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. Theherrikin, 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 theherrikinhad 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 thesexof the person who was approaching. It was not ahe! 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 thecoup d’oeilof 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 ahaloaround 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 somethingshonebefore 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 notVenusI saw before me, it appeared hercounterpartin 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 costlychaussurecould not have added to the elegance of thosemignonfeet, 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 oldcritterand the youngcreature—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.
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. Theherrikin, 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 theherrikinhad 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 thesexof the person who was approaching. It was not ahe! 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 thecoup d’oeilof 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 ahaloaround 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 somethingshonebefore 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 notVenusI saw before me, it appeared hercounterpartin 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 costlychaussurecould not have added to the elegance of thosemignonfeet, 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 oldcritterand the youngcreature—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 thevervethat 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 themazymovement 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 longervis-à-visas before, butdos-à-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 arrivedtoo 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 astudied 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 notspokento 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 ayokel! 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 hedared 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 acouguar!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 naïvété of childhood—revealing, on the part of her who gave utterance to them, a truly grateful heart.I rode back with my fair protégée 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 evenherobservations 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.
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 thevervethat 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 themazymovement 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 longervis-à-visas before, butdos-à-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 arrivedtoo 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 astudied 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 notspokento 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 ayokel! 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 hedared 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 acouguar!
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 naïvété of childhood—revealing, on the part of her who gave utterance to them, a truly grateful heart.
I rode back with my fair protégée 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 evenherobservations 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 fierasEn sus guaridasEnternecidasPensan 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, andQua-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 theheaviest 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 alsoapproaching a crisis.
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 fierasEn sus guaridasEnternecidasPensan de amor!
Aunque las fierasEn sus guaridasEnternecidasPensan 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, andQua-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 theheaviest 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 alsoapproaching 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 horseoverthe 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, butsee 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 hellairyou?” 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 achevaux-de-friseof 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 Kentuckyjeanscloth; 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.
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 horseoverthe 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, butsee 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 hellairyou?” 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 achevaux-de-friseof 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 Kentuckyjeanscloth; 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 noMisterHolt ’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 amnotthe 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.”“ToseeHick Holt? Wal, ef that’s all yur bizness, you’veseedhim; an’ now ye kin go.”This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to benonplussedby 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?”“Yourclearing! Are you sure it isyours?”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!Bythe Almighty Etarnal he won’t say’t twice.”“Have youpurchasedit?”“Neer a mind for that, mister; I’vemadeit: 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 yourpre-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—but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself?“Now, Mister Turn-me-out?” said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, “thur’s my title—my pre-emption right’s the right o’ the rifle.It’sclur enuf: ye’ll acknowledge that, won’t ye?”“No,” I replied in a firm voice.“Ye won’t? The hell, ye won’t? Look hyur, stranger! I’m in airnest. Look in my eye, an’ see if I ain’t! I gi’ ye warnin’ then, that ef ye’re not out o’ this clarin’ in six jumps o’ a squ’ll, you’ll niver go out o’ it a livin’ man. You see that ere stump? Its shadder’s jest a creepin’ up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I’ll shoot you down, as sure’s my name’s Hick Holt. Mind, I’ve gin ye warnin’!”“And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss—”“Miss!” ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head—“miss, ye fool! thur’s no fear o’ that.”“If you miss,” continued I, without heeding the interruption, “I shall show you no mercy. If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, I have my advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall certainly do so. Be warned! I never spare a coward.”“Coward!” exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. “An’ how ef I don’t miss?” continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer—intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. “How ef I don’t miss, Mister Popgun?”“You may, for all that. Don’t be too sure of hitting—I’ve been shot at before now.”“You’ll niver be shot atarternow, ’ceptin’ ye leave this clarin’. One crack from my gun’ll be enuf for ye, I reck’n.”“I’ll take my chance. If it should go against me,youwon’t gain by it. Remember, my good man, it’s not a duel we’re fighting! You have chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I’ve faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me.”I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar import: “If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. Trust me, they will do so! If I killyou, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronouncedmurder!” I gave full emphasis to the last word.On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! With an unsteady voice he replied:“Murder? No, no; I’ve gin ye warnin’ to go. Ye’ve time enuf yet to save yerself. Git out o’ the clarin’, an’ thur’ll be no harm done ye!”“I shall not go out of the clearing, until you’ve acknowledged my claim.”“Then you’ll niver go out o’ it alive—I swar by God! niver!”“You are determined, then, to be mymurderer?”I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps—but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation.“Murderer!” echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. “No, no; it’s bad enuf to hev the blame o’ that, ’ithout bein’ guilty o’t. I ain’t agwine tomurderye; but I ain’t agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye’ve lost yur chance. Ye’ve calledmeacoward; an’ by the Etarnal! no man ’ll say that word o’ Hick Holt, an’ live to boast o’t. No, mister! ye’ve got to die; an’ ye may get yurself ready for’t, ’s soon’s ye like. Coward indeed!”“I repeat it—your act is cowardly.”“What act?”“Your unprovoked attack upon me—especially since it gives you the first shot. What if I were to shoot you down now? With the pistol you see in my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. What would you call that? Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?”
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 noMisterHolt ’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 amnotthe 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.”
“ToseeHick Holt? Wal, ef that’s all yur bizness, you’veseedhim; an’ now ye kin go.”
This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to benonplussedby 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?”
“Yourclearing! Are you sure it isyours?”
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!Bythe Almighty Etarnal he won’t say’t twice.”
“Have youpurchasedit?”
“Neer a mind for that, mister; I’vemadeit: 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 yourpre-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—but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself?
“Now, Mister Turn-me-out?” said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, “thur’s my title—my pre-emption right’s the right o’ the rifle.It’sclur enuf: ye’ll acknowledge that, won’t ye?”
“No,” I replied in a firm voice.
“Ye won’t? The hell, ye won’t? Look hyur, stranger! I’m in airnest. Look in my eye, an’ see if I ain’t! I gi’ ye warnin’ then, that ef ye’re not out o’ this clarin’ in six jumps o’ a squ’ll, you’ll niver go out o’ it a livin’ man. You see that ere stump? Its shadder’s jest a creepin’ up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I’ll shoot you down, as sure’s my name’s Hick Holt. Mind, I’ve gin ye warnin’!”
“And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss—”
“Miss!” ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head—“miss, ye fool! thur’s no fear o’ that.”
“If you miss,” continued I, without heeding the interruption, “I shall show you no mercy. If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, I have my advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall certainly do so. Be warned! I never spare a coward.”
“Coward!” exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. “An’ how ef I don’t miss?” continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer—intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. “How ef I don’t miss, Mister Popgun?”
“You may, for all that. Don’t be too sure of hitting—I’ve been shot at before now.”
“You’ll niver be shot atarternow, ’ceptin’ ye leave this clarin’. One crack from my gun’ll be enuf for ye, I reck’n.”
“I’ll take my chance. If it should go against me,youwon’t gain by it. Remember, my good man, it’s not a duel we’re fighting! You have chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I’ve faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me.”
I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar import: “If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. Trust me, they will do so! If I killyou, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronouncedmurder!” I gave full emphasis to the last word.
On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! With an unsteady voice he replied:
“Murder? No, no; I’ve gin ye warnin’ to go. Ye’ve time enuf yet to save yerself. Git out o’ the clarin’, an’ thur’ll be no harm done ye!”
“I shall not go out of the clearing, until you’ve acknowledged my claim.”
“Then you’ll niver go out o’ it alive—I swar by God! niver!”
“You are determined, then, to be mymurderer?”
I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps—but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation.
“Murderer!” echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. “No, no; it’s bad enuf to hev the blame o’ that, ’ithout bein’ guilty o’t. I ain’t agwine tomurderye; but I ain’t agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye’ve lost yur chance. Ye’ve calledmeacoward; an’ by the Etarnal! no man ’ll say that word o’ Hick Holt, an’ live to boast o’t. No, mister! ye’ve got to die; an’ ye may get yurself ready for’t, ’s soon’s ye like. Coward indeed!”
“I repeat it—your act is cowardly.”
“What act?”
“Your unprovoked attack upon me—especially since it gives you the first shot. What if I were to shoot you down now? With the pistol you see in my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. What would you call that? Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?”
Chapter Twenty Three.A Duel without Seconds.While I was speaking, I saw a change pass over the countenance of my gigantic antagonist—as if some new resolve was forming in his mind, that affected the programme he had already traced out. Was it possible I had touched him on a point of honour? It was this purpose I desired to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, I continued the only kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of success.“Youdarenot play fair in this game?” I said, banteringly. “Youarea coward; and would murder me. You want the first shot: you know you do?”“It’s a lie!” cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height, and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed him capable of—“it’s a lie! I don’t wish to murder ye; an’ I don’t want the the first shot neyther.”“How?”“I hain’t so little confidence in my shootin’ as to care for you an’ yur jim-crack gun! Nor is Hick Holt in such consate wi’ his life eyther, that he’s afeerd to risk it. Tho’ ye air a stuck-up critter, I won’t gi’ ye the opportunity to ’kuse me o’ foul play. Thur’s grit in ye, I reck’n; and seein’ that’s made me change my mind.”“What!” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation—“you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?”“I mean, it shall be afair stan’-up fightatween us.”“Oh! a duel?”“Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister.”“I agree to that. But how about seconds?”“D’ye think two men can’t fight fair ’ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin’ nigh the bars?”“Yes—I see it.”“Wal, mister, thur you’ll take yur stand—ahine or afront o’ it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur’s this other un, clost by the crib—thur’ll be my place. Thur’s twenty yurds atween ’em, I reck’n. Is that yur distance?”“It will do as well as any other,” I replied mechanically—still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.“Dismount, then! Take your pouch an’ flask along wi’ ye—ye see I’ve got myen? One shot at ye’s allI’llwant, I reck’n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin’! an’ mind, mister! thur’s one o’ us’ll niver leave this clarin’ alive.”“About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?”“I’ve thort o’ that a’ready. It’ll be all right, promise ye.”“In what way can you arrange it?”“This way. Thur’s a hunk o’ deer-meat in the house: I mean to fetch that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o’ the clarin’. Ye see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?” I nodded in the affirmative. “Wal—it won’t be long afore one or other o’ them flops down to the meat; an’the first o’ ’em that touches ground, that’ll be the signal. That’s fair enuf, I reck’n?”“Perfectly fair,” I replied, still speaking mechanically—for the very justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous.I was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the man. He was fast disarming me. His unexpected behaviour had subdued my ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, I now felt a complete disinclination for the combat! Was it too late to stay our idle strife? Such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering my pride, I gave words to the thought.“Yur too late, mister! ’twon’t do now,” was the reply to my pacific speech.“And why not?” I continued to urge; though to my chagrin, I began to perceive that itwasan idle effort.“Yuv riz my dander; an’, by God! yuv got to fight for it!”“But surely—”“Stop yur palaver! By the tarnal airthquake, I’ll ’gin to thinkyouair a coward! I thort ye’d show, the white feather afore ’twur all over!”“Enough!” cried I, stung by the taunt; “I am ready for you one way or the other. Go on.”The squatter once more entered his cabin, and soon came out again, bringing forth the piece of venison. “Now!” cried he, “to yur stand! an’ remember! neyther firestill a bird lights on the grown! Arter that, ye may go it like blazes!”“Stay!” said I; “there is something yet to be done. You are acting honourably in this affair—which I acknowledge is more than I was led to expect. You deserve one chance for your life; and if I should fall it will be in danger. You would be regarded as a murderer: that must not be.”“What is’t you mean?” hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently not comprehending my words. Without answering to the interrogatory, I drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it: “I have fallen in fair fight.” I appended the date; signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary. He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant. He soon saw the intention, however, as I could tell by his grim smile.“You’re right thur!” said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause. “I hedn’t thunk o’ that. I guess this dockyment ’ll be nothin’ the wuss o’ my name too? What’s sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. Yur pencil, ef ye please? I ain’t much o’ a scholart; but I reck’n I kin write my name. Hyur goes!” Spreading out the paper on the top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then, holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature—but without saying a word. This done, he replaced the document on the stump; and drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the weapon quivering in the wood! All these manoeuvres were gone through with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some ordinary purpose!“I reck’n, strenger,” said he, in the same imperturbable tone, “that’ll keep the wind from blowin’ it away, till we’ve settled who it’s to belong to. Now, to yur place! I’m agwine to throw the deer-meat!”I had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand. Unresistingly, I obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking around. I had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of treachery. I hadnotthe slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and no more did I hold him to be a coward. That impression was gone long ago.I confess, that never with more reluctance did I enter upon the field of fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, I should not only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered up my claim to the clearing—though I knew that this could be done, only at the expense of my name and honour. Were I to have done so, I could never have shown my face again—neither in the settlement of Swampville, nor elsewhere. Even among my polished friends of more fashionable circles, I should have been taunted—branded as a coward and poltroon! The rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse especially after the manner in which he was acting. “Backed out” would have been the universal verdict! Moreover,notwithstanding the apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed—courteous I might almost call it—I knew he was implacable in his determination. There was no alternative—I must fight!I arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him. He was already in his place—with the joint of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in the other. The moment was nigh, when one of us should make an abrupt exit from the world!Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I saw depicted in the impassible face of my adversary—as plainly as if written upon the sky. I could read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and I resigned myself to meet it.“Now, mister!” cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, “I’m agwine to chuck the meat. Remember! neyther’s to fire, till a bird lights on the ground! Arter that, ye may go it like hell!”I saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; I saw it jerked aloft, and then whirling through the air; I saw it falling—falling, till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground. It was a fearful moment!
While I was speaking, I saw a change pass over the countenance of my gigantic antagonist—as if some new resolve was forming in his mind, that affected the programme he had already traced out. Was it possible I had touched him on a point of honour? It was this purpose I desired to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, I continued the only kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of success.
“Youdarenot play fair in this game?” I said, banteringly. “Youarea coward; and would murder me. You want the first shot: you know you do?”
“It’s a lie!” cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height, and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed him capable of—“it’s a lie! I don’t wish to murder ye; an’ I don’t want the the first shot neyther.”
“How?”
“I hain’t so little confidence in my shootin’ as to care for you an’ yur jim-crack gun! Nor is Hick Holt in such consate wi’ his life eyther, that he’s afeerd to risk it. Tho’ ye air a stuck-up critter, I won’t gi’ ye the opportunity to ’kuse me o’ foul play. Thur’s grit in ye, I reck’n; and seein’ that’s made me change my mind.”
“What!” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation—“you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?”
“I mean, it shall be afair stan’-up fightatween us.”
“Oh! a duel?”
“Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister.”
“I agree to that. But how about seconds?”
“D’ye think two men can’t fight fair ’ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin’ nigh the bars?”
“Yes—I see it.”
“Wal, mister, thur you’ll take yur stand—ahine or afront o’ it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur’s this other un, clost by the crib—thur’ll be my place. Thur’s twenty yurds atween ’em, I reck’n. Is that yur distance?”
“It will do as well as any other,” I replied mechanically—still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.
“Dismount, then! Take your pouch an’ flask along wi’ ye—ye see I’ve got myen? One shot at ye’s allI’llwant, I reck’n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin’! an’ mind, mister! thur’s one o’ us’ll niver leave this clarin’ alive.”
“About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?”
“I’ve thort o’ that a’ready. It’ll be all right, promise ye.”
“In what way can you arrange it?”
“This way. Thur’s a hunk o’ deer-meat in the house: I mean to fetch that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o’ the clarin’. Ye see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?” I nodded in the affirmative. “Wal—it won’t be long afore one or other o’ them flops down to the meat; an’the first o’ ’em that touches ground, that’ll be the signal. That’s fair enuf, I reck’n?”
“Perfectly fair,” I replied, still speaking mechanically—for the very justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous.
I was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the man. He was fast disarming me. His unexpected behaviour had subdued my ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, I now felt a complete disinclination for the combat! Was it too late to stay our idle strife? Such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering my pride, I gave words to the thought.
“Yur too late, mister! ’twon’t do now,” was the reply to my pacific speech.
“And why not?” I continued to urge; though to my chagrin, I began to perceive that itwasan idle effort.
“Yuv riz my dander; an’, by God! yuv got to fight for it!”
“But surely—”
“Stop yur palaver! By the tarnal airthquake, I’ll ’gin to thinkyouair a coward! I thort ye’d show, the white feather afore ’twur all over!”
“Enough!” cried I, stung by the taunt; “I am ready for you one way or the other. Go on.”
The squatter once more entered his cabin, and soon came out again, bringing forth the piece of venison. “Now!” cried he, “to yur stand! an’ remember! neyther firestill a bird lights on the grown! Arter that, ye may go it like blazes!”
“Stay!” said I; “there is something yet to be done. You are acting honourably in this affair—which I acknowledge is more than I was led to expect. You deserve one chance for your life; and if I should fall it will be in danger. You would be regarded as a murderer: that must not be.”
“What is’t you mean?” hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently not comprehending my words. Without answering to the interrogatory, I drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it: “I have fallen in fair fight.” I appended the date; signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary. He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant. He soon saw the intention, however, as I could tell by his grim smile.
“You’re right thur!” said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause. “I hedn’t thunk o’ that. I guess this dockyment ’ll be nothin’ the wuss o’ my name too? What’s sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. Yur pencil, ef ye please? I ain’t much o’ a scholart; but I reck’n I kin write my name. Hyur goes!” Spreading out the paper on the top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then, holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature—but without saying a word. This done, he replaced the document on the stump; and drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the weapon quivering in the wood! All these manoeuvres were gone through with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some ordinary purpose!
“I reck’n, strenger,” said he, in the same imperturbable tone, “that’ll keep the wind from blowin’ it away, till we’ve settled who it’s to belong to. Now, to yur place! I’m agwine to throw the deer-meat!”
I had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand. Unresistingly, I obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking around. I had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of treachery. I hadnotthe slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and no more did I hold him to be a coward. That impression was gone long ago.
I confess, that never with more reluctance did I enter upon the field of fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, I should not only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered up my claim to the clearing—though I knew that this could be done, only at the expense of my name and honour. Were I to have done so, I could never have shown my face again—neither in the settlement of Swampville, nor elsewhere. Even among my polished friends of more fashionable circles, I should have been taunted—branded as a coward and poltroon! The rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse especially after the manner in which he was acting. “Backed out” would have been the universal verdict! Moreover,notwithstanding the apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed—courteous I might almost call it—I knew he was implacable in his determination. There was no alternative—I must fight!
I arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him. He was already in his place—with the joint of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in the other. The moment was nigh, when one of us should make an abrupt exit from the world!
Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I saw depicted in the impassible face of my adversary—as plainly as if written upon the sky. I could read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and I resigned myself to meet it.
“Now, mister!” cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, “I’m agwine to chuck the meat. Remember! neyther’s to fire, till a bird lights on the ground! Arter that, ye may go it like hell!”
I saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; I saw it jerked aloft, and then whirling through the air; I saw it falling—falling, till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground. It was a fearful moment!