal on what sort of a fellow he is.  They are not
all alike.  If he should chance to be one of the obstinate and
pugnacious kind, you are likely enough to have trouble with him."

"But surely the law--"

"Will aid you in ousting him--that's what you were going to say?"

"I should expect so--in Tennessee, at all events."

"And you would be disappointed.  In almost any other part of the state,
you _might_ rely upon legal assistance; but, I fear, that about
Swampville you will find society not very different from that you have
encountered on the borders of Texas; and you know how little help the
law could afford you _there_, in the enforcement of such a claim?"

"Then I must take the law into my own hands," rejoined I, falling into
very old-fashioned phraseology--for I was beginning to feel indignant at
the very idea of this prospective difficulty.  "No, Warfield," replied
my sober friend, "do not take that course; I know you are not the man to
be _scared_ out of your rights; but, in the present case, prudence is
the proper course to follow.--Your squatter, if there be one--it is to
be hoped that, like many of our grand cities, he has only an existence
on the map--but if there should be a real live animal of this
description on the ground, he will be almost certain to have
neighbours--some half-dozen of his own kidney--living at greater or less
distances around him.  They are not usually of a clannish disposition;
but, in a matter of this kind, they will be as unanimous in their
sympathies, and antipathies too, as they would about the butchering of a
bear.  Turn one of them out by force--either legal or otherwise--and it
would be like bringing a hornets' nest about your ears.  Even were you
to succeed in so clearing your land, you would find ever afterwards a
set of very unpleasant neighbours to live among.  I know some cases in
point, that occurred nearer home here.  In fact, on some wild lands of
my own I had an instance of the kind."

"What, then, am I to do?  Can you advise me?"

"Do as others have often done before you; and who have actually been
forced to the course of action I shall advise.  _Should there be a
squatter_, and one likely to prove obstinate, approach him as gently as
you can, and state your case frankly.  You will find this the best mode
of treating with these fellows--many of whom have a dash of honour, as
well as honesty in their composition.  Speak of the _improvements_ he
has made, and offer him a recompense."

"Ah! friend Blount," replied I, addressing my kind host by his baptismal
name, "it is much easier to listen to your advice than follow it."

"Come, old comrade!" rejoined he, after a momentary pause, "I think I
understand you.  There need be no concealment between friends, such as
we are.  Let not that difficulty hinder you from following the course I
have recommended.  The old general's property is not all gone yet; and,
should you stand in need of a hundred or two, to make a _second_
purchase of your plantation, send me word, and--"

"Thanks, Blount--thanks! it is just as I should have expected; but I
shall not become your debtor for such a purpose.  I have been a
frontiersman too long to be bullied by a backwoodsman--"

"There now, Warfield, just your own passionate self!  Nay, you must take
my advice.  Pray, do not go rashly about it, but act as I have
counselled you."

"That will depend upon contingencies.  Should Master Holt--for I believe
that is my predecessor's name--should he prove _amiable_, I may consent
to go a little in your debt, and pay him for whatever log-chopping he
has done.  If otherwise, by the Lady of Guadalupe!--you remember our old
Mexican shibboleth--he shall be cleared out of his clearing _sans
facon_.  Perhaps we have been wasting words upon an ideal existence!
Perhaps there is no squatter after all; or that old Holt has long since
`gone under' and only his ghost will be found flitting around the
precincts of this disputed territory.  Would not that be an interesting
companion for my hours of midnight loneliness?  A match for the wolves
and wild-cats!  Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, old comrade; I trust it may turn out no worse.  The ghost of a
squatter might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than the squatter
himself, dispossessed of his _squatment_.  Notwithstanding this
badinage, I know you will act with judgment; and you can count upon my
help in the matter, if you should require it."  I grasped the speaker's
hand, to express my gratitude; and the tight pressure returned, told me
I was parting with one of the few friends I had in the world.

My _impedimenta_ had been already packed.  They did not need much
stowage.  A pair of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all my
personal property--including the title-deeds of my freehold!  My arms I
carried upon my person: my sword only being strapped along the saddle.
Bidding adieu to my friend, I mounted my noble Arab; and, heading him to
the road, commenced journeying towards the _Western Reserve_.



CHAPTER TEN.

A CLASSIC LAND.

Between Nashville and Swampville extends a distance of more than a
hundred miles--just three days' travel on horseback.  For the first ten
miles--to Harpeth River--I found an excellent road, graded and
macadamised, running most of the way between fenced plantations.  My
next point was _Paris_; and forty miles further on, I arrived in
_Dresden_!  So far as the nomenclature was concerned, I might have
fancied myself travelling upon the continent of Europe.  By going a
little to the right, I might have entered Asia: since I was told of
_Smyrna_ and _Troy_ being at no great distance in that direction; and by
proceeding in a south-westerly course, I should have passed through
_Denmark_, and landed at _Memphis_--certainly an extensive tour within
the short space of three days!  Ugh! those ugly names!  What
hedge-schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely and profusely over this
lovely land?  Whip the wretch with rattlesnakes!  Memphis indeed!--as if
Memphis with its monolithic statues needed commemoration on the banks of
the Mississippi!  A new Osiris--a new Sphinx, "half horse, half
alligator, with a sprinkling of the snapping turtle."  At every forking
of the roads, whenever I inquired my way, in my ears rang those classic
homonyms, till my soul was sick of sounds.  "Swampville" was euphony,
and "Mud Creek" _soft_ music in comparison!  Beyond Dresden, the titles
became more appropriate and much more rare.  There were long stretches
having no names at all: for the simple reason, that there were no
_places_ to bear them.  The numerous creeks, however, had been baptised;
and evidently by the backwoodsmen themselves, as the titles indicated.
"Deer Creek" and "Mud"--"Coon" and "Cat"--"Big" and "Little Forky"--told
that the pioneers, who first explored the hydrographic system of the
Western Reserve, were not heavily laden with classic lore; and a pity it
is that pedantry should be permitted to alter the simple, but expressive
and appropriate, appellatives by them bestowed.  Unfortunately, the
system is followed up to this hour by the Fremonts and other
pseudo-explorers of the farthest west.  The soft and harmonious sound of
Indian and Spanish nomenclature--as well as the more striking titles
bestowed by the trappers--are rapidly being obliterated from the maps;
their places to be supplied--at the instigation of a fulsome flattery--
by the often vulgar names of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads
of the employing _bureau_.

"I know the old general will be pleased--perhaps reciprocate the
compliment in his next despatch--if I call this beautiful river
`Smith.'"

"How the secretary will smile, when he sees his name immortalised upon
my map, by a lake never to be dried up, and which hereafter is to be
known by the elegant and appropriate appellation of `Jones!'"  Under
just such influence are these absurd titles bestowed; and the
consequence is, that amid the romantic defiles of the Rocky Mountains,
we have our ears jarred by a jumble of petty and most inappropriate
names--Smiths, Joneses, Jameses, and the like--while, from the sublime
peaks of the Cascade range, we have "Adams," "Jackson," "Jefferson,"
"Madison," and "Washington," overlooking the limitless waters of the
Pacific.  This last series we could excuse.  The possession of high
qualities, or the achievement of great deeds, ennobles even a common
name; and all these have been stamped with the true patent.  In the
associated thoughts that cling around them, we take no note of the
sound--whether it be harsh or harmonious.  But that is another question,
and must not hinder us from entering our protest against the
nomenclature of Smith, Jones, and Robinson!

Beyond Dresden, my road could no longer be termed a road.  It was a mere
trace, or lane, cut out in the forest--with here and there a tree
"blazed," to indicate the direction.  As I neared the point of my
destination, I became naturally curious to learn something about it--
that is, about Swampville--since it was evident that this was to be the
_point d'appui_ of my future efforts at colonisation--my depot and port
entry.  I should have inquired had I found any one to inquire _from_;
but, for ten miles along the road, I encountered not a human creature.
Then only a "darkey" with an ox-cart loaded with wood; but, despairing
of information from such a source, I declined detaining him.  The only
intelligence I was able to draw from the negro was that; "da `city' o'
Swampville, massr, he lay 'bout ten mile furrer down da crik."  The "ten
mile down da crik" proved to be long ones; but throughout the whole
distance I saw not a creature, until I had arrived within a mile or so
of the "settlement!"

I had been already apprised that Swampville was a new place.  Its fame
had not yet reached the eastern world; and even in Nashville was it
unknown, except, perhaps, to the Land-Office.  It was only after
entering the Reserve, that I became fully assured of its existence; and
there it was known as a "settlement" rather than a "city."  For all
that, Swampville proved to be not so contemptible a place; and the
reason I had encountered so little traffic, while approaching it, was
that I had been coming in the _wrong direction_--in other words, I had
approached it _from behind_.

Swampville was in reality a _riverine_ town.  To it the east was a
_back_ country; and its front face was to the west.  In that direction
lay its world, and the ways that opened to it.  Log-shanties began to
line the road--standing thicker as I advanced; while at intervals,
appeared a "frame-house" of more pretentious architecture.  In front of
one of these--the largest of the collection--there stood a tall post; or
rather a tree with its top cut off, and divested of its lower branches.
On the head of this was a "martin-box"; and underneath the dwelling of
the birds, a broad framed board, on which was legible the word "Hotel."
A portrait of Jackson, done in "continental uniform," embellished the
face of the board.  The sign seemed little appropriate: for in the harsh
features of "Old Hickory" there was but slight promise of hospitality.
It was no use going farther.  The "Jackson Hotel" was evidently the
"head inn" of the place; and without pause or parley, I dismounted at
its door.

I was too well used to western habits to wait either for welcome or
assistance--too careful of my Arab to trust him to hands unskilled--and
I did the unsaddling for myself.  A half-naked negro gave me some slight
help in the "grooming" process--all the while exhibiting his ivories and
the whites of his eyes in an expression of ill-concealed astonishment,
produced apparently by the presence of my uniform coat--to the "darkey,"
no doubt, an uncommon apparition.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE "JACKSON HOTEL."

I found that I had arrived in the very "nick of time:" for just as I
returned from the stable, and was entering the verandah of the hotel, I
heard the bell calling its guests to supper.  There was no ado made
about me: neither landlord or waiter met me with a word; and following
the stream of "boarders" or travellers who had arrived before me, I took
my seat at the common _table-d'hote_.

Had the scene been new to me, I might have found food for reflection, or
observed circumstances to astonish me.  But I had been long accustomed
to mix in as motley a throng, as that which now surrounded the table of
the Swampville hotel.  A supper-table, encircled by blanket and "jeans"
coats--by buckskin blouses and red-flannel shirts--by men without coats
at all--was nothing strange to me; nor was it strange either to find
these _bizarre_ costumes interspersed among others of fashionable cut
and finest cloth.  Black broad-cloth frocks, and satin or velvet vests,
were quite common.  Individuals thus attired formed a majority of the
guests--for in young settlements the "hotel" or "tavern" is also a
boarding-house, where the spruce "storekeepers" and better class of
clerks take their meals--usually sleeping in the office or store.

In glancing around the table, I saw many old "types," though not one
face that I had ever seen before.  There was one, however, that soon
attracted my attention, and fixed it.  It was _not_ a lady's face, as
you may be imagining; though there were present some of that sex--the
landlord's helpmate who presided over the coffee-pot, with some three or
four younger specimens of the backwoods fair--her daughters and nieces.
All, however, were absolutely without attraction of any sort; and I
somewhat bitterly remembered the _mot_ of double meaning, with which my
friend had entertained me at parting.

Venus was certainly not visible at the Swampville _table-d'hote_: for
the presiding divinity was a perfect Hecate; and her attendant damsels
could have found no place in the train of the Cytherean goddess.  No--
the face that interested me was neither that of a female, nor in any way
feminine.  It was the face of a _man_; and that in the most emphatic
sense of the word.  He was a young man--apparently about four or five
and twenty--and costumed as a backwoods hunter; that is, he wore a
buckskin hunting-shirt, leggings, and mocassins--with bullet-pouch and
powder-horn suspended over his shoulder, and hunting-knife sheathed in
his belt.  The coon-skin cap, hanging against the adjacent wall, was his
head-dress: I had seen him place it there, before taking his seat at the
supper-table.  With the personal appearance of this young man the eye
was at once satisfied.  A figure of correct contour, features of noble
outline, a face expressive of fine mental qualities--were the more
salient characteristics that struck me at the first glance.  Regarding
the portrait more particularly, other details became manifest: round
hazel eyes, with well-developed lashes; brows finely arched; a
magnificent shock of nut-brown curling hair; a small, well-formed mouth,
with white, regular teeth--all contributed to the creation of what might
be termed a type of manly beauty.  This beauty appeared in a somewhat
neglected garb.  Art might have improved it; but it was evident that
none had been employed, or even thought of.  It was a clear case of
"beauty unadorned;" and the possessor of it appeared altogether
unconscious of its existence.  I need not add that this mental
characteristic, on the part of the young man, heightened the grace of
his personal charms.

Why this young fellow fixed my attention, I can scarcely tell.  His
costume was by no means uncommon: though it was the only one of the kind
there present.  It was not that, however, nor yet his fine personal
appearance, that interested me; but rather something I had observed in
his bearing and manner.  As we were seated opposite each other, near the
foot of the long table, I had an excellent opportunity of observing him.
Notwithstanding his undoubted good looks--sufficiently striking to have
filled the possessor with vanity--his deportment was marked by a modest
reserve, that proved him either unaware of his personal advantages, or
without any conceit in them.  By the glances occasionally cast towards
him, from the opposite end of the table, I could perceive that "Miss
Alvina" and "Miss Car'line" were not insensible to his attractions.
Neither, however, had reason to congratulate herself upon any
reciprocity of her favouring glances.  The young man either did not
observe, or, at all events, took no notice of them.  The melancholy
tinge pervading his features remained altogether unaltered.  Equally
impassible did he appear under the jealous looks of some three or four
smart young storekeepers--influenced, no doubt, by tender relations
existing between them and the aforementioned damsels, whose sly
_espieglerie_ of the handsome hunter could not have escaped their
observation.

The young man appeared to be be rather _friendless_, than unknown.  I
could perceive that almost all of the company were acquainted with him;
but that most of them--especially the gentlemen in broad-cloth--affected
an air of superiority over him.  No one talked much to him: for his
reserved manner did not invite conversation; but when one of these did
address a few words to him, it was in the style usually adopted by the
well-to-do citizen, holding converse with his less affluent neighbour.
The young fellow was evidently not one to be sneered at or insulted;
but, for all that, I could perceive that the broad-cloth gentry did not
quite regard him as an equal.  Perhaps this may be explained by the
hypothesis that he was _poor_, and, indeed, it did not require much
penetration to perceive that such was the reality.  The hunting-shirt,
though once a handsome one, was no longer new.  On the contrary, it was
considerably "scuffed;" and the green baize wrappers upon his limbs were
faded to a greenish brown.  Other points proclaimed a light purse--
perhaps far lighter than the heart of him who carried it--if I was to
judge by the expression of his countenance.

Notwithstanding all this, the young hunter was evidently an object of
interest--whether friendly or hostile--and might have been the
_cynosure_ of the supper-table, but for my undress-frock and
spread-eagle buttons.  These, however, claimed some share of the
curiosity of Swampville; and I was conscious of being the object of a
portion of its surveillance.  I knew not what ideas they could have had
about me, and cared as little: but, judging from the looks of the men--
the broad-cloth gentlemen in particular--I was impressed with a
suspicion that I was neither admired nor welcome.  In the eyes of your
"sovereign citizen," the mere military man is not the hero that he is
elsewhere; and he must show something more than a uniform coat, to
recommend himself to their suffrages.  I was conceited enough to imagine
that Miss Alvina, and her _vis-a-vis_, Miss Car'line, did not look
altogether unfriendly; but the handsome face and magnificent curls of
the young hunter were beside me; and it was no use taking the field
against such a rival.  I was not jealous of him, however, nor he of me.
On the contrary, of all the men present, he appeared most inclined to be
courteous to me--as was evinced by his once or twice pushing within my
reach those delicate dishes, distributed at _very_ long distances over
the table.  I felt an incipient friendship for this young man, which he
appeared to reciprocate.  He saw that I was a stranger; and
notwithstanding the pretentious fashion of my dress, perhaps he noticed
my well-worn coat, and conjectured that I might be as poor and
friendless as himself.  If it was to this conjecture I was indebted for
his sympathies, his instincts were not far astray.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

COLONEL KIPP.

As soon as I had swallowed supper, I hastened to place myself _en
rapport_ with the landlord of the hostelry--whose name I had ascertained
to be "Kipp," or "_Colonel_ Kipp," as his guests called him.  Though I
had no intention of proceeding farther that night, I was desirous of
obtaining some information, about the whereabout of my new estate, with
such other facts in relation to it, as might be collected in Swampville.
The landlord would be the most likely person to give me the desired
intelligence.  This distinguished individual I encountered soon after in
the verandah--seated upon a raw-hide rocking-chair, with his feet
elevated some six inches above the level of his nose, and resting across
the balustrade of the railing--beyond which his huge horse-skin boots
protruded a full half yard into the street.  But that I had been already
made aware of the fact, I should have had some difficulty in
reconciling the portentous title of "colonel" with the exceedingly
unmilitary-looking personage before me--a tall lopsided tobacco-chewer,
who, at short intervals, of about half a minute each, projected the
juice in copious squirts into the street, sending it clean over the toes
of his boots!

When I first set eyes upon the colonel, he was in the centre of a circle
of tooth-pickers, who had just issued from the supper-room.  These were
falling off one by one; and, noticing their defection, I waited for an
opportunity to speak to the colonel alone.  This, after a short time,
offered itself.

The dignified gentleman took not the slightest notice of me as I
approached; nor until I had got so near, as to leave no doubt upon his
mind that a conversation was intended.  Then, edging slightly round, and
drawing in the boots, he made a half-face towards me--still, however,
keeping fast to his chair.

"The army, sir, I prezoom?" interrogatively began Mr Kipp.

"No," answered I, imitating his laconism of speech.  "No!"

"I have been in the service.  I have just left it."

"Oh--ah!  From Mexico, then, I prezoom?"

"Yes."

"Business in Swampville?"

"Why, yes, Mr Kipp."

"I am usooally called _kurnel_ here," interrupted the backwoods
_militario_, with a bland smile, as if half deprecating the title, and
that it was forced upon him.

"Of course," continued he, "you, sir, bein' a strenger--"

"I beg your pardon, _Colonel_ Kipp: I _am_ a stranger to your _city_,
and of course--"

"Don't signify a dump, sir," interrupted he, rather good-humouredly, in
return for the show of deference I had made, as also, perhaps for my
politeness in having styled Swampville a city.  "Business in Swampville,
you say?"

"Yes," I replied; and, seeing it upon his lips to inquire the nature of
my business--which I did not wish to make known just then--I forestalled
him by the question: "Do you chance to know such a place as Holt's
Clearing?"

"Chance to know such a place as Holt's Clearin'?"

"Yes; Holt's Clearing."

"Wal, there _air_ such a place."

"Is it distant?"

"If you mean Hick Holt's Clearin', it's a leetle better'n six miles from
here.  He squats on Mud Crik."

"There's a squatter upon it, then?"

"On Holt's Clearin'?  Wal, I shed rayther say there _air a squatter_
on't, an' no mistake."

"His name is Holt is it not?"

"That same individooal."

"Do you think I could procure a guide in Swampville--some one who could
show me the way to Holt's Clearing?"

"Do I think so?  Possible you might.  D'ye see that ar case in the
coon-cap?"  The speaker looked, rather than pointed, to the young fellow
of the buckskin shirt; who, outside the verandah, was now standing by
the side of a very sorry-looking steed.  I replied in the affirmative.
"Wal, I reckon he kin show you the way to Holt's Clearin'.  He's another
o' them Mud Crik squatters.  He's just catchin' up his critter to go
that way."

This I hailed as a fortunate circumstance.  If the young hunter lived
near the clearing I was in search of, perhaps he could give me all the
information I required; and his frank open countenance led me to believe
he would not withhold it.  It occurred to me, therefore, to make a
slight change in my programme.  It was yet _early_--for supper in the
backwoods is what is elsewhere known as "tea."  The sun was still an
hour or so above the horizon.  My horse had made but a light journey;
and nine miles more would be nothing to him.  All at once, then, I
altered my intention of sleeping at the hotel; and determined, if the
young hunter would accept me as a travelling companion, to proceed along
with him to Mud Creek.  Whether I should find a bed there, never entered
into my calculation.  I had my great-sleeved cloak strapped upon the
cantle of my saddle; and with that for a covering, and the saddle itself
for a pillow, I had made shift on many a night, more tempestuous than
that promised to be.

I was about turning away to speak to the young man, when I was recalled
by an exclamation from the landlord:--"I guess," said he, in a
half-bantering way, "you hain't told me your business yet?"

"No," I answered deferentially, "I have not."

"What on airth's takin' you to Holt's Clearin'?"

"That, Mr Kipp--I beg pardon--_Colonel_ Kipp--is a private matter."

"Private and particular, eh?"

"Very."

"Oh, then, I guess, you'd better keep it to yourself."

"That is precisely my intention," I rejoined, turning on my heel, and
stepping out of the verandah.

The young hunter was just buckling the girth of his saddle.  As I
approached him, I saw that he was smiling.  He had overheard the
concluding part of the conversation; and looked as if pleased at the way
in which I had bantered the "colonel," who, as I afterwards learnt from
him, was the grand swaggerer of Swampville.  A word was sufficient.  He
at once acceded to my request, frankly, if not in the most elegant
phraseology, "I'll be pleased to show ye the way to Holt's Clarin'.  My
own road goes jest that way, till within a squ'll's jump o't."

"Thank you: I shall not keep you waiting."

I re-entered the hotel to pay for my entertainment, and give orders for
the saddling of my horse.  It was evident that I had offended the
landlord by my brusque behaviour.  I ascertained this by the _amount_ of
my bill, as well as by the fact of being permitted to saddle for myself.
Even the naked "nigger," did not make his appearance at the stable.
Not much cared I.  I had drawn the girth too often, to be disconcerted
by such petty annoyance; and, in five minutes after, I was in the saddle
and ready for the road.  Having joined my companion in the street, we
rode off from the inhospitable _caravanserai_ of the Jackson Hotel--
leaving its warlike landlord to chew his tobacco, and such reflections
as my remarks had given rise to.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THROUGH THE FOREST.

As we passed up the street, I was conscious of being the subject of
Swampville speculation.  Staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups
around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that I was
regarded as a rare spectacle.  It could scarcely be my companion who was
the object of this universal curiosity.  A buckskin hunting-shirt was an
everyday sight in Swampville--not so a well-mounted _military_ man,
armed, uniformed, and equipped.  No doubt, my splendid Arab,
_caracoling_ as if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in
for a large share of the admiration.

We were soon beyond its reach.  Five minutes sufficed to carry us out of
sight of the Swampvillians: for, in that short space of time, we had
cleared the suburbs of the "city," and were riding under the shadows of
an unbroken forest.  Its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief--shading
us at one and the same time from the fiery sun, and the glances of
vulgar observation through which we had run the gauntlet.  I at least
enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide
keeping in advance of me.

This mode of progression was not voluntary, but a necessity, arising
from the nature of the road--which was a mere "trace" or bridle-path
"_blazed_" across the forest.  No wheel had ever made its track in the
soft deep mud--into which, at every step, our steeds sank far above the
fetlocks--and, as there was not room for two riders abreast, I followed
the injunction of my companion by keeping my horse's head "at the tail
o' his'n."  In this fashion we progressed for a mile or more, through a
tract of what is termed "bottom-timber"--a forest of those gigantic
water-loving trees--the sycamore and cotton-wood.  Their tall grey
trunks rose along the path, standing thickly on each side, and sometimes
in regular rows, like the columns of a grand temple.  I felt a secret
satisfaction in gazing upon these colossal forms: for my heart hailed
them as the companions of my future solitude.  At the same time I could
not help the reflection, that, if my new estate was thus heavily
encumbered, the clearing of the squatter was not likely to be extended
beyond whatever limits the axe of Mr Holt had already assigned to it.

A little further on, the path began to ascend.  We had passed out of the
bottom-lands, and were crossing a ridge, which forms the _divide_
between Mud Creek and the Obion River.  The soil was now a dry gravel,
with less signs of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest.  The trees
were of slender growth; and at intervals their trunks stood far apart,
giving us an opportunity to ride side by side.  This was exactly what I
wanted: as I was longing for a conversation with my new acquaintance.

Up to this time, he had observed a profound silence; but for all that, I
fancied he was not disinclined to a little _causerie_.  His reserve
seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy--as if he did not
desire to take the initiative.  I relieved him from this embarrassment,
by opening the dialogue:--"What sort of a gentleman is this Mr Holt?"

"Gentleman!"

"Yes--what sort of _person_ is he?"

"Oh, what sort o' person.  Well, stranger, he's what we, in these parts,
call a rough customer."

"Indeed?"

"Rayther, I shed say."

"Is he what you call a poor man?"

"All that I reckon.  He hain't got nothin', as I knows on, 'ceptin' his
old critter o' a hoss, an' his clarin' o' a couple o' acres or
thereabout; besides, he only _squats_ upon that."

"He's only a squatter, then?"

"That's all, stranger; tho' I reckon he considers the clarin' as much
his own as I do my bit o' ground, that's been bought an' paid for."

"Indeed?"

"Yes--I shedn't like to be the party that would buy it over his head."

The speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which
seemed to say, "I wonder if that's _his_ business here."

"Has he any family?"

"Thar's one--a young critter o' a girl."

"That all?"  I asked--seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had
something more to say, but was backward about declaring it.

"No, stranger--thar war another girl--older than this 'un."

"And she?"

"She--she's gone away."

"Married, I suppose?"

"That's what nobody 'bout here can tell nor whar she's gone, neyther."

The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay
to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his
countenance was shadowed and sombre.  I could have but little doubt as
to the cause of this transformation.  It was to be found in the subject
of our conversation--the absent daughter of the squatter.  From motives
of delicacy I refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed,
I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that
moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart.  By the
eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the
hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue--to him, in all
probability, suggestive of bitter memories.

For another half hour we rode on in silence--my companion apparently
buried in a reverie of thought--myself speculating on the chances of an
unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now
rather certain than probable.  Instead of a welcome from the squatter,
and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect
of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the
woods.  Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and
asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not
yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical
antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.

His voice again fell upon my ear--this time in a more cheerful tone.  It
was simply to say, that I "might shortly expect a better road--we were
approaching a `gleed;' beyont that the trace war wider, an' we might
ride thegither again."

We were just entering the glade, as he finished speaking--an opening in
the woods of limited extent.  The contrast between it and the dark
forest-path we had traversed was striking--as the change itself was
pleasant.  It was like emerging suddenly from darkness into daylight:
for the full moon, now soaring high above the spray of the forest,
filled the glade with the ample effulgence of her light.  The
dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling like gems; and, even though it
was night, their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off in the forest.
There was not a breath of air stirring; and the unruffled leaves
presented the sheen of shining metal.  Under the clear moonlight, I
could distinguish the varied hues of the frondage--that of the red maple
from the scarlet sumacs and sassafras laurels; and these again, from the
dark-green of the Carolina bay-trees, and the silvery foliage of the
_Magnolia glauca_.

Even before entering the glade, this magnificent panorama had burst upon
my sight--from a little embayment that formed the _debouchure_ of the
path--and I had drawn bridle, in order for a moment to enjoy its
contemplation.  The young hunter was still the length of his horse in
advance of me; and I was about requesting him to pull up; but before I
could give utterance to the words, I saw him make halt of himself.
This, however, was done in so awkward and hurried a manner, that I at
once turned from gazing upon the scene, and fixed my eyes upon my
companion.  As if by an involuntary effort, he had drawn his horse
almost upon his haunches: and was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with
blanched cheeks and eyes sparkling in their sockets--as if some object
of terror was before him!  I did not ask for an explanation.  I knew
that the object that so strangely affected him must be visible--though
not from the point where I had halted.

A touch of the spur brought my horse alongside his, and gave me a view
of the whole surface of the glade.  I looked in the direction indicated
by the attitude of the hunter: for--apparently paralysed by some
terrible surprise--he had neither pointed nor spoken.

A little to the right of the path, I beheld a white object lying along
the ground--a dead tree, whose barkless trunk and smooth naked branches
gleamed under the moonlight with the whiteness of a blanched skeleton.
In front of this, and a pace or two from it, was a dark form, upright
and human-like.  Favoured by the clear light of the moon, I had no
difficulty in distinguishing the form to be that of a woman.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SU-WA-NEE.

Beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a woman--a young one too, as
evinced by her erect bearing, and a light agile movement, made at the
moment of our first beholding her.  Her attire was odd.  It consisted of
a brownish-coloured tunic--apparently of doeskin leather--reaching from
the neck to the knees; underneath which appeared leggings of like
material, ending in mocassins that covered the feet.  The arms, neck,
and head were entirely bare; and the colour of the skin, as seen in the
moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a
shade or two darker!  The woman, therefore, was not white, but an
_Indian_: as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and
bangles around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal circlets upon her
arms--all reflecting the light of the moon in copious coruscations.  As
I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived that the figure was advancing
towards us, and with rapid step.  My steed set his ears, and snorted
with affright.  The jade of the hunter had already given the example--
each, no doubt, acting under the impulse of the rider.  Mine was a
feeling of simple astonishment.  Such an apparition in that place, and
at that hour, was sufficient cause for surprise; but a more definite
reason was, my observing that a different emotion had been roused in the
breast of the young hunter.  His looks betrayed fear, rather than
surprise!  "Fear of what?"  I asked myself, as the figure advanced; and
still more emphatically as it came near enough to enable me to make out
the face.  As far as the moonlight would permit me to judge, there was
nothing in that face to fray either man or horse: certainly nothing to
create an emotion, such as was depicted in the countenance of my
companion.

The complexion was brown, as already observed; but the features, if not
of the finest type, were yet comely enough to attract admiration; and
they were lit up by a pair of eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the
sheen of the golden pendants sparkling on each side of them.  I should
have been truly astonished at the behaviour of my guide, but for the
natural reflection, that there was some cause for it, yet unknown to me.
Evidently, it was not his first interview with the forest maiden: for I
could now perceive that the person who approached was not exactly a
woman, but rather a well-grown girl on the eve of womanhood.  She was of
large stature, nevertheless, with bold outline of breast, and arms that
gave token of something more than feminine strength.  In truth, she
appeared possessed of a _physique_ sufficiently formidable to inspire a
cowardly man with fear--had such been her object--but I could perceive
no signs of menace in her manner.  Neither could cowardice be an
attribute of my travelling-companion.  There was an unexplained
something, therefore, to account for his present display of emotion.

On arriving within six paces of the heads of our horses, the Indian
paused, as if hesitating to advance.  Up to this time, she had not
spoken a word.  Neither had my companion--beyond a phrase or two that
had involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering her presence in the
glade.  "She here? an' at this time o' night!"  I had heard him mutter
to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had stopped, as described.
Then, in a low voice, and with a slightly trembling accent, he
pronounced interrogatively, the words "Su-wa-nee?"  It was the name of
the Indian maiden; but there was no reply.

"Su-wa-nee!" repeated he, in a louder tone, "is it you?"

The answer was also given interrogatively, "Has the White Eagle lost his
eyes, by gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of Swampville?
There is light in the sky, and the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it.
Let him look on it: it is not lovely like that of the _half-blood_, but
the White Eagle will never see that face again."

This declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter: the shade of
sadness deepened upon his features: and I could hear a sigh, with
difficulty suppressed--while, at the same time, he appeared desirous of
terminating the interview.

"It's late, girl," rejoined he, after a pause: "what for are ye here?"

"Su-wa-nee is here for a purpose.  For hours she has been waiting to see
the White Eagle.  The soft hands of the pale-faced maidens have held him
long."

"Waitin' to see me!  What do you want wi' me?"

"Let the White Eagle send the stranger aside.  Su-wa-nee must speak to
him alone."

"Thar's no need o' that: it's a friend that's wi' me."

"Would the White Eagle have his secrets known?  There are some he may
not wish even a friend to hear.  Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will
crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple."

"I have no saycrets, girl--none as I'm afraid o' bein' heerd by
anybody."

"What of the half-blood?"

"I don't care to hear o' her."

"The White Eagle speaks falsely!  He does care to hear.  He longs to
know what has become of his lost Marian.  Su-wa-nee can tell him."

The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the
young hunter.  Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto
observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward--as if
desirous of hearing what she had to say.  Seeing that she had drawn his
attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: "Is the
pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?"

I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener.  Without
waiting for his reply, I drew my horse's head in the opposite direction,
and was riding away.  In the turning, I came face to face with him; and
by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could
detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it.  My fancy was
not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards
me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: "Please, stranger! don't go
fur--thar's danger in this girl.  She's been arter me before."  I nodded
assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that
formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the
trees.

At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him;
but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the
girl--at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight.
The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what
was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient
distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised
revelation.  Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther
off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion,
prevented me from obeying its impulse.

I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the
conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt.
Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older
one, of whom mention had been already made.  This part of the revelation
was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for
it.  Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was
the sweetheart of my travelling companion--_had been_, I should rather
say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in
the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been
carried away--spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces
of the why or whither she had gone.  Nearly all this I had conjectured
before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner,
if not by words.  Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous
information relating to the fair Marian.  _She was married_.  Married--
and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak
slightingly.  His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or
something of the sort--not very intelligible by the Indian's mode of
pronouncing it--and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in
Swampville.

During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young
hunter.  I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was
quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow.  Of
course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though
from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his
conjectures.

"O God!" he exclaimed, "I thort so--the very man to a' done it.  Lord
ha' mercy on her!"  All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with
emotion.  "Tell me!" continued he, "whar are they gone?  Ye say ye
know!"

The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment,
hindered me from hearing the reply.  The more emphatic words only
reached me, and these appeared to be "Utah" and "Great Salt Lake."  They
were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.

"One question more!" said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid
to ask it.  "Can ye tell me--whether--she went _willingly_, or whether--
thar wan't some force used?--by her father, or some un else?  Can ye
tell me that, girl?"

I listened eagerly for the response.  Its importance can be easily
understood by one who has _sued_ in vain--one who has _wooed_ without
_winning_.  The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval
passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.

"Answer me, Su-wa-nee!" repeated the young man in a more appealing tone.
"Tell me that, and I promise--"

"Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love?  Will he
promise--"

"No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can _niver_ forget her."

"The heart can _hate_ without forgetting."

"Hate _her_? hate Marian?  No! no!"

"Not if she be false?"

"How do I know that she war false?  You haven't told me whether she went
willin'ly or agin her consent."

"The White Eagle shall know then.  His gentle doe went willingly to the
covert of the wolf--_willingly_, I repeat.  Su-wa-nee can give proof of
her words."

This was the most terrible stroke of all.  I could see the hunter shrink
in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his
eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.

"Now!" continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had
struck, "will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false
mistress?  Will he promise to love _one_ that can be true?"

There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were
uttered--an appealing earnestness--evidently prompted by a burning
headlong passion.  It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait
with anxiety for a response.  It came at length--perhaps to the
laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest
desire.

"No, no!" exclaimed the hunter confusedly.  "Impossible eyther to hate
or forget her.  She may a been false, an' no doubt are so; but it's too
late for me: _I can niver love agin_."

A half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some
words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach.  But
the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their
import.

Almost at the same instant, I saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back
his horse--as if to get out of the way.  I fancied that the crisis had
arrived, when my presence might be required.  Under this belief, I
touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground.
To my astonishment, I perceived that the hunter was alone.  Su-wa-nee
had disappeared from the glade!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT.

"Where is she?--gone?"  I mechanically asked, in a tone that must have
betrayed my surprise.

"Yes--gone! gone! an' wi' a Mormon!"

"A Mormon?"

"Ay, stranger, a Mormon--a man wi' twenty wives!  God forgi' her!  I'd
rather heerd o' her death!"

"Was there a man with her?  I saw no one."

"O stranger, excuse my talk--you're thinkin' o' that ere Injun girl.
'Taint her I'm speakin' about."

"Who then?"

The young hunter hesitated: he was not aware that I was already in
possession of his secret; but he knew that I had been witness of his
emotions, and to declare the name would be to reveal the most sacred
thought of his heart.  Only for a moment did he appear to reflect; and
then, as if relieved from his embarrassment, by some sudden
determination, he replied:

"Stranger!  I don't see why I shedn't tell ye all about this bisness.  I
don know the reezun, but you've made me feel a kind o' confidence in
you.  I know it's a silly sort o' thing to fall in love wi' a handsum
girl; but if ye'd only seen _her_!"

"I have no doubt, from what you say, she was a beautiful creature,"--
this was scarcely my thought at the moment--"and as for falling in love
with a pretty girl, none of us are exempt from that little weakness.
The proud Roman conqueror yielded to the seductions of the brown-skinned
Egyptian queen; and even Hercules himself was conquered by a woman's
charms.  There is no particular silliness in that.  It is but the common
destiny of man."

"Well, stranger, it's been myen; an' I've hed reezun to be sorry for it.
But it's no use tryin' to shet up the stable arter the hoss's been
stole out o't.  She are gone now; an' that's the end o' it.  I reckon
I'll niver set eyes on her agin."

The sigh that accompanied this last observation, with the melancholy
tone in which it was uttered, told me that I was talking to a man who
had truly loved.

"No doubt," thought I, "some strapping backwoods wench has been the
object of his passion,"--for what other idea could I have about the
child of a coarse and illiterate squatter?  "Love is as blind as a bat;
and this red-haired hoyden has appeared a perfect Venus in the eyes of
the handsome fellow--as not unfrequently happens.  A Venus with
evidently a slight admixture of the prudential Juno in her composition.
The young backwoodsman is poor; the schoolmaster perhaps a little better
off; in all probability not much, but enough to decide the preference of
the shrewd Marian."

Such were my reflections at the moment, partly suggested by my own
experience.

"But you have not yet told me who this sweetheart was?  You say it is
not the Indian damsel you've just parted with?"

"No, stranger, nothin' o' the kind: though there are some Injun in _her_
too.  'Twar o' her the girl spoke when ye heerd her talk o' a
half-blood.  She aint just that--she's more white than Injun; her mother
only war a half-blood--o' the Chicasaw nation, that used to belong in
these parts."

"Her name?"

"It _war_ Marian Holt.  It are now Stebbins, I s'pose! since I've jest
heerd she's married to a fellow o' that name."

"She has certainly not improved her name."

"She are the daughter o' Holt the squatter--the same whar you say you're
a-goin'.  Thar's another, as I told ye; but she's a younger un.  Her
name's Lilian."

"A pretty name.  The older sister was very beautiful you say?"

"I niver set eyes on the like o' her."

"Does the younger one resemble her?"

"Ain't a bit like her--different as a squ'll from a coon."

"She's more beautiful, then?"

"Well, that depends upon people's ways o' thinkin'.  Most people as know
'em liked Lilian the best, an' thort her the handsumest o' the two.
That wan't my notion.  Besides, Lilly's only a young crittur--not out o'
her teens yit."

"But if she be also pretty, why not try to fall in love with her?  Down
in Mexico, where I've been lately, they have a shrewd saying: _Un clavo
saca otro clavo_, meaning that `one nail drives out another'--as much as
to say, that one love cures another."

"Ah, stranger! that may be all be very well in Mexico, whar I've heerd
they ain't partickler about thar way o' lovin': but we've a sayin' here
jest the contrairy o' that: `two bars can't get into the same trap.'"

"Ha, ha, ha!  Well your backwoods proverb is perhaps the truer one, as
it is the more honest.  But you have not yet told me the full
particulars of your affair with Marian?  You say she has gone away from
the neighbourhood?"

"You shall hear it all, stranger.  I reckon thar can be no harm in
tellin' it to _you_; an' if you've a mind to listen, I'll make a clean
breast o' the whole bisness."

The hunter proceeded with his revelation--to him, a painful one--and,
although I had already divined most of the particulars, I interrupted
him only with an occasional interrogative.  The story was as I had
anticipated.  He had been in love with Marian Holt; and was under the
impression that she returned it.  She had given him frequent meetings in
the forest--in that very glade where we had encountered the Indian girl,
and in which we were still lingering.  Her father was not aware of these
interviews.  There had been some coolness between him and the young
hunter; and the lovers were apprehensive that he might not approve of
their conduct.  This was the prologue of the hunter's story.  The
epilogue I give in his own words: "'Twar a mornin'--jest five months
ago--she had promised to meet me here--an' I war seated on yonder log
waitin' for her.  Jest then some Injuns war comin' through the gleed.
That girl ye saw war one o' 'em.  She had a nice bullet-pouch to sell,
an' I bought it.  The girl would insist on puttin' it on; an' while she
war doin' so, I war fool enough to gie her a kiss.  Some devil hed put
it in my head.  Jest at that minnit, who shed come right into the gleed
but Marian herself!  I meant nothin' by kissin' the Injun; but I s'pose
Marian thort I did: she'd already talked to me 'bout this very girl; an'
I believe war a leetle bit jealous o' her--for the Injun ain't to say
ill-lookin'.  I wanted to 'pologise to Marian; but she wouldn't listen
to a word; an' went off in a way I niver seed her in before.  'Twar the
last time I ever set eyes on her."

"Indeed."

"Ay, stranger, an' it's only this minnit, an' from that same Injun girl,
that I've heard she's married, an' gone off to the Mormons.  The Injuns
had it from some o' her people, that seed Marian a crossin' the
parairies."

"That Indian damsel--Su-wa-nee, I think you named her--what of her?"

"Ah! stranger, that's another o' the konsequences o' doin' what aint
right.  Since the day I gin her that kiss, she'd niver let me alone, but
used to bother me every time I met her in the woods; an' would a come
arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn't been for the dogs, that wud tar
an Injun to pieces.  She war afeerd o' them but not o' me, no matter how
I thraitened her.  I war so angry wi' her, for what had happened--though
arter all, 'twar more my fault than hern--but I war so vexed wi' her
about the ill-luck, that I used to keep out o' her way as well as I
could, an' didn't speak to her for a long time.  She got riled 'bout
that, an' thraitened revenge; an' one night, as I war comin' from
Swampville, 'bout this time--only 'twar as dark as a pot o' pitch--I war
jest ridin' out into this very gleed, when all o' a suddint my ole hoss
gin a jump forrard, an I feeled somethin' prick me from behind.  'Twar
the stab o' some sort o' a knife, that cut me a leetle above the hip,
an' made me bleed like a buck.  I know'd who did it; tho' not that
night--for it war so dark among the bushes, I couldn't see a steim.  But
I kim back in the mornin', and seed tracks.  They war the tracks o' a
mocassin.  I know'd 'em to be hern."

"Su-wa-nee's tracks?"

"Sartin.  I know'd 'em well enough, as I'd often seed her tracks through
the crik bottom."

"Did you take no steps to punish her?"

"Well--no--I didn't."

"How is that?  I think it would have been prudent of you to have done
something--if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger."

"Well, stranger! to tell truth, I war a leetle ashamed o' the whole
bisness.  Had it been a man, I'd a punished _him_; but they _do_ say the
girl's in love wi' me, arter her Injun way; an' I didn't like to be
revengeful.  Besides it war mostly my own fault: I had no bisness to a
fooled wi' her."

"And you think she will not trouble you again?"

"I don know about that, arter what's happened the night.  She's gone
away thraitnin' agin.  I did think she'd gin up the notion o' revenge:
for she know'd I'd found out that 'twar her that stabbed me.  I told her
so, the next time I seed her; an' she 'peared pleased 'bout my not
havin' her ta'en up.  She said it war generous of the White Eagle--
that's the name her people gies me--for thar's a gang o' them still
livin' down the crik.  She gin me a sort of promise she wouldn't trouble
me agin; but I warn't sure o' her.  That's the reezun, stranger, I
didn't want ye to go fur away."

"I think it would be prudent in you to keep well on your guard.  This
redskin appears to be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from what you
have told me, a dangerous one.  She certainly has a strange way of
showing her affection; but it must be confessed, you gave her some
provocation; and as the poet says, `Hell knows no fury like a woman
scorned.'"

"That's true, stranger!"

"Her conduct, however, has been too violent to admit of justification.
You appear to have been unfortunate in your sweethearts--with each in an
opposite sense.  One loves you too much, and the other apparently not
enough!  But how is it you did not see her again--Marian I mean!"

"Well, you understand, I wan't on the best of tarms wi' old Hick Holt,
an' couldn't go to his clarin'.  Besides after what had happened.  I
didn't like to go near Marian anyhow--leastway for a while.  I thort it
would blow over 's soon's she'd find out that E war only jokin' wi' the
Injun."

"So one would have supposed."

"'Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd anything o' her; then I larned that
she war gone away.  Nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew,
'ceptin Hick Holt hisself; an' he ain't the sort o' man to tell
saycrets.  Lord o' mercy!  I know _nowt_ an' it's worse than I expected.
I'd sooner heerd she war dead."

A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that
the speaker had finished his painful recital.

I had no desire to prolong the conversation.  I saw that, silence would
be more agreeable to my companion; and, as if by a mutual and tacit
impulse, we turned our horses' heads to the path, and proceeded onward
across the glade.

As we were about entering the timber on the other side, my guide reined
up his horse; and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular spot--as if
something there had attracted his attention.

What?  There was no visible object--at least, none that was remarkable--
on the ground, or elsewhere!

Another sigh, with the speech that followed, explained the singularity
of his behaviour, "Thar!" said he, pointing to the entrance of the
forest-path--"thar's the place whar I last looked on Marian!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT.

For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to
admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no
word passed between us.  My guide had relapsed into his attitude of
melancholy--deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just
received--and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over
his breast.  Bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was
passing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the
acerbity of his reflections would be idle.

There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain--when,
instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting.  I made no
attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on
by his side, silent as he.  Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness
in my own reflections to give me occupation.  Though troubled by no
heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither
brilliant nor attractive.  The foreknowledge I had now gained of
squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was
treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma.  Once, or twice,
was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling
companion; and why not?  With the openness of an honest heart, had he
confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret
of his life.  Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject
of comparatively little importance?  My reason for not making a
confidant of him sooner has been already given.  It no longer existed.
So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all
likelihood I should have him on my die.  At all events, I felt certain
that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the
_situation_, that might be worth having.

I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting
his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards
me.  In the former movement, I imitated his example.

"The road forks here," said he.  "The path on the left goes straight
down to Holt's Clarin'--the other's the way to my bit o' a shanty."

"I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered
me, and say `Good-night.'"

"No--not yet.  I ain't a-goin' to leave ye, till I've put you 'ithin
sight o' Holt's cabin, tho' I can't go wi' ye to the house.  As I told
ye, he an' I ain't on the best o' tarms."

"I cannot think of your coming out of your way--especially at this late
hour.  I'm some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out
the path."

"No, stranger!  Thar's places whar the trace is a'most blind, and you
mout get out o' it.  Thar'll be no moon on it.  It runs through a thick
timbered bottom, an' thar's an ugly bit o' swamp.  As for the lateness,
I'm not very reg'lar in my hours; an' thar's a sort o' road up the crik
by which I can get home.  'Twan't to bid you good-night, that I stopped
here."

"What, then?" thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while
he was pausing in his speech.

"Stranger!" continued he in an altered tone, "I hope you won't take
offence if I ask you a question?"

"Not much fear of that, I fancy.  Ask it freely."

"Are ye sure o' a bed at Holt's?"

"Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I am by no means sure of one.  It
don't signify, however.  I have my old cloak and my saddle; and it
wouldn't be the first time, by hundreds, I've slept in the open air."

"My reezuns for askin' you air, that if you ain't sure o' one, an' don't
mind stretching' yourself on a bar-skin, thar's such a thing in my
shanty entirely at your sarvice."

"It is very kind of you.  Perhaps I may have occasion to avail myself of
your offer.  In truth, I am not very confident of meeting with a
friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour Holt--much less being
asked to partake of his hospitality."

"D'ye say so?"

"Indeed, yes.  From what I have heard, I have reason to anticipate
rather a cold welcome."

"I'deed?  But,"--My companion hesitated his his speech--as if meditating
some observation which he felt a delicacy about making.  "I'm a'most
ashamed," continued he, at length, "to put another question, that war on
the top o' my tongue."

"I shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to
ask me."

"I shedn't ask it, if it wa'n't for what you've jest now said: for I
heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an' I heerd your
answer to it.  But I reckon 'twar the _way_ in which it war asked that
offended you; an' on that account your answer war jest as it should a
been."

"To what question to you refer?"

"To your bisness out here wi' Hick Holt.  I don't want to know it, out
o' any curiosity o' my own--that's sartin, stranger."

"You are welcome to know all about it.  Indeed, it was my intention to
have told you before we parted--at the same time to ask you for some
advice about the matter."

Without further parley, I communicated the object of my visit to Mud
Creek--concealing nothing that I deemed necessary for the elucidation of
the subject.  Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my
story to the end.  From the play of his features, as I revealed the more
salient points, I could perceive that my chances of an amicable
adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant.

"Well--do you know," said he, when I had finished speaking, "I had a
suspeecion that that might be your bisness?  I don know why I shed a
thort so; but maybe 'twar because thar's been some others come here to
settle o' late, an' found squatters on thar groun--jest the same as
Holt's on yourn.  That's why ye heerd me say, a while ago, that I
shedn't like to buy over _his_ head."

"And why not?"  I awaited the answer to this question, not without a
certain degree of nervous anxiety.  I was beginning to comprehend the
counsel of my Nashville friend on the ticklish point of _pre-emption_.

"Why, you see, stranger--as I told you, Hick Holt's a rough customer;
an' I reckon he'll be an _ugly_ one to deal wi', on a bisness o' that
kind."

"Of course, being in possession, he may purchase the land?  He has the
right of pre-emption?"

"'Taint for that.  _He_ ain't a-goin' to _pre-empt_, nor buy neyther;
an' for the best o' reezuns.  He hain't got a red cent in the world, an'
souldn't buy as much land as would make him a mellyun patch--not he."

"How does he get his living, then?"

"Oh, as for that, jest some'at like myself.  Thar's gobs o' game in the
woods--both bar an' deer: an' the clarin' grows him corn.  Thar's
squ'lls, an' 'possum, an' turkeys too; an' lots o' fish in the crik--if
one gets tired o' the bar an' deer-meat, which I shed niver do."

"But how about clothing, and other necessaries that are not found in the
woods?"

"As for our clothin' _it_ ain't hard to find.  We can get that in
Swampville by swopping skins for it, or now an' then some deer-meat.  O'
anythin' else, thar ain't much needed 'bout here--powder, an' lead, an'
a leetle coffee, an' tobacco.  Once in a while, if ye like it, a taste
o' _old corn_."

"Corn!  I thought the squatter raised that for himself?"

"So he do raise corn; but I see, stranger, you don't understand our odd
names.  Thar's two kinds o' corn in these parts--that as has been to the
_still_, and that as hain't.  It's the first o' these sorts that Hick
Holt likes best."

"Oh!  I perceive your meaning.  He's fond of a little corn-whisky, I
presume?"

"I reckon he are--that same squatter--fonder o't than milk.  But
surely," continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone
of his speech--"surely, stranger, you ain't a-goin' on your bisness the
night?"

"I've just begun to think, that it _is_ rather an odd hour to enter upon
an estate.  The idea didn't occur to me before."

"Besides," added he, "thar's another reezun.  If Hick Holt's what he
used to be, he ain't likely to be very _nice_ about this time o' night.
I hain't seen much o' him lately; but, I reckon, he's as fond o' drink
as ever he war; an' 'tain't often he goes to _his_ bed 'ithout a
skinful.  Thar's ten chances agin one, o' your findin' him wi' brick in
his hat."

"That would be awkward."

"Don't think o' goin' to-night," continued the young hunter in a
persuasive tone.  "Come along wi' me; an' you can ride down to Holt's in
the mornin'.  You'll then find him more reezonable to deal wi'.  I can't
offer you no great show o' entertainment; but thar's a piece o'
deer-meat in the house, an' I reckon I can raise a cup o' coffee, an' a
pone or two o' bread.  As for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain't quite
empty yet."

"Thanks thanks!" said I, grasping the hunter's hand in the warmth of my
gratitude.  "I accept your invitation."

"This way, then, stranger!"

We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two
miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter--a log-cabin
surrounded by a clearing.  I soon found he was its sole occupant--as he
was its owner--some half-dozen large dogs being the only living
creatures that were present to bid us welcome.  A rude horse-shed was at
hand--a "loose box," it might be termed, as it was only intended to
accommodate one--and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab.  The
"critter" of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and
choose his stall among the trees--but to that sort of treatment he had
been well inured.  A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for
a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to
follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome,
constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and
such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable _clapboard_ roof
of the young backwoodsman--Frank Wingrove.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

  Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters
      Its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:
  That forest, through which the great "Father of Waters"
      For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!
  Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,
  With a heaven above it of glorious blue,
  And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,
  Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?
  Or think'st thou, that e'en in the regions of bliss,
  There's a landscape more truly Elysian than this?

  Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,
      Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!
  And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,
      The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!
  Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,
  And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;
  And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,
  Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;
  And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,
  And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!

  And list to the music borne over the trees!
      It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic--
  The song of the birds and the hum of the bees
      Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic.
  Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal's call
  From the groves of annona?--from tulip-tree tall
  The mock-bird responding?--below, in the glade,
  The dove softly cooing in mellower shade--
  While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?
  Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?

  In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,
      Who falsely declared 'twas a land without song!
  Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbers
      That liven its woods through the summer-day long--
  Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,
  Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,
  He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong--
  "Her plants without perfume, her birds without song."
  Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,
  You had never beheld the magnolia's flower?

  Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found--
      For how could such land to the gods be unknown?
  And where is there spot upon African ground
      So like to a garden a goddess would own?
  And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,
  Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,
  Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold--
  Was nought but that monster--the mammoth of old.
  If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,
  Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!

The memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from
the silence in which she has long slumbered.  But the voice of the coy
maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shies _me_ for my neglect:
and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit
over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain.  And this scene lay not upon
the classic shores of the Hellespont--not in the famed valleys of Alp
and Apennine--not by the romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the
banks of _Mud Creek_ in the state of Tennessee!  In truth, it was a
lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which I
rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host.  It was the season
of "Indian summer"--that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime,
when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return
along the line of the zodiac.  He loves better the "Virgin" than
"Aquarius;" and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has
fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist,
the hoary Boreas.  But his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in
his parting glance.  The forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its
fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold
embrace.  In suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but,
with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to
him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling
existence.

At this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim
of another despoiler--the _hurricane_.  Sweeping them with spiteful
breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the trees like fragile reeds--
prostrating at once the noblest and humblest forms.  Not one is left
standing on the soil: for the clearing of the hurricane is a complete
work; and neither stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where it has
passed.  Even the giants of the forest yield to its strength, as though
smitten by the hand of a destroying angel!  Uprooted, they lie along the
earth side by side--the soil still clinging to the clavicles of their
roots, and their leafy tops turned to the lee--in this prostrate
alignment slowly to wither and decay!  A forest, thus fallen, presents
for a time a picture of melancholy aspect.  It suggests the idea of some
grand battle-field, where the serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of
"grape and canister," have been struck down on the instant: not one
being left to look to the bodies of the slain--neither to bury nor
remove them.  Like the battle-field, too, it becomes the haunt of wolves
and other wild beasts; who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a
fastness securing them from the pursuit both of hound and hunter.  Here
in hollow log the black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs,
training them to climb over the decaying trunks; here the lynx and red
couguar choose their cunning convert; here the racoon rambles over his
beaten track; the sly opossum crawls warily along the log, or goes to
sleep among the tangle of dry rhizomes; while the gaunt brown wolf may
be often heard howling amidst the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the
midnight moon.

In a few years, however, this sombre scene assumes a more cheerful
aspect.  An under-growth springs up, that soon conceals the skeletons of
the dead trees: plants and shrubs appear--often of different genera and
species from those that hitherto usurped the soil--and the ruin is no
longer apparent.  The mournful picture gives place to one of luxuriant
sweetness: the more brilliant sheen of the young trees and shrubs, now
covering the ground, and contrasting agreeably with the sombre hues of
the surrounding forest.  No longer reigns that melancholy silence that,
for a while, held dominion over the scene.  If, at intervals, be heard
the wild scream of the couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these
scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly upon the ear--the red
cardinals, the orioles, the warbling _fringillidae_, and the polyglot
thrushes--who meet here, as if by agreement, to make this lovely sylvan
spot the scene of their forest concerts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shortly after leaving the cabin of this young backwoodsman, my path,
hitherto passing under the gloomy shadows of the forest, debouched upon
just such a scene.  I had been warned of its proximity.  My host, at
parting, had given me directions as to how I should find my way across
the _herrikin_--through which ran the trace that conducted to the
clearing of the squatter, some two miles further down the creek.  I was
prepared to behold a tract of timber laid prostrate by the storm--the
trees all lying in one direction, and exhibiting the usual scathed and
dreary aspect.  Instead of this, on emerging from the dark forest, I was
agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape that burst upon my view.

It was, as already stated, that season of the year when the American
woods array themselves in their most attractive robes--when the very
leaves appear as if they were flowers, so varied and brilliant are their
hues--when the foliage of the young beeches becomes a pale yellow, and
glimmers translucent against the sun--when the maples are dying off of a
deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning respectively crimson and
scarlet--when the large drupes of the Osage orange, the purple clusters
of the fox-grape, and the golden berries of the persimmon or Virginian
lotus, hang temptingly from the tree: just at that season when the
benignant earth has perfected, and is about to yield up, her annual
bounty; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing at the gift.  No wonder I
was agreeably impressed by the gorgeous landscape--no wonder I reigned
up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it; while my heart responded to
the glad chorus, that, from bird and bee, was rising up to heaven around
me!  I, too felt joyous under the reflection that, amid such lovely
scenes, I had chosen my future home.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A BACKWOODS VENUS.

After indulging for some time in a sort of dreamy contemplation I once
more gave the bridle to my horse, and rode onward.  I was prepared for a
tortuous path: my host had forewarned me of this.  The _herrikin_, he
said, was only three hundred yards in breadth; but I should have to ride
nearly twice that distance in crossing it.  His statement proved
literally true.  The old trace, passing down the creek bottom, had run
at right angles to the direction of the storm; and, of course, the trees
had fallen perpendicularly across the path--where they still lay, thick
as hurdles set for a donkey-race.  Some of them could be stepped over by
a horse, and a few might be "jumped," but there were others that rose
breast high; and a flying-leap over a five-barred gate would have been
an easy exploit, compared with clearing one of these monstrous barriers.
I might add, also, from experience, that leaping a log is a feat of
considerable danger.  There is no room for "topping;" and should the
iron hoof strike, there is nothing that will yield.  On the other side,
the rider has the pleasant prospect of a broken neck--either for himself
or his horse.  Not being in any particular hurry, I took the matter
quietly; and wound my way through a labyrinth worthy of being the maze
of Fair Rosamond.

I could not help remarking the singular effect which the _herrikin_ had
produced.  To the right and left, as far as my view could range,
extended an opening, like some vast avenue that had been cleared for the
passage of giants, and by giants made!  On each side appeared the
unbroken forest--the trunks standing like columns, with shadowy aisles
between: their outward or edge-row trending in a straight line, as if so
planted.  These showed not a sign that the fierce tornado had passed so
near them; though others, whose limbs almost interlocked with theirs,
had been mowed down without mercy by the ruthless storm.

I had arrived within fifty yards of the opposite side, and the dark
forest was again before my face; but even at that short distance, the
eye vainly endeavoured to pierce its sombre depths.  I was
congratulating myself, that I had passed the numerous logs that lay
across the path, when yet one more appeared between me and the standing
trees.  It had been one of the tallest victims of the tornado; and now
lay transversely to the line of the track, which cut it about midway.
On nearing this obstacle, I saw that the trace forked into two--one
going around the tops of the decaying branches, while the other took the
direction of the roots; which, with the soil still adhering to them,
formed a rounded buttress-like wall of full ten feet in diameter.  The
trunk itself was not over five--that being about the thickness of the
tree.  It was a matter of choice which of the two paths should be
followed: since both appeared to come together again on the opposite
side of the tree; but I had made up my mind to take neither.  One of my
motives, in seeking this forest-home, had been a desire to indulge in
the exciting exercise of the chase; and the sooner I should bring my
horse into practice, the sooner I might take the field with a prospect
of success.  Log-leaping was new to my Arab; and he might stand in need
of a little training to it.  The log before me had open ground on both
sides; and afforded a very good opportunity for giving him his first
lesson.  Thus prompted by Saint Hubert, I was about spurring forward to
the run; when a hoof-stroke falling upon my ear, summoned me to desist
from my intention.

The sound proceeded from the forest before my face; and, peering into
its darkness, I could perceive that some one, also on horseback, was
coming along the path.  This caused me to change my design, or rather to
pause until the person should pass.  Had I continued in my determination
to leap the log, I should, in all likelihood, have dashed my horse at
full gallop against that of the approaching traveller; since our courses
lay directly head to head.

While waiting till he should ride out of the way, I became aware that I
had committed an error--only in regard to the _sex_ of the person who
was approaching.  It was not a _he_!  On the contrary, something so very
different that, as soon as I had succeeded in shading the sun-glare out
of my eyes; and obtained a fair view of the equestrian traveller, my
indifference was at an end: I beheld one of the loveliest apparitions
ever made manifest in female form, or I need scarcely add, in any other.
It was a young girl--certainly not over sixteen years of age--but with
a contour close verging upon womanhood.  Her beauty was of that
character which cannot be set forth by a detailed description in words.
In true loveliness there is a harmony of the features that will not
suffer them to be considered apart; nor does the eye take note of any
one, to regard it as unique or characteristic.  It is satisfied with the
_coup d'oeil_ of the whole--if I may be permitted the expression.  Real
beauty needs not to be considered; it is acknowledged at a glance: eye
and heart, impressed with it at the same instant, search not to study
its details.

The impression made upon me by the first sight of this young girl, was
that of something soft and strikingly beautiful, of a glorious golden
hue--the reflection of bright amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin,
tinged with a hue of vermilion--something that imparted a sort of
luminous radiance divinely feminine.  Even under the shadow of the
trees, this luminous radiance was apparent--as if the face had a _halo_
around it!  The reader may smile at such exalted ideas, and deem them
the offspring of a romantic fancy; but had he looked, as I, into the
liquid depths of those large eyes, with their blue irides and darker
pupils; had he gazed upon that cheek tinted as with cochineal--those
lips shaming the hue of the rose--that throat of ivory white--those
golden tresses translucent in the sunlight--he would have felt as I,
that something _shone_ before his eyes--a face such as the Athenian
fancy has elaborated into an almost living reality, in the goddess
Cytherea.  In short, it was the Venus of my fancy--the very ideal I had
imbibed from gazing upon many a picture of the Grecian goddess.  The
prognostication of my friend had proved emphatically false.  If it was
not _Venus_ I saw before me, it appeared her _counterpart_ in human
form!

And this fair creature was costumed in the simplest manner--almost
coarsely clad.  A sleeved dress of homespun with a yellowish stripe,
loosely worn, and open at the breast.  A cotton "sun-bonnet" was the
only covering for her head--her bright amber-coloured hair the only
shawl upon her shoulders, over which it fell in ample luxuriance.  A
string of pearls around her neck--false ones I could see--was the sole
effort that vanity seemed to have made: for there was no other article
of adornment.  Even shoes and stockings were wanting; but the most
costly _chaussure_ could not have added to the elegance of those
_mignon_ feet, that, daintily protruding below the skirt of her dress,
rested along the flank of the horse.

More commonplace even than her homespun frock was the steed that carried
her--a sorry-looking animal, that resembled the skeleton of a horse with
the skin left on!  There was no saddle--scarce the semblance of one.  A
piece of bear-skin, strapped over the back with a rough thong, did
service for a saddle; and the little feet hung loosely down without step
or stirrup.  The girl kept her seat, partly by balancing, but as much by
holding on to the high bony withers of the horse, that rose above his
shoulders like the hump of a dromedary.  The scant mane, wound around
her tiny fingers scarcely covered them; while with the other hand she
clasped the black reins of an old dilapidated bridle.  The want of
saddle and stirrup did not hinder her from poising herself gracefully
upon the piece of bear-skin; but hers was a figure that, could not be
ungraceful in any attitude; and, as the old horse hobbled along, the
rude movement all the more palpably displayed the magnificent moulding
of her body and limbs.

The contrast between horse and rider--the old _critter_ and the young
_creature_--was ridiculously striking: the former appearing a burlesque
on the most beautiful of quadrupeds, while the latter was the very
impersonation of the loveliest of biped forms.

It is scarcely probable that the Cyprian goddess could ever have been
brought into such a ludicrous juxtaposition--a shame upon Mercury if she
was!  In classic lore we find mention of no such sorry steed; and, for
his counterpart in story, we must seek in more modern times--fixing upon
the famed charger of Calatrava's knight.  But here the analogy must end.
The charms of the dark-haired Dulcinea can be brought into no
comparison with those of the golden-haired wood-nymph of the Obion
Bottom.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A SERIES OF CONTRE-TEMPS.

At sight of this charming equestrian, all thoughts of leaping the log
were driven out of my mind; and I rode quietly forward, with the
intention of going round it.  It might be that I timed the pace of my
horse--_mechanically_, no doubt--but however that may have been, I
arrived at the prostrate tree, just as the young girl reached it from
the opposite side.  We were thus brought face to face, the log-barrier
between us.  I would have spoken; but, for the life of me, I could not
think of something graceful to say; and to have used the hackneyed
phraseology of "Fine morning, miss!" would, in those beautiful blue eyes
that glistened under the shadow of the sun-bonnet, have rendered me as
commonplace as the remark.  I felt certain it would; and therefore said
nothing.

Some acknowledgement, however, was necessary; and, lifting the
forage-cap from my forehead, I bowed slightly--as such a salutation
required--but with all the _verve_ that politeness would permit.  My
salutation was acknowledged by a nod, and, as I fancied, a smile.
Either was grace enough for me to expect; but, whether the smile was the
offspring of a feeling in my favour, or at my expense, I was unable at
the moment to determine.  I should have an opportunity of repeating the
bow, as we met again in going round the tree.  Then I should certainly
speak to, her; and, as I turned my horse's head to the path, I set about
thinking of something to say.

I had taken the path leading to the right--that which passed round the
root of the tree.  Of the two ways this appeared to be the shorter and
the more used.  What was my chagrin, when, in glancing over my arm, I
perceived that I had made a most grievous mistake: the girl was going in
the opposite direction!  Yes--she had chosen to ride round the branching
tops of the dead-wood--by all the gods, a much wider circuit!  Was it
accident, or design?  It had the appearance of the latter.  I fancied
so, and fell many degrees in my own estimation.  Her choosing what was
evidently the "round-about" direction, argued unwillingness that we
should meet again: since the _mazy_ movement we were now performing
precluded all chance of a second encounter, except with the great log
still between us.  Even then we should be no longer _vis-a-vis_ as
before, but _dos-a-dos_, almost on the instant of our approaching!  To
insure even this poor privilege, I rode rapidly round the great buttress
of roots, that for a moment concealed the fair equestrian from my sight.
I did this with the intention of getting forward in time.  So rapidly
did I pass, and so absorbed was I in the idea of another sweet
salutation, that I saw not the fearful creature that lay basking upon
the log--on the sunny side of the upheaved mass of earth.

Once on the other side, I discovered that I had made a third mistake--
equally as provoking as the second--I had arrived _too soon_!
Golden-hair was away up among the tangle of the tree-tops.  I could see
her bright face gleaming through the branches--now and then hidden by
the broad leaves of the bignonias that laced them together.  To make me
still more miserable, I fancied that she was moving with a _studied
slowness_!  I had already reached that point, where the path parted from
the log.  I dared not pause: there was no excuse for it.  Not the shadow
of one could I think of; and, with a lingering towards that glittering
attraction, I reluctantly headed my horse to the forest.  A last glance
over my shoulder disclosed no improvement in my situation: she was still
behind the trellised leaf-work of the bignonias, where she had stayed
perhaps to pluck a flower.

"Happier far if I had never seen her!" was the reflection that occurred
to me, as I entered the gloomy shadow of the trees--less gloomy than my
own thoughts.

With one circumstance I now reproached myself: why had I been so shy
with this forest damsel?  The very way to secure her indifference.  Why
had I not _spoken_ to her, if only in commonplace?  Even "Good-day"
would have promised me a response; and the result could not have been
more unfavourable.  Why the deuce had I not bidden her "Good-day"?  I
should have heard her voice--no doubt an additional charm--for I never
yet saw a beautiful woman with a harsh voice; and I fear the inverse
proposition is equally true.  Why passed I without speaking?  No doubt,
she deems me a _yokel_!  Perhaps it was my very shyness she was smiling
at?  S'death! what a simpleton--Ho! what do I hear?  A woman's voice--a
cry?--of terror?  There again!--a scream! the words, "Help, oh! help!"
Is it she who is calling?  Yes--yes it is she!  By such strange sounds
were my reflections interrupted.  Turning my horse with a wrench, I
urged him back along the path.  I was yet scarcely a dozen lengths from
the log--for the reflections above detailed were but the thoughts of a
moment.  Half-a-dozen bounds of my steed brought me back to the edge of
a standing timber--where I pulled up, to ascertain the purport of this
singular summons that had reached me.

I made no inquiry--no explanation was needed.  The scene explained
itself: for, at the moment of my emerging from the shadowy path, I had a
tableau under my eyes, expressive as it was terrifying.  The girl was
upon the other side of the log, and near the point where she should have
turned off from it; but, instead of advancing, I saw that she had come
to a halt--her attitude expressing the wildest terror, as if some
fearful object was before her!  The jade, too, showed affright, by
snorting loudly--his head raised high in the air, and his long ears
pointing forward.  The young girl was dragging mechanically on the
bridle--as if to head him away from the spot.  But this was impossible:
another log, overlapping the first, formed an avenue, so narrow as to
leave not the slightest chance of a horse being able to turn in it.
Into this the animal had backed.  There was no way of his getting from
between the two trunks, but by going straight forward or backward.
Forward he _dared not go_; and backward he was moving, as fast as the
nature of the place would permit: now halting with his hips against one
of the logs; then with a quick rush backing against the other, that, but
for the support thus obtained, would have brought him upon his haunches!
The retrograde movement on the part of the horse was evidently the
result of terror, at the sight of some object in front.  It was aided
also by the half-mechanical action of the rider: who, pulling
continuously on the bridle, and repeating her cries for help, appeared
equally to suffer from affright!  My astonishment was of short duration.
Effect and cause came under my eye almost at the same instant.  The
latter I saw upon the log in hideous form--the form of a _couguar_!

Slowly advancing along the dead-wood--not by bounds or paces, but with
the stealthy tread of a cat--his long red body stretched out to its full
extent--the beast more resembled a gigantic caterpillar than a
quadruped.  I could scarcely detect the movement of his limbs, so
closely did the monster crawl; but his great tail, tapering three feet
behind him, was seen vibrating from side to side, or at intervals moving
with quick jerks--expressive of the enjoyment he was receiving in the
contemplation of his prey--for such he deemed the helpless maiden before
him.

I saw not the couguar's face--hideous sight at such a moment--nor yet
his eyes.  Both were turned from me, and fixed steadfastly upon his
intended victim.  The fierce beast did not perceive my approach--perhaps
a fortunate circumstance.  Once or twice I saw him pause, as if
crouching for a spring.  Luckily, the old horse, making a fresh
retrogression, caused the couguar again to advance along the log, in the
same creeping attitude as before.  With a glance, I had comprehended the
situation: indeed, at the first glance I understood it perfectly.  My
delay in acting only arose from the necessity of preparing for action;
and that did not take long.

It was habitual with me to carry my rifle over my shoulder, or rested
across the pommel of my saddle: in either case, always in hand.  It was
but the work of a moment to get the piece ready.  The pressure of the
muzzle against my horse's ear, was a signal well understood; and at once
rendered him as immobile as if made of bronze.  Many years of practice--
during which I had often aimed at higher game--had steeled my nerves and
straightened my sight.  Both proved sufficiently true for the
destruction of the couguar.  Quick after the crack, I saw his red body
roll back from the log; and, when the smoke thinned off, I could see the
animal writhing upon the ground.  Why the couguar had fallen to my side,
I could not tell: for he was fairly on the ridge of the dead-wood when I
fired.  Perhaps, on receiving the shot, he had fancied that it came from
the only enemy visible to him; and, by an instinct impelling him to
escape, had tumbled off in the opposite direction.  I perceived that he
was not yet dead.  He was still wriggling about among the branches; but
it was clear that the piece of lead had taken the "spring" out of him.
The bullet had passed through his spine, crashing the column in twain.
After playing upon him with my revolving pistol, until I had emptied
three or four of its chambers, I had the satisfaction of seeing him give
his last spasmodic "kick."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

What followed, I leave to the imagination of my reader.  Suffice it to
say, that the incident proved my friend.  The ice of indifference was
broken; and I was rewarded for my sleight-of-hand prowess by something
more than smiles--by words of praise that rang melodiously in my ear--
words of gratitude spoken with the free innocent naivete of childhood--
revealing, on the part of her who gave utterance to them, a truly
grateful heart.

I rode back with my fair protegee across the track of fallen timber--I
could have gone with her to the end of the world!  The tortuous path
hindered me from holding much converse with her: only, now and then, was
there opportunity for a word.  I remember little of what was said--on my
side, no doubt, much that was commonplace; but even _her_ observations I
can recall but confusedly.  The power of love was upon me, alike
absorbing both soul and sense--engrossing every thought in the
contemplation of the divine creature by my side I cared not to talk--
enough for me to look and listen.

I did not think of questioning her as to whence she had come.  Even her
name was neither asked nor ascertained!  Whither she was going was
revealed only by the accident of conversation.  She was on her way to
visit some one who lived on the other side of the creek--some friend of
her father.  Would that I could have claimed to be her father's friend--
his relative--his son!

We reached a ford: it was the crossing-place.  The house, for which her
visit was designed, stood not far off, on the other side; and I must
needs leave her.  Emboldened by what had passed, I caught hold of that
little hand.  It was a rare liberty; but I was no longer master of
myself.  There was no resistance; but I could perceive that the tiny
fingers trembled at my touch.

The old horse, with provoking impatience, plunged into the stream; and
we were parted.  I watched her while crossing the creek.  The crystal
drops sparkled like pearls upon her naked feet.  Some of them, dashed
higher by the hoofs of the horse, were sprinkled upon her cheek, and
clung to the carmined skin as if kissing it!  I envied those diamond
drops!

Lingering upon the bank, I gazed upon her receding form--with my eyes,
followed it through the forest aisle; and then, saw it only at
intervals--moving like some bright meteor among the trees--until by a
sudden turning in the path, it was taken from my sight.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

SWEET AND BITTER.

Slowly and reluctantly, I turned back from the stream, and once more
entered amid the wreck of the hurricane.  Along the sunny path, the
flowers appeared to sparkle with a fresher brilliancy--imbuing the air
with sweet odours, wafted from many a perfumed chalice.  The birds sang
with clearer melody; and the hum of the honey-bee rang through the
glades more harmoniously than ever.  The "_coo-coo-oo_" of the doves
blending with the love-call of the squirrel, betokened that both were
inspired by the tenderest of passions.  "Pensando de amor," as the
Spanish phrase finely expresses it; for at that moment, the beautiful
words of the southern poet were in my thoughts, and upon my lips:

      Aunque las fieras
  En sus guaridas
      Enternecidas
          Pensan de amor!

Even the fierce beasts in their forest lairs become gentle under the
influence of this all-pervading passion!

I rode on slowly and in silence--my whole soul absorbed in the
contemplation of that fair being, whose image seemed still before my
eyes--palpable as if present.  My heart quivered under the influence of
a gentle joy.  The past appeared bright; the present, happiness itself;
the future, full of hope.  I had found the very "wilderness-home" of my
longings; the fair spirit that should be my minister!  No doubt rose
before my mind to dim the brilliant prospect before me--no shadow hung
over the horizon of my hopes.  The prospect before me appeared bright
and sunny as the sky above my head.  Within and without the world was
smiling--all nature seemed tinted with the hue of the rose!  This
delightful reverie lasted for a time--alas! too short a time--only while
I was traversing the track, that, but the moment before, I had passed
over in such pleasant companionship.

On arriving at the scene of my late adventure, a turn was given to my
thoughts.  It had been a scene of triumph, and deserved commemoration.
The body of the panther lay across the path.  His shining skin was a
trophy not to be despised; and, dismounting on the spot, with my
hunting-knife I secured it.  I could point to it with pride--as the
first spoil obtained in my new hunting-field; but I should prize it
still more, as the memento of a far sweeter sentiment.  In a few
minutes, it was folded up, and strapped over the cantle of my saddle;
and, with this odd addition to my equipage, I once more plunged into the
forest-path.

For the next mile, the trace led through heavy bottom-timber, such as we
had traversed, after leaving the settlement of Swampville.  The black
earth, of alluvial origin, was covered deeply with decayed vegetation;
and the track of horses and cattle had converted the path into mud.  At
intervals, it was intersected by embayments of wet morass--the
projecting arms of a great swamp, that appeared to run parallel with the
creek.  Through these, my horse, unused to such footing, passed with
difficulty--often floundering up to his flanks in the mud.  Though it
was but the hour of noon, it more resembled night, or the late gloaming
of twilight--so dark were the shadows under this umbrageous wood.  As if
to strengthen the illusion, I could hear the cry of the bittern, and the
screech of the owl, echoing through the aisles of the forest--sounds
elsewhere suggestive of night and darkness.  Now and then, light shone
upon the path--the light that indicates an opening in the forest; but it
was not that of a friendly clearing.  Only the break caused by some
dismal lagoon, amidst whose dank stagnant waters even the cypress cannot
grow--the habitat of black water-snakes and mud-turtles--of cranes,
herons, and _Qua-birds_.  Hundreds of these I saw perched upon the
rotting half-submerged trunks--upon the cypress "knees" that rose like
brown obelisks around the edge of the water; or winged their slow flight
through the murky gloom, and filling the air with their deafening
screams.  On both sides of the trace towered gigantic trees, flanked at
their bases with huge projections, that appeared like the battlements of
a fortress, these singular protuberances rose far above the height of my
horse--radiating from the trunks on every side, and often causing the
path to take a circuitous direction.  In the deep gloom, the track would
have been difficult to follow, but for an occasional blaze appearing
upon the smooth bark of the sycamores.

The scene was by no means suggestive of pleasant reflections--the less
so, since I had ascertained, from my host of yesternight, that the
greater portion of Section Number 9 was of just such a character; and
that there was scarcely a spot upon it fit for a "homestead," except the
one already occupied!  "Such an `encumbrance' on my estate," reflected
I, "is worse than the _heaviest mortgage_;" and I should have been
willing at that moment to part with the timber at a very "low
valuation."  But I well knew the value of such a commodity.  On the
Thames or the Mersey, a mine of wealth--on Mud Creek, it would not have
been taken as a gift!  My spirits fell as I rode forward--partly
influenced by the sombre scenes through which I was passing--partly by
the natural reaction which ever follows the hour of sweet enjoyment--and
partly, no doubt, from some unpleasant presentiments that were once more
shaping themselves in my mind.

Up to this time, I had scarcely given thought to my errand, or its
object.  First the gay hues of the morning, and then the romantic
incidents of the hour, had occupied my thoughts, and hindered me from
dwelling on future plans or purposes.  Now, however, that I was coming
close to the clearing of the squatter, I began to feel, that I was also
_approaching a crisis_.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A RUDE RESPONSE.

An opening of about two acres in extent, of irregular semi-circular
shape, with the creek for its chord, and a worm-fence zig-zagging around
its arc--scarcely a clearing: since trees bleached and barkless stand
thickly over it; a log shanty, with clapboard roof, in the centre of the
concavity, flanked on one side by a rude horse-shed, on the other, by a
corn-crib of split rails; all three--shed, shanty, and crib--like the
tower of Pisa, threatening to tumble down; near the shanty, a wood-pile,
with an old axe lying upon the chop-block; by the shed and crib, a
litter of white "shucks" and "cobs;" in front, among the stumps and
girdled trees, a thin straggle of withered corn-stalks, shorn of their
leafy tops--some standing, some trampled down: such was the picture
before my eyes, as, with my horse, breast up against the fence, I looked
into the clearing of Squatter Holt!

"It must be the place--my place? there is no other clearing within a
mile?  My directions have been given with exact minuteness of detail.  I
have followed them to the letter: I cannot be mistaken: I have reached
Holt's Clearing at last."

I had ridden quite up to the fence, but could see no gate.  A set of
bars, however, between two roughly mortised uprights, indicated an
entrance to the enclosure.  The top bar was out.  Not feeling inclined
to dismount, I sprang my horse _over_ the others; and then trotted
forward in front of the shanty.  The door stood wide open.  I had hopes
that the sound of my horse's hoof-stroke would have brought some one
into it; but no one came!  Was there nobody within?  I waited for a
minute or two, listening for some sign of life in the interior of the
cabin.  No voice reached me--no sound of any one stirring!  Perhaps the
cabin was empty!  Not untenanted: since I could perceive the signs of
occupation, in some articles of rude furniture visible inside the
doorway.  Perhaps the inmates had gone out for a moment, and might be in
the woods, near at hand?

I looked around the clearing, and over the fence into the forest beyond.
No one to be seen no one to be heard!  Without the cabin, as within,
reigned a profound silence.  Not a living thing in sight--save the black
vultures--a score of which, perched on the dead-woods overhead, and
fetid as their food, were infecting the air with their carrion odour.
Although within easy range of my rifle, the foul birds took no heed of
my movements; but sat still, indolently extending their broad wings to
the sun--now and then one coming, one going, in slow silent flight--
their very shadows seeming to flit lazily among the withered
maize-plants that covered the ground.

I had no desire to appear rude.  I already regretted having leaped my
horse over the bars.  Even that might be regarded as rather a brusque
method of approach to a private dwelling; but I was in hopes it would
not be noticed: since there appeared to be no one who had witnessed it.
I coughed and made other noises, with like unfruitful result.  My
demonstrations were either not heard, or if heard, unheeded.

"Certainly," thought I, "if there be any one in the house, they must not
only hear, but _see me_:" for although there was no window, I could
perceive that the logs were but poorly "chinked;" and from within the
house, the whole clearing must have been in sight.  Nay, more, the
interior itself was visible from without--at least the greater part of
it--and, while making this observation, I fancied I could trace the
outlines of a human figure through the interstices of the logs!  I
became convinced it was a human figure; and furthermore, the figure of a
man.  It was odd he had not heard me!  Was he asleep?  No: that could
not be--from the attitude in which he was.  He appeared to be seated in
a chair, but with his body erect, and his head held aloft.  In such
position, he could scarcely be asleep?  After making this reflection, I
coughed again--louder than before; but to no better purpose!  I thought
the figure moved.  I was sure it moved; but as if with no intention of
stirring from the seat!  "Cool indifference!" thought I--"what can the
fellow mean?"  I grew impatient; and, feeling a little provoked by the
inexplicable somnolency of the owner of the cabin, I determined to try
whether my voice might not rouse him.  "Ho! house, there!"  I shouted,
though not loudly; "ho!--holloa!--any one within?"  Again the figure
moved--but still stirred not from the seat!  I repeated both my summons
and query--this time in still a louder and more commanding tone; and
this time I obtained a response.

"Who the hell _air_ you?" came a voice through the interstices of the
logs--a voice that more resembled the growl of a bear, than the
articulation of a human throat.  "Who the hell air you?" repeated the
voice, while at the same time, I could perceive the figure rising from
the chair.

I made no answer to the rough query.  I saw that my last summons had
been sufficient.  I could hear the hewn floor-planks cracking under a
heavy boot; and knew from this, that my questioner was passing towards
the door.  In another instant he stood in the doorway--his body filling
it from side to side--from head to stoop.  A fearful-looking man was
before me.  A man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the
second button of his coat; and above it a face, not to be looked upon
without a sensation of terror: a countenance expressive of determined
courage, but, at the same time, of ferocity, untempered by any trace of
a softer emotion.  A shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled;
eyebrows like a _chevaux-de-frise_ of hogs' bristles; eyes of a
greenish-grey, with a broad livid scar across the left cheek, were
component parts in producing this expression; while a red cotton
kerchief, wound, turban-like, around the head, and, pulled low down in
front, rendered it more palpable and pronounced.  A loose coat of thick
green blanket, somewhat faded and worn, added to the colossal appearance
of the man; while a red-flannel shirt served him also for a vest.  His
large limbs were inserted in pantaloons of blue Kentucky _jeans_ cloth;
but these were scarcely visible, hidden by the skirt of the ample
blanket-coat that draped down below the tops of a pair of rough
horse-skin boots reaching above the knee, and into which the trousers
had been tucked.  The face of the man was a singular picture; the
colossal stature rendered it more striking; the costume corresponded;
and all were in keeping with the rude manner of my reception.

It was idle to ask the question.  From the description given me by the
young backwoodsman, I knew the man before me to be Hickman Holt the
squatter.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A ROUGH RECEPTION.

For fashion's sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, "Mr Holt, I
presume?" but the opportunity was not allowed me.  No sooner had the
squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous
interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude.

"What's all this muss about?  Durn yur stinkin' imperence, who air ye?
an' what air ye arter?"

"I wish to see Mr Holt," I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper.

"Ye wish to see Mister Holt?  Thur's no _Mister_ Holt 'bout hyur."

"No?"

"No! damnation, no!  Didn't ye hear me!"

"Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?"

"You understan' me to say no sich thing.  Eft's Hick Holt ye mean, he
diz live hyur."

"Hick Holt--yes that is the name."

"Wall what o't, ef't is?"

"I wish to see him."

"Lookee hyur, stranger!" and the words were accompanied by a significant
look; "ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain't at home--ye understand me?
_he ain't at home_."

The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he
uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge
bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers.  I understood
the hint perfectly.

"I am not the sheriff," I answered in an assuring tone.  I was in hopes
of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my
bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind.

"I am _not_ the sheriff," I repeated, impressively.

"Yur not the shariff?  One o' his constables, then, I s'pose?"

"Neither one nor other," I replied, pocketing the affront.

"An' who air ye, anyhow--wi' yur dam glitterin' buttons, an' yur waist
drawd in, like a skewered skunk?"

This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville
friend--with some additional counsel I had received over-night--I strove
hard to keep down my rising choler.

"My name," said I--

"Durn yur name!" exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; "I don't care a
dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness--that's what I wanter know."

"I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt--Hick Holt,
if you like."

"To _see_ Hick Holt?  Wal, ef that's all yur bizness, you've _seed_ him;
an' now ye kin go."

This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without
permitting myself to be _nonplussed_ by it, or paying any heed to the
abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: "You, then,
are he?  You are Hick Holt, I suppose?"

"Who said I ain't--durn your imperence?  Now, then, what d'ye want wi'
me?"

The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the
bullying manner of the man--evidently relying upon his giant strength,
and formidable aspect--were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but
in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt.  It was
no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal
with.  Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless
of life as he.  I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat
and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully--such as I fancied this
fellow to be--and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me.
His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further
prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer.  I did
not give way to idle recrimination.  Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may
suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it.  Before I could
answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish
and impatient manner--with an additional epithet of insult.  "Wal,
Mister Jaybird," said he, "be quick 'bout it!  What d'ye want wi' _me_?"

"In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you;
and secondly--"

I was not permitted to finish my speech.  I was interrupted by an
exclamation--a horrid oath--that came fiercely hissing from the lips of
the squatter.

"Damnation!" cried he; "you be damned!  Civil treetmint i'deed!  You're
a putty fellur to talk o' civil treetmint, arter jumpin' yur hoss over a
man's fence, an' ridin' slap-jam inter his door, 'ithout bein' asked!
Let me tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don't 'low any man--white,
black, or Injun--to enter my clarin' 'ithout fust knowin' his reezun.
Ye hear that, d'ye?"

"_Your_ clearing!  Are you sure it is _yours_?"

The squatter turned red upon the instant.  Rage may have been the
passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but I could perceive that
my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the
hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features.

"Not my clarin'!" he thundered, with the embellishment of another
imprecation--"not my clarin'!  Shew me the man, who says it's not!--
shew'm to me!  _By_ the Almighty Etarnal he won't say't twice."

"Have you _purchased_ it?"

"Neer a mind for that, mister; I've _made_ it: that's my style o'
purchase, an', by God! it'll stan' good, I reck'n.  Consarn yur skin!
what hev you got to do wi't anyhow?"

"This," I replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time
taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags--"this only, Mr Holt.  That
your house stands upon Section Number 9; that I have bought that section
from the United States government; and must therefore demand of you,
either to use your _pre-emption, right_, or deliver the land over to me.
Here is the government grant--you may examine it, if you feel so
inclined."

An angry oath was the response, or rather a volley of oaths.

"I thort that wur yur bisness," continued the swearer.  "I thort so; but
jest this time you've kim upon a fool's errand.  Durn the government
grant! durn your pre-emption right! an' durn yur title-papers too!  I
don't valley them more'n them thur corn-shucks--I don't.  I've got my
pre-emption dokyment inside hyur.  I'll jest shew ye that, mister; an'
see how ye'll like it."

The speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment I lost sight of
him.

"Pre-emption document!" he said.  Was it possible he had purchased the
place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds?

If so--

My reflection was cut short.  In another moment he re-appeared in the
doorway; not with any papers in his hand--

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