Chapter Six.An Apostolic Effort.The morning needed no fire, but there were embers upon the clay-hearth—some smouldering ends of faggots—over which the breakfast had been cooked. On one side of the fireplace the squatter placed a stool for his visitor; and then another for himself, as if mechanically on the opposite side. A table of rough-hewn planks stood between. On this was a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey—or, “bald face,” as it is more familiarly known in the backwoods—two cracked cups to drink out of; a couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco. All these preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had been expected. Beyond the customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the host and guest, until both had seated themselves. The squatter then commenced the conversation.“Yev hed a long ride, Josh,” said he, leaning towards the table and clutching hold of the bottle: “try a taste o’ this hyurrot-gut—’taint the daintiest o’ drink to offer a man so genteelly dressed as you air this morning; but thur’s wuss licker in these hyur back’oods, I reckun. Will ye mix? Thur’s water in the jug thar.”“No water for me,” was the laconic reply. “Yur right ’bout that. Its from old Hatcher’s still—whar they us’ally put the water in afore they give ye the licker. I s’pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o’ mixing—Ha! ha! ha!” The squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his visitor in good-humour. The only evidence of his success was a dry smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically than otherwise.There was silence while both drank; and Holt was again under the necessity of beginning the conversation. As already observed, he had noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster’s costume; and it was to this transformation that his next speech alluded. “Why, Josh,” said he, attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, “ye’re bran new, spick span, from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o’ them ere cantin’ critters o’ preechers I often see prowlin’ about Swampville. Durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now.Youhain’t got rileegun, I reck’n?”“I have,” gravely responded Stebbins.“Hooraw! ha, ha, ha! Wal—what sort o’ thing is’t anyhow?”“My religion is of the right sort, Brother Holt.”“Methody?”“Nothing of the kind.”“What then? I thort they wur all Methodies in Swampville?”“They’re allGentilesin Swampville—worse than infidels themselves.”“Wal—I know they brag mightily on thur genteelity. I reckon you’re about right thur—them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin’.”“No, no; it’s not that I mean. My religion has nothing to do with Swampville. Thank the Lord for his mercy, I’ve been led into a surer way of salvation. I suppose, Brother Holt, you’ve heard of the new Revelation?”“Heern o’ the new rev’lation. Wal, I don’t know as I hev. What’s the name o’t?”“The book ofMormon?”“Oh! Mormons! I’ve hearn o’ them. Hain’t they been a fightin’ a spell up thur in Massouray or Illinoy, whar they built ’em a grandiferous temple? I’ve hearn some talk o’t.”“At Nauvoo. It is even so, Brother Holt the wicked Gentiles have been persecuting the Saints: just as their fathers were persecuted by the Egyptian Pharaohs.”“An’ hain’t they killed their head man—Smith he wur called, if I recollex right.”“Alas, true! Joseph Smith has been made a martyr, and is by this time an angel in heaven. No doubt he is now in glory, at the head of the angelic host.”“Wal—if the angels are weemen, he’ll hev a good wheen o’ ’em about him, I reck’n. I’ve hearn he wur at the head of a putty consid’able host o’ ’em up thur in Massoury—fifty wives they said he hed! Wur that ere true, Josh?”“Scandal, Brother Holt—all scandal of the wicked enemies of our faith. They were but wivesin the spirit. That the Gentiles can’t comprehend; since their eyes have not been opened by the Revelation.”“Wal, it ’pears to be a tol’able free sort o’ rileegun anyhow. Kind o’ Turk, aint it?”“Nothing of the kind. It has nothing in common with the doctrines of Mohammedanism.”“But whar didyouget it, Josh Stebbins? Who gin it to you?”“You remember the man I brought over here last fall?”“Sartint I do. Young he wur—Brig Young, I think, you called him.”“The same.”“In coorse, I remember him well enough; but I reckon our Marian do a leetle better. He tried to spark the gurl, an’ made fine speeches to her; but she couldn’t bar the sight o’ him for all that. Ha! ha! ha. Don’t ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him? She unbuckled the girt o’ his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin’ to mount, and down he kim—saddle, bags, and all—cawollup to the airth! ha! ha! Arter he wur gone, I larfed till I wur like to bust.”“You did wrong, Hickman Holt, to encourage your daughter in her sauciness. Had you known the man—that man, sir, was a prophet!”“A prophet!”“Yes—the greatest perhaps the world ever saw—a man in direct communication with the Almighty himself.”“Lord! ’Twan’t Joe Smith, wur it?”“No; but one as great as he—one who has inherited his spirit; and who is now the head of all the Saints.”“That feller at thur head? You ’stonish me, Josh Stebbins.”“Ah! well you may be astonished. That man has astonished me, Hickman Holt. He has turned me from evil ways, and led me to fear the Lord.” The squatter looked incredulous, but remained silent. “Yes—that same man who was here with me in your humble cabin, is now Chief Priest of the Mormon Church! He has laid his hands on this poor head, and constituted me one of his humble Apostles. Yes, one of theTwelve, intrusted with spreading the true faith of the Saints over all the world.”“Hooraw for you, Josh Stebbins! You’ll be jest the man for that sort o’ thing; ye’ve got the larnin’ for it, hain’t you?”“No doubt, Brother Holt, with the help of the Lord, my humble acquirements will be useful; for thoughHeonly can open for us poor sinners the kingdom of grace, he suffers such weak instruments, as myself, to point out the narrow path that leads to it. Just as with the Philistines of old, the hearts of the Gentiles are hardened like flint-stones, and refuse to receive the true faith. Unlike the followers of Mohammed,wepropagate not by the sword, but by the influence of ratiocination.”“What?”“Ratiocination.”“What mout that be?”“Reason—reason.”“Oh! common sense you mean, I s’pose?”“Exactly so—reasoning that produces conviction; and, I flatter myself, that, being gifted with some little sense and skill, my efforts may be crowned with success.”“Wal, Josh, ’ithout talkin’ o’ common sense, ye’ve good grist o’ lawyers’ sense—that I know; an’ so, I suppose, ye’ve tuk it into your head to make beginnin’ on me. Aint that why ye’ve come over this mornin’?”“What?”“To make a Mormon o’ me.”Up to this time the conversation had been carried on in a somewhat stiff and irrelevant manner; this more especially on the side of the squatter, who—notwithstanding his endeavours to assume an air of easy nonchalance—was evidently labouring under suspicion and constraint. From the fact of Stebbins having sent a message to forewarn him, of this visit, he knew that the schoolmaster had some business with him of more than usual importance; and it was a view to ascertain the nature of this business, and relieve himself from suspense, that the interrogatory was put. He would have been right glad to have received an answer in the affirmative—since it would have cost him little concern to turn Mormon, or profess to do so, notwithstanding his pretended opposition to the faith. He was half indulging himself in the hope that this might be the errand on which Stebbins had come: as was evinced by a more cheerful expression, on his countenance; but, as the Saint lingered long before making a reply, the shadows of suspicion again darkened over the brow of the squatter; and with a nervous uneasiness, he awaited the answer.“It’ll be a tough job, Josh,” said he, with an effort to appear unconcerned—“a tough job, mind ye.”“Well, so I should expect,” answered the apostle drily; “and, just for that reason, I don’t intend to undertake it: though I should like, Brother Holt, to see you gathered into the fold. I know our great High Priest would make much of a man likeyou. The Saints have many enemies; and need strong arms and stout hearts such as yours, Hickman Holt. The Lord has given to his Prophet the right to defend the true faith—even with carnal weapons, if others fail; and woe be to them who make war on us! Let them dread theDestroying Angels!”“The Destroying Angels! What sort o’ critters be they?”“They are theDanites.”“Wal I’m jest as wise as ever, Josh. Dod rot it, man! don’t be mystiferous. Who air the Danites, I shed like to know?”“You can only know them by initiation; and youshouldknow them. You’re just the man to be one of them; and I have no doubt you’d be made one, as soon as you joined us.”The apostle paused, as if to note the effect of his words; but the colossal hunter appeared as if he had not heard them. It was not that he did not comprehend their meaning, but rather because he was not heeding what had been said—his mind being occupied with a presentiment of some more unpleasant proposal held in reserve by his visitor. He remained silent, however; leaving it to the latter to proceed to the declaration of his design. The suspicions of the squatter—if directed to anything connected with his family affairs—were well grounded, and soon received confirmation. After a pause, the Mormon continued:“No, Hickman Holt, it aint withyoumy business lies to-day—that is, not exactly with you.”“Who, then?”“Your daughter!”
The morning needed no fire, but there were embers upon the clay-hearth—some smouldering ends of faggots—over which the breakfast had been cooked. On one side of the fireplace the squatter placed a stool for his visitor; and then another for himself, as if mechanically on the opposite side. A table of rough-hewn planks stood between. On this was a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey—or, “bald face,” as it is more familiarly known in the backwoods—two cracked cups to drink out of; a couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco. All these preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had been expected. Beyond the customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the host and guest, until both had seated themselves. The squatter then commenced the conversation.
“Yev hed a long ride, Josh,” said he, leaning towards the table and clutching hold of the bottle: “try a taste o’ this hyurrot-gut—’taint the daintiest o’ drink to offer a man so genteelly dressed as you air this morning; but thur’s wuss licker in these hyur back’oods, I reckun. Will ye mix? Thur’s water in the jug thar.”
“No water for me,” was the laconic reply. “Yur right ’bout that. Its from old Hatcher’s still—whar they us’ally put the water in afore they give ye the licker. I s’pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o’ mixing—Ha! ha! ha!” The squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his visitor in good-humour. The only evidence of his success was a dry smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically than otherwise.
There was silence while both drank; and Holt was again under the necessity of beginning the conversation. As already observed, he had noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster’s costume; and it was to this transformation that his next speech alluded. “Why, Josh,” said he, attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, “ye’re bran new, spick span, from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o’ them ere cantin’ critters o’ preechers I often see prowlin’ about Swampville. Durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now.Youhain’t got rileegun, I reck’n?”
“I have,” gravely responded Stebbins.
“Hooraw! ha, ha, ha! Wal—what sort o’ thing is’t anyhow?”
“My religion is of the right sort, Brother Holt.”
“Methody?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“What then? I thort they wur all Methodies in Swampville?”
“They’re allGentilesin Swampville—worse than infidels themselves.”
“Wal—I know they brag mightily on thur genteelity. I reckon you’re about right thur—them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin’.”
“No, no; it’s not that I mean. My religion has nothing to do with Swampville. Thank the Lord for his mercy, I’ve been led into a surer way of salvation. I suppose, Brother Holt, you’ve heard of the new Revelation?”
“Heern o’ the new rev’lation. Wal, I don’t know as I hev. What’s the name o’t?”
“The book ofMormon?”
“Oh! Mormons! I’ve hearn o’ them. Hain’t they been a fightin’ a spell up thur in Massouray or Illinoy, whar they built ’em a grandiferous temple? I’ve hearn some talk o’t.”
“At Nauvoo. It is even so, Brother Holt the wicked Gentiles have been persecuting the Saints: just as their fathers were persecuted by the Egyptian Pharaohs.”
“An’ hain’t they killed their head man—Smith he wur called, if I recollex right.”
“Alas, true! Joseph Smith has been made a martyr, and is by this time an angel in heaven. No doubt he is now in glory, at the head of the angelic host.”
“Wal—if the angels are weemen, he’ll hev a good wheen o’ ’em about him, I reck’n. I’ve hearn he wur at the head of a putty consid’able host o’ ’em up thur in Massoury—fifty wives they said he hed! Wur that ere true, Josh?”
“Scandal, Brother Holt—all scandal of the wicked enemies of our faith. They were but wivesin the spirit. That the Gentiles can’t comprehend; since their eyes have not been opened by the Revelation.”
“Wal, it ’pears to be a tol’able free sort o’ rileegun anyhow. Kind o’ Turk, aint it?”
“Nothing of the kind. It has nothing in common with the doctrines of Mohammedanism.”
“But whar didyouget it, Josh Stebbins? Who gin it to you?”
“You remember the man I brought over here last fall?”
“Sartint I do. Young he wur—Brig Young, I think, you called him.”
“The same.”
“In coorse, I remember him well enough; but I reckon our Marian do a leetle better. He tried to spark the gurl, an’ made fine speeches to her; but she couldn’t bar the sight o’ him for all that. Ha! ha! ha. Don’t ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him? She unbuckled the girt o’ his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin’ to mount, and down he kim—saddle, bags, and all—cawollup to the airth! ha! ha! Arter he wur gone, I larfed till I wur like to bust.”
“You did wrong, Hickman Holt, to encourage your daughter in her sauciness. Had you known the man—that man, sir, was a prophet!”
“A prophet!”
“Yes—the greatest perhaps the world ever saw—a man in direct communication with the Almighty himself.”
“Lord! ’Twan’t Joe Smith, wur it?”
“No; but one as great as he—one who has inherited his spirit; and who is now the head of all the Saints.”
“That feller at thur head? You ’stonish me, Josh Stebbins.”
“Ah! well you may be astonished. That man has astonished me, Hickman Holt. He has turned me from evil ways, and led me to fear the Lord.” The squatter looked incredulous, but remained silent. “Yes—that same man who was here with me in your humble cabin, is now Chief Priest of the Mormon Church! He has laid his hands on this poor head, and constituted me one of his humble Apostles. Yes, one of theTwelve, intrusted with spreading the true faith of the Saints over all the world.”
“Hooraw for you, Josh Stebbins! You’ll be jest the man for that sort o’ thing; ye’ve got the larnin’ for it, hain’t you?”
“No doubt, Brother Holt, with the help of the Lord, my humble acquirements will be useful; for thoughHeonly can open for us poor sinners the kingdom of grace, he suffers such weak instruments, as myself, to point out the narrow path that leads to it. Just as with the Philistines of old, the hearts of the Gentiles are hardened like flint-stones, and refuse to receive the true faith. Unlike the followers of Mohammed,wepropagate not by the sword, but by the influence of ratiocination.”
“What?”
“Ratiocination.”
“What mout that be?”
“Reason—reason.”
“Oh! common sense you mean, I s’pose?”
“Exactly so—reasoning that produces conviction; and, I flatter myself, that, being gifted with some little sense and skill, my efforts may be crowned with success.”
“Wal, Josh, ’ithout talkin’ o’ common sense, ye’ve good grist o’ lawyers’ sense—that I know; an’ so, I suppose, ye’ve tuk it into your head to make beginnin’ on me. Aint that why ye’ve come over this mornin’?”
“What?”
“To make a Mormon o’ me.”
Up to this time the conversation had been carried on in a somewhat stiff and irrelevant manner; this more especially on the side of the squatter, who—notwithstanding his endeavours to assume an air of easy nonchalance—was evidently labouring under suspicion and constraint. From the fact of Stebbins having sent a message to forewarn him, of this visit, he knew that the schoolmaster had some business with him of more than usual importance; and it was a view to ascertain the nature of this business, and relieve himself from suspense, that the interrogatory was put. He would have been right glad to have received an answer in the affirmative—since it would have cost him little concern to turn Mormon, or profess to do so, notwithstanding his pretended opposition to the faith. He was half indulging himself in the hope that this might be the errand on which Stebbins had come: as was evinced by a more cheerful expression, on his countenance; but, as the Saint lingered long before making a reply, the shadows of suspicion again darkened over the brow of the squatter; and with a nervous uneasiness, he awaited the answer.
“It’ll be a tough job, Josh,” said he, with an effort to appear unconcerned—“a tough job, mind ye.”
“Well, so I should expect,” answered the apostle drily; “and, just for that reason, I don’t intend to undertake it: though I should like, Brother Holt, to see you gathered into the fold. I know our great High Priest would make much of a man likeyou. The Saints have many enemies; and need strong arms and stout hearts such as yours, Hickman Holt. The Lord has given to his Prophet the right to defend the true faith—even with carnal weapons, if others fail; and woe be to them who make war on us! Let them dread theDestroying Angels!”
“The Destroying Angels! What sort o’ critters be they?”
“They are theDanites.”
“Wal I’m jest as wise as ever, Josh. Dod rot it, man! don’t be mystiferous. Who air the Danites, I shed like to know?”
“You can only know them by initiation; and youshouldknow them. You’re just the man to be one of them; and I have no doubt you’d be made one, as soon as you joined us.”
The apostle paused, as if to note the effect of his words; but the colossal hunter appeared as if he had not heard them. It was not that he did not comprehend their meaning, but rather because he was not heeding what had been said—his mind being occupied with a presentiment of some more unpleasant proposal held in reserve by his visitor. He remained silent, however; leaving it to the latter to proceed to the declaration of his design. The suspicions of the squatter—if directed to anything connected with his family affairs—were well grounded, and soon received confirmation. After a pause, the Mormon continued:
“No, Hickman Holt, it aint withyoumy business lies to-day—that is, not exactly with you.”
“Who, then?”
“Your daughter!”
Chapter Seven.The Mormon’s Demand.A shudder passed through the herculean frame of the hunter—though it was scarcely perceptible, from the effort he made to conceal it. It was noticed for all that; and the emotion that caused it perfectly understood. The keen eye of theci-devantlaw clerk was too skilled in reading the human countenance, to be deceived by an effort at impassibility.“My daughter?” muttered Holt, half interrogatively.“Your daughter!” echoed the Mormon, with imperturbable coolness.“But which o’ ’em? Thur’s two.”“Oh! you know which I mean—Marian, of course.”“An’ what do ye want wi’ Marian, Josh?”“Come, Brother Holt? it’s no use your feigning ignorance. I’ve spoken to you of this before: you know well enough what I want with her.”“Durn me, if I do! I remember what ye sayed afore; but I thort ye wur only jokin’.”“I was in earnest then, Hickman Holt; and I’m still more in earnest now. I want a wife, and I think Marian would suit me admirably. I suppose you know that the saints have moved off from Illinois, and are now located beyond the Rocky Mountains?”“I’ve heern somethin’ o’t.”“Well, I propose going thereto join them; and I must take a wife with me: for no man is welcome who comes there without one.”“Y-e-s,” drawled the squatter, with a bitter smile, “an’ from what I’ve heern, I reckon he’d be more welkum if he fetched half-a-dozen.”“Nonsense, Hickman Holt. I wonder a man of your sense would listen to such lies. It’s a scandal that’s been scattered abroad by a set of corrupt priests and Methody preachers, who are jealous of us, because we’re drawing their people. Sheer wicked lies, every word of it!”“Wal, I don’t know about that. But I know one thing, to a sartinty—you will niver get Marian’s consent.”“I don’t want Marian’s consent—that don’t signify, so long as I have yours.”“Myen?”“Ay, yours; and I must have it. Look here, Hickman Holt! Listen to me! We’re making too long a talk about this business; and I have no time to waste in words. I have made everything ready; and shall leave for the Salt Lake before three more days have passed over my head. The caravan I’m going with is to start from Fort Smith on the Arkansas; and it’ll be prepared by the time I get there, to move over the plains. I’ve bought me a team and a waggon. It’s already loaded and packed; and there’s a corner in it left expressly for your daughter: therefore, she must go.”The tone of the speaker had suddenly changed, from that of saintly insinuation, to bold open menace. The squatter, notwithstanding his fierce and formidable aspect, did not dare to reply in the same strain. He was evidently cowed, and suffering under some fearful apprehension. “Mustgo!” he muttered, half involuntarily, as if echoing the other’s words. “Yes,mustandshall!”“I tell ye, Josh Stebbins, she’ll niver consent.”“And I tell you, Hickman Holt, I don’t want her consent. That I leaveyouto obtain; and if you can’t get it otherwise, you mustforceit. Bah! what is it for? A good husband—a good home—plenty of meat, drink, and dress: for don’t you get it into your fancy that the Latter-Day Saints resemble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, who think they please God by their miserable penances. Quite the reverse, I can assure you. We mean to live as God intended men should live—eat, drink, and be merry. Look there!” The speaker exhibited a handful of shining gold pieces. “That’s the way our church provides for its apostles. Your daughter will be a thousand times better off there, than in this wretched hovel. Perhapsshewill not mind the change so much asyouappear to think. I know many a first-rate girl that would be glad of the chance.”“I knowshewon’t give in—far less to be made a Mormon o’. I’ve heern her speak agin ’em.”“I say again, she must give in. After all, you needn’t tell her I’m a Mormon: she needn’t know anything aboutthat. Let her think I’m only moving out west—to Oregon—where there are plenty of respectable emigrants now going. She’ll not suspect anything in that. Once out at Salt Lake City, she’ll soon get reconciled to Mormon life, I guess.”The squatter remained silent for some moments—his head hanging forward over his broad breast—his eyes turned inward, as if searching within his bosom for some thought to guide and direct him. In there, no doubt, a terrible struggle was going on—a tumult of mixed emotions. He loved his daughter, and would leave her to her own will; but he feared this saintly suitor, and dared not gainsay him. It must have been some dread secret, or fiendish scheme, that enabled this small insignificant man to sway the will of such a giant!A considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer. He was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should make.Twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the latter, a fixed and implacable purpose. There was no mercy there.All at once, a change came over the colossus. A resolution of resistance had arisen within him—as was evinced by his altered attitude and the darkening shadow upon his countenance. The triumphant glances of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter in dispute. Like the buffalo of the plains stung with Indian arrows, or the greatmysticetusof the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the presence of his tormentor. “Damnation!” cried he, striking the floor with his heavy heel, “she won’t do it—she won’t, and sheshan’t!”“Keep cool, Hickman Holt!” rejoined the Mormon, without moving from his seat—“keep cool! I expected this; but it’s all bluster. I tell you she will, and sheshall!”“Hev a care, Josh Stebbins! Hev a care what yur about! Ye don’t know what you may drive me to—”“But I know what I mayleadyou to,” interrupted the other with a sneering smile.“What?” involuntarily inquired Holt.“The gallows,” laconically answered Stebbins.“Devils an’ damnation!” This emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling—as if the angry spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace.“It’s no use swearing about it, Holt,” continued the Mormon, after a certain time had passed in silence. “Mymind’s made up—the girl must go with me. Sayyesorno. If yes, then all’s well—well for your daughter, and well for you too. I shall be out of your way—Salt Lake’s a long distance off—and it’snot likely you’ll ever set eyes on me again. You understand me?”The saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and then paused, as if to let them have their full weight. They appeared to produce an effect. On hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter. It appeared the outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view of the Mormon’s proposal. He spoke at length; but no longer in the tone of rage—for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up.“An’ s’pose I sayno?”“Why, in that case, I shall not start so soon as I had intended. I shall stay in the settlements till I have performed a duty that, for a long time, I have left undone.”“What duty is’t you mean?”“One I owe to society; and which I have perhaps sinfully neglected—bring a murderer to justice!”“Hush! Josh Stebbins—for Heaven’s sake, speak low!You know it isn’t true—but, hush! the gurls are ’thout. Don’t let them hear sech talk!”“Perhaps,” continued Stebbins, without heeding the interruption, “perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape. He is mistaken if he do. One word from me in Swampville, and the hounds of the law would be upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear ofthem, he could not escape out of my power. I have told you I am an Apostle of the great Mormon Church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the vengeance of our Destroying Angels. Now, Hickman Holt, which is it to be?yes or no?” The pause was ominous for poor Marian.The answer decided her doom. It was delivered in a hoarse husky voice: “Yes—yes—she may go!”
A shudder passed through the herculean frame of the hunter—though it was scarcely perceptible, from the effort he made to conceal it. It was noticed for all that; and the emotion that caused it perfectly understood. The keen eye of theci-devantlaw clerk was too skilled in reading the human countenance, to be deceived by an effort at impassibility.
“My daughter?” muttered Holt, half interrogatively.
“Your daughter!” echoed the Mormon, with imperturbable coolness.
“But which o’ ’em? Thur’s two.”
“Oh! you know which I mean—Marian, of course.”
“An’ what do ye want wi’ Marian, Josh?”
“Come, Brother Holt? it’s no use your feigning ignorance. I’ve spoken to you of this before: you know well enough what I want with her.”
“Durn me, if I do! I remember what ye sayed afore; but I thort ye wur only jokin’.”
“I was in earnest then, Hickman Holt; and I’m still more in earnest now. I want a wife, and I think Marian would suit me admirably. I suppose you know that the saints have moved off from Illinois, and are now located beyond the Rocky Mountains?”
“I’ve heern somethin’ o’t.”
“Well, I propose going thereto join them; and I must take a wife with me: for no man is welcome who comes there without one.”
“Y-e-s,” drawled the squatter, with a bitter smile, “an’ from what I’ve heern, I reckon he’d be more welkum if he fetched half-a-dozen.”
“Nonsense, Hickman Holt. I wonder a man of your sense would listen to such lies. It’s a scandal that’s been scattered abroad by a set of corrupt priests and Methody preachers, who are jealous of us, because we’re drawing their people. Sheer wicked lies, every word of it!”
“Wal, I don’t know about that. But I know one thing, to a sartinty—you will niver get Marian’s consent.”
“I don’t want Marian’s consent—that don’t signify, so long as I have yours.”
“Myen?”
“Ay, yours; and I must have it. Look here, Hickman Holt! Listen to me! We’re making too long a talk about this business; and I have no time to waste in words. I have made everything ready; and shall leave for the Salt Lake before three more days have passed over my head. The caravan I’m going with is to start from Fort Smith on the Arkansas; and it’ll be prepared by the time I get there, to move over the plains. I’ve bought me a team and a waggon. It’s already loaded and packed; and there’s a corner in it left expressly for your daughter: therefore, she must go.”
The tone of the speaker had suddenly changed, from that of saintly insinuation, to bold open menace. The squatter, notwithstanding his fierce and formidable aspect, did not dare to reply in the same strain. He was evidently cowed, and suffering under some fearful apprehension. “Mustgo!” he muttered, half involuntarily, as if echoing the other’s words. “Yes,mustandshall!”
“I tell ye, Josh Stebbins, she’ll niver consent.”
“And I tell you, Hickman Holt, I don’t want her consent. That I leaveyouto obtain; and if you can’t get it otherwise, you mustforceit. Bah! what is it for? A good husband—a good home—plenty of meat, drink, and dress: for don’t you get it into your fancy that the Latter-Day Saints resemble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, who think they please God by their miserable penances. Quite the reverse, I can assure you. We mean to live as God intended men should live—eat, drink, and be merry. Look there!” The speaker exhibited a handful of shining gold pieces. “That’s the way our church provides for its apostles. Your daughter will be a thousand times better off there, than in this wretched hovel. Perhapsshewill not mind the change so much asyouappear to think. I know many a first-rate girl that would be glad of the chance.”
“I knowshewon’t give in—far less to be made a Mormon o’. I’ve heern her speak agin ’em.”
“I say again, she must give in. After all, you needn’t tell her I’m a Mormon: she needn’t know anything aboutthat. Let her think I’m only moving out west—to Oregon—where there are plenty of respectable emigrants now going. She’ll not suspect anything in that. Once out at Salt Lake City, she’ll soon get reconciled to Mormon life, I guess.”
The squatter remained silent for some moments—his head hanging forward over his broad breast—his eyes turned inward, as if searching within his bosom for some thought to guide and direct him. In there, no doubt, a terrible struggle was going on—a tumult of mixed emotions. He loved his daughter, and would leave her to her own will; but he feared this saintly suitor, and dared not gainsay him. It must have been some dread secret, or fiendish scheme, that enabled this small insignificant man to sway the will of such a giant!
A considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer. He was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should make.
Twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the latter, a fixed and implacable purpose. There was no mercy there.
All at once, a change came over the colossus. A resolution of resistance had arisen within him—as was evinced by his altered attitude and the darkening shadow upon his countenance. The triumphant glances of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter in dispute. Like the buffalo of the plains stung with Indian arrows, or the greatmysticetusof the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the presence of his tormentor. “Damnation!” cried he, striking the floor with his heavy heel, “she won’t do it—she won’t, and sheshan’t!”
“Keep cool, Hickman Holt!” rejoined the Mormon, without moving from his seat—“keep cool! I expected this; but it’s all bluster. I tell you she will, and sheshall!”
“Hev a care, Josh Stebbins! Hev a care what yur about! Ye don’t know what you may drive me to—”
“But I know what I mayleadyou to,” interrupted the other with a sneering smile.
“What?” involuntarily inquired Holt.
“The gallows,” laconically answered Stebbins.
“Devils an’ damnation!” This emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling—as if the angry spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace.
“It’s no use swearing about it, Holt,” continued the Mormon, after a certain time had passed in silence. “Mymind’s made up—the girl must go with me. Sayyesorno. If yes, then all’s well—well for your daughter, and well for you too. I shall be out of your way—Salt Lake’s a long distance off—and it’snot likely you’ll ever set eyes on me again. You understand me?”
The saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and then paused, as if to let them have their full weight. They appeared to produce an effect. On hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter. It appeared the outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view of the Mormon’s proposal. He spoke at length; but no longer in the tone of rage—for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up.
“An’ s’pose I sayno?”
“Why, in that case, I shall not start so soon as I had intended. I shall stay in the settlements till I have performed a duty that, for a long time, I have left undone.”
“What duty is’t you mean?”
“One I owe to society; and which I have perhaps sinfully neglected—bring a murderer to justice!”
“Hush! Josh Stebbins—for Heaven’s sake, speak low!You know it isn’t true—but, hush! the gurls are ’thout. Don’t let them hear sech talk!”
“Perhaps,” continued Stebbins, without heeding the interruption, “perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape. He is mistaken if he do. One word from me in Swampville, and the hounds of the law would be upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear ofthem, he could not escape out of my power. I have told you I am an Apostle of the great Mormon Church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the vengeance of our Destroying Angels. Now, Hickman Holt, which is it to be?yes or no?” The pause was ominous for poor Marian.
The answer decided her doom. It was delivered in a hoarse husky voice: “Yes—yes—she may go!”
Chapter Eight.A splendid Pension.The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was followed by an extensivedébandement, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into their scabbards—some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of freedom, calumniously called “filibustering;” others perhaps destined never to be drawn again. Using a figurative expression, not a few were converted into spades; and in thispacificfashion, carried to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean—there to delve for Californian gold—while still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idleness. A three years’ campaign under the sultry skies of Mexico—drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms of the American youth—had satisfied the ambition of most. It was only those who arrived late upon the field—too late to pluck a laurel—who would have prolonged the strife.The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield—ci-devantcaptain of a corps of “rangers”—was not one of the last mentioned. With myself, as with many others, the great Mexican campaign was but the continuation of the little war—la petite guerre—that had long held an intermittent existence upon the borders of Texas, and in which we had borne part; and the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of Anahuac, constituted a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time. For my part, notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, I was tired of the toils of war, and really desired a “spell” of peace: during which I might indulge in thedolce far niente, and obtain for my wearied spirit a respite of repose. My wishes were in similitude with those of the poet, who longed for “a lodge in some vast wilderness—some boundless contiguity of shade;” or perhaps, more akin to those of that other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the “desert as a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!” In truth, I felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best intentions. A phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance that offered opposition to my will: “want of the wherewith to support a wife.”I had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a “dwelling in the desert” cannot be maintained without expense; and that however pure the desert air, thefairest“spirit” would require something more substantial to live upon. Under this prudential view of the case, marriage was altogether out of the question. We, thedébandes, were dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements being a piece of “land scrip,” good for the number of acres upon the face of it—to be selected from “government land,” wherever the holder might choose to “locate.” The scrip was for greater or less amount, according to the term of the receiver’s service. Mine represented a “section” of six hundred and forty acres—worth in ordinary times, a dollar and quarter per acre; but just then—on account of the market being flooded by similar paper—reduced to less than half its value. With this magnificent “bounty” was I rewarded for services, that perhaps—some day—might be—never mind!—thank heaven for blessing me with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment! This bit of scrip then—a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and through the smoke of more than one red fray—a true rifle, that I had myself carried equally as far—a pair of Colt’s pistols—and a steel “Toledo,” taken at the storming of Chapultepec—constituted the bulk of my available property. Add to this, a remnant of my last month’s pay—in truth, not enough to provide me with that much coveted article, acivilian’s suit: in proof of which, my old undress-frock, with its yellow spread-eagle buttons, clung to my shoulders like a second shirt of Nessus. The vanity of wearing a uniform, that may have once been felt, was long ago threadbare as the coat itself; and yet I was not wanting in friends, who fancied that it might still exist! How little understood they the real state of the case, and how much did they misconstrue myinvoluntarymotives!It was just to escape from such unpleasant associations, that I held on to my “scrip.” Most of my brother-officers had sold theirs for a “song,” and spent the proceeds upon a “supper.” In relation to mine, I had other views than parting with it to the greedy speculators. It promised me that very wilderness-home I was in search of; and, having no prospect of procuring a fair spirit for my “minister,” I determined to “locate” without one.I was at the time staying in Tennessee—the guest of a campaigning comrade and still older friend. He was grandson of that gallant leader, who, with a small band of only forty families, ventured three hundred miles through the heart of the “bloody ground” and founded Nashville upon the bold bluffs of an almost unknown river! From the lips of their descendants I had heard so many thrilling tales of adventures, experienced by this pioneer band, that Tennessee had become, in my fancy a region of romance. Other associations had led me to love this hospitable and chivalric state; and I resolved, that, within its boundaries, I should make my home. A visit to the Land-office of Nashville ended in my selection of Section Number 9, Township —, as my future plantation. It was represented to me as a fertile spot—situated in the “Western Reserve”—near the banks of the beautiful Obion, and not far above the confluence of this river with the Mississippi. The official believed there had been some “improvement” made upon the land by asquatter; but whether the squatter still lived upon it, he could not tell. “At all events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise thepre-emption right, and of course must move off.” So spoke the land agent. This would answer admirably. Although my Texan experience had constituted me a tolerable woodsman, it had not made me a woodcutter; and the clearing of the squatter, however small it might be, would serve as a beginning. I congratulated myself on my good luck; and, without further parley, parted with my scrip—receiving in return the necessary documents, that constituted me the legal owner and lord of the soil of Section 9. The only additional information the agent could afford me was: that my new purchase was all “heavily timbered,” with the exception before referred to; that the township in which it was situated was called Swampville; and that the section itself was known as “Holt’s Clearing”—from the name, it was supposed, of the squatter who had made the “improvement.”With this intelligence in my head, and the title-deeds in my pocket, I took leave of the friendly official; who, at parting, politely wished me “a pleasant time of it on my new plantation!”
The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was followed by an extensivedébandement, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into their scabbards—some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of freedom, calumniously called “filibustering;” others perhaps destined never to be drawn again. Using a figurative expression, not a few were converted into spades; and in thispacificfashion, carried to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean—there to delve for Californian gold—while still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idleness. A three years’ campaign under the sultry skies of Mexico—drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms of the American youth—had satisfied the ambition of most. It was only those who arrived late upon the field—too late to pluck a laurel—who would have prolonged the strife.
The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield—ci-devantcaptain of a corps of “rangers”—was not one of the last mentioned. With myself, as with many others, the great Mexican campaign was but the continuation of the little war—la petite guerre—that had long held an intermittent existence upon the borders of Texas, and in which we had borne part; and the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of Anahuac, constituted a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time. For my part, notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, I was tired of the toils of war, and really desired a “spell” of peace: during which I might indulge in thedolce far niente, and obtain for my wearied spirit a respite of repose. My wishes were in similitude with those of the poet, who longed for “a lodge in some vast wilderness—some boundless contiguity of shade;” or perhaps, more akin to those of that other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the “desert as a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!” In truth, I felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best intentions. A phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance that offered opposition to my will: “want of the wherewith to support a wife.”
I had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a “dwelling in the desert” cannot be maintained without expense; and that however pure the desert air, thefairest“spirit” would require something more substantial to live upon. Under this prudential view of the case, marriage was altogether out of the question. We, thedébandes, were dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements being a piece of “land scrip,” good for the number of acres upon the face of it—to be selected from “government land,” wherever the holder might choose to “locate.” The scrip was for greater or less amount, according to the term of the receiver’s service. Mine represented a “section” of six hundred and forty acres—worth in ordinary times, a dollar and quarter per acre; but just then—on account of the market being flooded by similar paper—reduced to less than half its value. With this magnificent “bounty” was I rewarded for services, that perhaps—some day—might be—never mind!—thank heaven for blessing me with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment! This bit of scrip then—a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and through the smoke of more than one red fray—a true rifle, that I had myself carried equally as far—a pair of Colt’s pistols—and a steel “Toledo,” taken at the storming of Chapultepec—constituted the bulk of my available property. Add to this, a remnant of my last month’s pay—in truth, not enough to provide me with that much coveted article, acivilian’s suit: in proof of which, my old undress-frock, with its yellow spread-eagle buttons, clung to my shoulders like a second shirt of Nessus. The vanity of wearing a uniform, that may have once been felt, was long ago threadbare as the coat itself; and yet I was not wanting in friends, who fancied that it might still exist! How little understood they the real state of the case, and how much did they misconstrue myinvoluntarymotives!
It was just to escape from such unpleasant associations, that I held on to my “scrip.” Most of my brother-officers had sold theirs for a “song,” and spent the proceeds upon a “supper.” In relation to mine, I had other views than parting with it to the greedy speculators. It promised me that very wilderness-home I was in search of; and, having no prospect of procuring a fair spirit for my “minister,” I determined to “locate” without one.
I was at the time staying in Tennessee—the guest of a campaigning comrade and still older friend. He was grandson of that gallant leader, who, with a small band of only forty families, ventured three hundred miles through the heart of the “bloody ground” and founded Nashville upon the bold bluffs of an almost unknown river! From the lips of their descendants I had heard so many thrilling tales of adventures, experienced by this pioneer band, that Tennessee had become, in my fancy a region of romance. Other associations had led me to love this hospitable and chivalric state; and I resolved, that, within its boundaries, I should make my home. A visit to the Land-office of Nashville ended in my selection of Section Number 9, Township —, as my future plantation. It was represented to me as a fertile spot—situated in the “Western Reserve”—near the banks of the beautiful Obion, and not far above the confluence of this river with the Mississippi. The official believed there had been some “improvement” made upon the land by asquatter; but whether the squatter still lived upon it, he could not tell. “At all events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise thepre-emption right, and of course must move off.” So spoke the land agent. This would answer admirably. Although my Texan experience had constituted me a tolerable woodsman, it had not made me a woodcutter; and the clearing of the squatter, however small it might be, would serve as a beginning. I congratulated myself on my good luck; and, without further parley, parted with my scrip—receiving in return the necessary documents, that constituted me the legal owner and lord of the soil of Section 9. The only additional information the agent could afford me was: that my new purchase was all “heavily timbered,” with the exception before referred to; that the township in which it was situated was called Swampville; and that the section itself was known as “Holt’s Clearing”—from the name, it was supposed, of the squatter who had made the “improvement.”
With this intelligence in my head, and the title-deeds in my pocket, I took leave of the friendly official; who, at parting, politely wished me “a pleasant time of it on my new plantation!”
Chapter Nine.Friendly Advice.On returning to the house of my friend, I informed him of my purchase; and was pleased to find that he approved of it. “You can’t be taken in,” said he, “by land upon the Obion. From what I have heard of it, it is one of the most fertile spots in Tennessee. Moreover, as you are fond of hunting, you’ll find game in abundance. The black bear, and even the panther—or ‘painter,’ as our backwoodsmen have it—are still common in the Obion bottom; and indeed, all throughout the forests of the Reserve.”“I’m rejoiced to hear it.”“No doubt,” continued my friend, with a smile, “you may shoot deer from your own door; or trap wolves and wild-cats at the entrance to your hen-roost.”“Good!”“O yes—though I can’t promise that you will see anything ofVenusin the woods, you may enjoy to your heart’s content the noble art ofvenerie. The Obion bottom is a very paradise for hunters. It was it that gave birth to the celebrated Crockett.”“On that account it will be all the more interesting to me; and, from what you say, it is just the sort of place I should have chosen tosquatupon.”“Bythe by,” interrupted my friend, looking a little grave as he spoke, “your making use of that familiar phrase, recalls the circumstance you mentioned just now. Did I understand you to say, there was asquatteron the land?”“Therewasone—so the agent has told me; but whether he be stillsquattedthere, the official could not say.”“Rather awkward, if he be,” rejoined my friend, in a sort of musing soliloquy; while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept pulling his “goatee” to its full length.“In what way awkward?” I asked in some surprise. “How canthatsignify?”“A great deal. These squatters are queer fellows—uglycustomers to deal with—especially when you come to turn them out of their house and home, as they consider it. It is true, they have thepre-emption right—that is, they may purchase, if they please, and send you to seek a location elsewhere; but this is a privilege those gentry rarely please to indulge in—being universally too poor to purchase.”“What then?”“Their motto is, for ‘him to keep who can.’ The old adage, ‘possession being nine points of the law,’ is, in the squatter’s code, no dead-letter, I can assure you.”“Do you mean, that the fellow might refuse to turn out?”“It depends a good deal on what sort of a fellow he is. They are not all alike. If he should chance to be one of the obstinate and pugnacious kind, you are likely enough to have trouble with him.”“But surely the law—”“Will aid you in ousting him—that’s what you were going to say?”“I should expect so—in Tennessee, at all events.”“And you would be disappointed. In almost any other part of the state, youmightrely upon legal assistance; but, I fear, that about Swampville you will find society not very different from that you have encountered on the borders of Texas; and you know how little help the law could afford youthere, in the enforcement of such a claim?”“Then I must take the law into my own hands,” rejoined I, falling into very old-fashioned phraseology—for I was beginning to feel indignant at the very idea of this prospective difficulty. “No, Warfield,” replied my sober friend, “do not take that course; I know you are not the man to bescaredout of your rights; but, in the present case, prudence is the proper course to follow.—Your squatter, if there be one—it is to be hoped that, like many of our grand cities, he has only an existence on the map—but if there should be a real live animal of this description on the ground, he will be almost certain to have neighbours—some half-dozen of his own kidney—living at greater or less distances around him. They are not usually of a clannish disposition; but, in a matter of this kind, they will be as unanimous in their sympathies, and antipathies too, as they would about the butchering of a bear. Turn one of them out by force—either legal or otherwise—and it would be like bringing a hornets’ nest about your ears. Even were you to succeed in so clearing your land, you would find ever afterwards a set of very unpleasant neighbours to live among. I know some cases in point, that occurred nearer home here. In fact, on some wild lands of my own I had an instance of the kind.”“What, then, am I to do? Can you advise me?”“Do as others have often done before you; and who have actually been forced to the course of action I shall advise.Should there be a squatter, and one likely to prove obstinate, approach him as gently as you can, and state your case frankly. You will find this the best mode of treating with these fellows—many of whom have a dash of honour, as well as honesty in their composition. Speak of theimprovementshe has made, and offer him a recompense.”“Ah! friend Blount,” replied I, addressing my kind host by his baptismal name, “it is much easier to listen to your advice than follow it.”“Come, old comrade!” rejoined he, after a momentary pause, “I think I understand you. There need be no concealment between friends, such as we are. Let not that difficulty hinder you from following the course I have recommended. The old general’s property is not all gone yet; and, should you stand in need of a hundred or two, to make asecondpurchase of your plantation, send me word, and—”“Thanks, Blount—thanks! it is just as I should have expected; but I shall not become your debtor for such a purpose. I have been a frontiersman too long to be bullied by a backwoodsman—”“There now, Warfield, just your own passionate self! Nay, you must take my advice. Pray, do not go rashly about it, but act as I have counselled you.”“That will depend upon contingencies. Should Master Holt—for I believe that is my predecessor’s name—should he proveamiable, I may consent to go a little in your debt, and pay him for whatever log-chopping he has done. If otherwise, by the Lady of Guadalupe!—you remember our old Mexican shibboleth—he shall be cleared out of his clearingsans façon. Perhaps we have been wasting words upon an ideal existence! Perhaps there is no squatter after all; or that old Holt has long since ‘gone under’ and only his ghost will be found flitting around the precincts of this disputed territory. Would not that be an interesting companion for my hours of midnight loneliness? A match for the wolves and wild-cats! Ha! ha! ha!”“Well, old comrade; I trust it may turn out no worse. The ghost of a squatter might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than the squatter himself, dispossessed of hissquatment. Notwithstanding this badinage, I know you will act with judgment; and you can count upon my help in the matter, if you should require it.” I grasped the speaker’s hand, to express my gratitude; and the tight pressure returned, told me I was parting with one of the few friends I had in the world.Myimpedimentahad been already packed. They did not need much stowage. A pair of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all my personal property—including the title-deeds of my freehold! My arms I carried upon my person: my sword only being strapped along the saddle. Bidding adieu to my friend, I mounted my noble Arab; and, heading him to the road, commenced journeying towards theWestern Reserve.
On returning to the house of my friend, I informed him of my purchase; and was pleased to find that he approved of it. “You can’t be taken in,” said he, “by land upon the Obion. From what I have heard of it, it is one of the most fertile spots in Tennessee. Moreover, as you are fond of hunting, you’ll find game in abundance. The black bear, and even the panther—or ‘painter,’ as our backwoodsmen have it—are still common in the Obion bottom; and indeed, all throughout the forests of the Reserve.”
“I’m rejoiced to hear it.”
“No doubt,” continued my friend, with a smile, “you may shoot deer from your own door; or trap wolves and wild-cats at the entrance to your hen-roost.”
“Good!”
“O yes—though I can’t promise that you will see anything ofVenusin the woods, you may enjoy to your heart’s content the noble art ofvenerie. The Obion bottom is a very paradise for hunters. It was it that gave birth to the celebrated Crockett.”
“On that account it will be all the more interesting to me; and, from what you say, it is just the sort of place I should have chosen tosquatupon.”
“Bythe by,” interrupted my friend, looking a little grave as he spoke, “your making use of that familiar phrase, recalls the circumstance you mentioned just now. Did I understand you to say, there was asquatteron the land?”
“Therewasone—so the agent has told me; but whether he be stillsquattedthere, the official could not say.”
“Rather awkward, if he be,” rejoined my friend, in a sort of musing soliloquy; while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept pulling his “goatee” to its full length.
“In what way awkward?” I asked in some surprise. “How canthatsignify?”
“A great deal. These squatters are queer fellows—uglycustomers to deal with—especially when you come to turn them out of their house and home, as they consider it. It is true, they have thepre-emption right—that is, they may purchase, if they please, and send you to seek a location elsewhere; but this is a privilege those gentry rarely please to indulge in—being universally too poor to purchase.”
“What then?”
“Their motto is, for ‘him to keep who can.’ The old adage, ‘possession being nine points of the law,’ is, in the squatter’s code, no dead-letter, I can assure you.”
“Do you mean, that the fellow might refuse to turn out?”
“It depends a good deal on what sort of a fellow he is. They are not all alike. If he should chance to be one of the obstinate and pugnacious kind, you are likely enough to have trouble with him.”
“But surely the law—”
“Will aid you in ousting him—that’s what you were going to say?”
“I should expect so—in Tennessee, at all events.”
“And you would be disappointed. In almost any other part of the state, youmightrely upon legal assistance; but, I fear, that about Swampville you will find society not very different from that you have encountered on the borders of Texas; and you know how little help the law could afford youthere, in the enforcement of such a claim?”
“Then I must take the law into my own hands,” rejoined I, falling into very old-fashioned phraseology—for I was beginning to feel indignant at the very idea of this prospective difficulty. “No, Warfield,” replied my sober friend, “do not take that course; I know you are not the man to bescaredout of your rights; but, in the present case, prudence is the proper course to follow.—Your squatter, if there be one—it is to be hoped that, like many of our grand cities, he has only an existence on the map—but if there should be a real live animal of this description on the ground, he will be almost certain to have neighbours—some half-dozen of his own kidney—living at greater or less distances around him. They are not usually of a clannish disposition; but, in a matter of this kind, they will be as unanimous in their sympathies, and antipathies too, as they would about the butchering of a bear. Turn one of them out by force—either legal or otherwise—and it would be like bringing a hornets’ nest about your ears. Even were you to succeed in so clearing your land, you would find ever afterwards a set of very unpleasant neighbours to live among. I know some cases in point, that occurred nearer home here. In fact, on some wild lands of my own I had an instance of the kind.”
“What, then, am I to do? Can you advise me?”
“Do as others have often done before you; and who have actually been forced to the course of action I shall advise.Should there be a squatter, and one likely to prove obstinate, approach him as gently as you can, and state your case frankly. You will find this the best mode of treating with these fellows—many of whom have a dash of honour, as well as honesty in their composition. Speak of theimprovementshe has made, and offer him a recompense.”
“Ah! friend Blount,” replied I, addressing my kind host by his baptismal name, “it is much easier to listen to your advice than follow it.”
“Come, old comrade!” rejoined he, after a momentary pause, “I think I understand you. There need be no concealment between friends, such as we are. Let not that difficulty hinder you from following the course I have recommended. The old general’s property is not all gone yet; and, should you stand in need of a hundred or two, to make asecondpurchase of your plantation, send me word, and—”
“Thanks, Blount—thanks! it is just as I should have expected; but I shall not become your debtor for such a purpose. I have been a frontiersman too long to be bullied by a backwoodsman—”
“There now, Warfield, just your own passionate self! Nay, you must take my advice. Pray, do not go rashly about it, but act as I have counselled you.”
“That will depend upon contingencies. Should Master Holt—for I believe that is my predecessor’s name—should he proveamiable, I may consent to go a little in your debt, and pay him for whatever log-chopping he has done. If otherwise, by the Lady of Guadalupe!—you remember our old Mexican shibboleth—he shall be cleared out of his clearingsans façon. Perhaps we have been wasting words upon an ideal existence! Perhaps there is no squatter after all; or that old Holt has long since ‘gone under’ and only his ghost will be found flitting around the precincts of this disputed territory. Would not that be an interesting companion for my hours of midnight loneliness? A match for the wolves and wild-cats! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Well, old comrade; I trust it may turn out no worse. The ghost of a squatter might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than the squatter himself, dispossessed of hissquatment. Notwithstanding this badinage, I know you will act with judgment; and you can count upon my help in the matter, if you should require it.” I grasped the speaker’s hand, to express my gratitude; and the tight pressure returned, told me I was parting with one of the few friends I had in the world.
Myimpedimentahad been already packed. They did not need much stowage. A pair of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all my personal property—including the title-deeds of my freehold! My arms I carried upon my person: my sword only being strapped along the saddle. Bidding adieu to my friend, I mounted my noble Arab; and, heading him to the road, commenced journeying towards theWestern Reserve.
Chapter Ten.A Classic Land.Between Nashville and Swampville extends a distance of more than a hundred miles—just three days’ travel on horseback. For the first ten miles—to Harpeth River—I found an excellent road, graded and macadamised, running most of the way between fenced plantations. My next point wasParis; and forty miles further on, I arrived inDresden! So far as the nomenclature was concerned, I might have fancied myself travelling upon the continent of Europe. By going a little to the right, I might have entered Asia: since I was told ofSmyrnaandTroybeing at no great distance in that direction; and by proceeding in a south-westerly course, I should have passed throughDenmark, and landed atMemphis—certainly an extensive tour within the short space of three days! Ugh! those ugly names! What hedge-schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely and profusely over this lovely land? Whip the wretch with rattlesnakes! Memphis indeed!—as if Memphis with its monolithic statues needed commemoration on the banks of the Mississippi! A new Osiris—a new Sphinx, “half horse, half alligator, with a sprinkling of the snapping turtle.” At every forking of the roads, whenever I inquired my way, in my ears rang those classic homonyms, till my soul was sick of sounds. “Swampville” was euphony, and “Mud Creek”softmusic in comparison! Beyond Dresden, the titles became more appropriate and much more rare. There were long stretches having no names at all: for the simple reason, that there were noplacesto bear them. The numerous creeks, however, had been baptised; and evidently by the backwoodsmen themselves, as the titles indicated. “Deer Creek” and “Mud”—“Coon” and “Cat”—“Big” and “Little Forky”—told that the pioneers, who first explored the hydrographic system of the Western Reserve, were not heavily laden with classic lore; and a pity it is that pedantry should be permitted to alter the simple, but expressive and appropriate, appellatives by them bestowed. Unfortunately, the system is followed up to this hour by the Fremonts and other pseudo-explorers of the farthest west. The soft and harmonious sound of Indian and Spanish nomenclature—as well as the more striking titles bestowed by the trappers—are rapidly being obliterated from the maps; their places to be supplied—at the instigation of a fulsome flattery—by the often vulgar names of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads of the employingbureau.“I know the old general will be pleased—perhaps reciprocate the compliment in his next despatch—if I call this beautiful river ‘Smith.’”“How the secretary will smile, when he sees his name immortalised upon my map, by a lake never to be dried up, and which hereafter is to be known by the elegant and appropriate appellation of ‘Jones!’” Under just such influence are these absurd titles bestowed; and the consequence is, that amid the romantic defiles of the Rocky Mountains, we have our ears jarred by a jumble of petty and most inappropriate names—Smiths, Joneses, Jameses, and the like—while, from the sublime peaks of the Cascade range, we have “Adams,” “Jackson,” “Jefferson,” “Madison,” and “Washington,” overlooking the limitless waters of the Pacific. This last series we could excuse. The possession of high qualities, or the achievement of great deeds, ennobles even a common name; and all these have been stamped with the true patent. In the associated thoughts that cling around them, we take no note of the sound—whether it be harsh or harmonious. But that is another question, and must not hinder us from entering our protest against the nomenclature of Smith, Jones, and Robinson!Beyond Dresden, my road could no longer be termed a road. It was a mere trace, or lane, cut out in the forest—with here and there a tree “blazed,” to indicate the direction. As I neared the point of my destination, I became naturally curious to learn something about it—that is, about Swampville—since it was evident that this was to be thepoint d’appuiof my future efforts at colonisation—my depôt and port entry. I should have inquired had I found any one to inquirefrom; but, for ten miles along the road, I encountered not a human creature. Then only a “darkey” with an ox-cart loaded with wood; but, despairing of information from such a source, I declined detaining him. The only intelligence I was able to draw from the negro was that; “da ‘city’ o’ Swampville, massr, he lay ’bout ten mile furrer down da crik.” The “ten mile down da crik” proved to be long ones; but throughout the whole distance I saw not a creature, until I had arrived within a mile or so of the “settlement!”I had been already apprised that Swampville was a new place. Its fame had not yet reached the eastern world; and even in Nashville was it unknown, except, perhaps, to the Land-Office. It was only after entering the Reserve, that I became fully assured of its existence; and there it was known as a “settlement” rather than a “city.” For all that, Swampville proved to be not so contemptible a place; and the reason I had encountered so little traffic, while approaching it, was that I had been coming in thewrong direction—in other words, I had approached itfrom behind.Swampville was in reality ariverinetown. To it the east was abackcountry; and its front face was to the west. In that direction lay its world, and the ways that opened to it. Log-shanties began to line the road—standing thicker as I advanced; while at intervals, appeared a “frame-house” of more pretentious architecture. In front of one of these—the largest of the collection—there stood a tall post; or rather a tree with its top cut off, and divested of its lower branches. On the head of this was a “martin-box”; and underneath the dwelling of the birds, a broad framed board, on which was legible the word “Hotel.” A portrait of Jackson, done in “continental uniform,” embellished the face of the board. The sign seemed little appropriate: for in the harsh features of “Old Hickory” there was but slight promise of hospitality. It was no use going farther. The “Jackson Hotel” was evidently the “head inn” of the place; and without pause or parley, I dismounted at its door.I was too well used to western habits to wait either for welcome or assistance—too careful of my Arab to trust him to hands unskilled—and I did the unsaddling for myself. A half-naked negro gave me some slight help in the “grooming” process—all the while exhibiting his ivories and the whites of his eyes in an expression of ill-concealed astonishment, produced apparently by the presence of my uniform coat—to the “darkey,” no doubt, an uncommon apparition.
Between Nashville and Swampville extends a distance of more than a hundred miles—just three days’ travel on horseback. For the first ten miles—to Harpeth River—I found an excellent road, graded and macadamised, running most of the way between fenced plantations. My next point wasParis; and forty miles further on, I arrived inDresden! So far as the nomenclature was concerned, I might have fancied myself travelling upon the continent of Europe. By going a little to the right, I might have entered Asia: since I was told ofSmyrnaandTroybeing at no great distance in that direction; and by proceeding in a south-westerly course, I should have passed throughDenmark, and landed atMemphis—certainly an extensive tour within the short space of three days! Ugh! those ugly names! What hedge-schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely and profusely over this lovely land? Whip the wretch with rattlesnakes! Memphis indeed!—as if Memphis with its monolithic statues needed commemoration on the banks of the Mississippi! A new Osiris—a new Sphinx, “half horse, half alligator, with a sprinkling of the snapping turtle.” At every forking of the roads, whenever I inquired my way, in my ears rang those classic homonyms, till my soul was sick of sounds. “Swampville” was euphony, and “Mud Creek”softmusic in comparison! Beyond Dresden, the titles became more appropriate and much more rare. There were long stretches having no names at all: for the simple reason, that there were noplacesto bear them. The numerous creeks, however, had been baptised; and evidently by the backwoodsmen themselves, as the titles indicated. “Deer Creek” and “Mud”—“Coon” and “Cat”—“Big” and “Little Forky”—told that the pioneers, who first explored the hydrographic system of the Western Reserve, were not heavily laden with classic lore; and a pity it is that pedantry should be permitted to alter the simple, but expressive and appropriate, appellatives by them bestowed. Unfortunately, the system is followed up to this hour by the Fremonts and other pseudo-explorers of the farthest west. The soft and harmonious sound of Indian and Spanish nomenclature—as well as the more striking titles bestowed by the trappers—are rapidly being obliterated from the maps; their places to be supplied—at the instigation of a fulsome flattery—by the often vulgar names of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads of the employingbureau.
“I know the old general will be pleased—perhaps reciprocate the compliment in his next despatch—if I call this beautiful river ‘Smith.’”
“How the secretary will smile, when he sees his name immortalised upon my map, by a lake never to be dried up, and which hereafter is to be known by the elegant and appropriate appellation of ‘Jones!’” Under just such influence are these absurd titles bestowed; and the consequence is, that amid the romantic defiles of the Rocky Mountains, we have our ears jarred by a jumble of petty and most inappropriate names—Smiths, Joneses, Jameses, and the like—while, from the sublime peaks of the Cascade range, we have “Adams,” “Jackson,” “Jefferson,” “Madison,” and “Washington,” overlooking the limitless waters of the Pacific. This last series we could excuse. The possession of high qualities, or the achievement of great deeds, ennobles even a common name; and all these have been stamped with the true patent. In the associated thoughts that cling around them, we take no note of the sound—whether it be harsh or harmonious. But that is another question, and must not hinder us from entering our protest against the nomenclature of Smith, Jones, and Robinson!
Beyond Dresden, my road could no longer be termed a road. It was a mere trace, or lane, cut out in the forest—with here and there a tree “blazed,” to indicate the direction. As I neared the point of my destination, I became naturally curious to learn something about it—that is, about Swampville—since it was evident that this was to be thepoint d’appuiof my future efforts at colonisation—my depôt and port entry. I should have inquired had I found any one to inquirefrom; but, for ten miles along the road, I encountered not a human creature. Then only a “darkey” with an ox-cart loaded with wood; but, despairing of information from such a source, I declined detaining him. The only intelligence I was able to draw from the negro was that; “da ‘city’ o’ Swampville, massr, he lay ’bout ten mile furrer down da crik.” The “ten mile down da crik” proved to be long ones; but throughout the whole distance I saw not a creature, until I had arrived within a mile or so of the “settlement!”
I had been already apprised that Swampville was a new place. Its fame had not yet reached the eastern world; and even in Nashville was it unknown, except, perhaps, to the Land-Office. It was only after entering the Reserve, that I became fully assured of its existence; and there it was known as a “settlement” rather than a “city.” For all that, Swampville proved to be not so contemptible a place; and the reason I had encountered so little traffic, while approaching it, was that I had been coming in thewrong direction—in other words, I had approached itfrom behind.
Swampville was in reality ariverinetown. To it the east was abackcountry; and its front face was to the west. In that direction lay its world, and the ways that opened to it. Log-shanties began to line the road—standing thicker as I advanced; while at intervals, appeared a “frame-house” of more pretentious architecture. In front of one of these—the largest of the collection—there stood a tall post; or rather a tree with its top cut off, and divested of its lower branches. On the head of this was a “martin-box”; and underneath the dwelling of the birds, a broad framed board, on which was legible the word “Hotel.” A portrait of Jackson, done in “continental uniform,” embellished the face of the board. The sign seemed little appropriate: for in the harsh features of “Old Hickory” there was but slight promise of hospitality. It was no use going farther. The “Jackson Hotel” was evidently the “head inn” of the place; and without pause or parley, I dismounted at its door.
I was too well used to western habits to wait either for welcome or assistance—too careful of my Arab to trust him to hands unskilled—and I did the unsaddling for myself. A half-naked negro gave me some slight help in the “grooming” process—all the while exhibiting his ivories and the whites of his eyes in an expression of ill-concealed astonishment, produced apparently by the presence of my uniform coat—to the “darkey,” no doubt, an uncommon apparition.
Chapter Eleven.The “Jackson Hotel.”I found that I had arrived in the very “nick of time:” for just as I returned from the stable, and was entering the verandah of the hotel, I heard the bell calling its guests to supper. There was no ado made about me: neither landlord or waiter met me with a word; and following the stream of “boarders” or travellers who had arrived before me, I took my seat at the commontable-d’hôte.Had the scene been new to me, I might have found food for reflection, or observed circumstances to astonish me. But I had been long accustomed to mix in as motley a throng, as that which now surrounded the table of the Swampville hotel. A supper-table, encircled by blanket and “jeans” coats—by buckskin blouses and red-flannel shirts—by men without coats at all—was nothing strange to me; nor was it strange either to find thesebizarrecostumes interspersed among others of fashionable cut and finest cloth. Black broad-cloth frocks, and satin or velvet vests, were quite common. Individuals thus attired formed a majority of the guests—for in young settlements the “hotel” or “tavern” is also a boarding-house, where the spruce “storekeepers” and better class of clerks take their meals—usually sleeping in the office or store.In glancing around the table, I saw many old “types,” though not one face that I had ever seen before. There was one, however, that soon attracted my attention, and fixed it. It wasnota lady’s face, as you may be imagining; though there were present some of that sex—the landlord’s helpmate who presided over the coffee-pot, with some three or four younger specimens of the backwoods fair—her daughters and nieces. All, however, were absolutely without attraction of any sort; and I somewhat bitterly remembered themotof double meaning, with which my friend had entertained me at parting.Venus was certainly not visible at the Swampvilletable-d’hôte: for the presiding divinity was a perfect Hecate; and her attendant damsels could have found no place in the train of the Cytherean goddess. No—the face that interested me was neither that of a female, nor in any way feminine. It was the face of aman; and that in the most emphatic sense of the word. He was a young man—apparently about four or five and twenty—and costumed as a backwoods hunter; that is, he wore a buckskin hunting-shirt, leggings, and mocassins—with bullet-pouch and powder-horn suspended over his shoulder, and hunting-knife sheathed in his belt. The coon-skin cap, hanging against the adjacent wall, was his head-dress: I had seen him place it there, before taking his seat at the supper-table. With the personal appearance of this young man the eye was at once satisfied. A figure of correct contour, features of noble outline, a face expressive of fine mental qualities—were the more salient characteristics that struck me at the first glance. Regarding the portrait more particularly, other details became manifest: round hazel eyes, with well-developed lashes; brows finely arched; a magnificent shock of nut-brown curling hair; a small, well-formed mouth, with white, regular teeth—all contributed to the creation of what might be termed a type of manly beauty. This beauty appeared in a somewhat neglected garb. Art might have improved it; but it was evident that none had been employed, or even thought of. It was a clear case of “beauty unadorned;” and the possessor of it appeared altogether unconscious of its existence. I need not add that this mental characteristic, on the part of the young man, heightened the grace of his personal charms.Why this young fellow fixed my attention, I can scarcely tell. His costume was by no means uncommon: though it was the only one of the kind there present. It was not that, however, nor yet his fine personal appearance, that interested me; but rather something I had observed in his bearing and manner. As we were seated opposite each other, near the foot of the long table, I had an excellent opportunity of observing him. Notwithstanding his undoubted good looks—sufficiently striking to have filled the possessor with vanity—his deportment was marked by a modest reserve, that proved him either unaware of his personal advantages, or without any conceit in them. By the glances occasionally cast towards him, from the opposite end of the table, I could perceive that “Miss Alvina” and “Miss Car’line” were not insensible to his attractions. Neither, however, had reason to congratulate herself upon any reciprocity of her favouring glances. The young man either did not observe, or, at all events, took no notice of them. The melancholy tinge pervading his features remained altogether unaltered. Equally impassible did he appear under the jealous looks of some three or four smart young storekeepers—influenced, no doubt, by tender relations existing between them and the aforementioned damsels, whose slyespièglerieof the handsome hunter could not have escaped their observation.The young man appeared to be be ratherfriendless, than unknown. I could perceive that almost all of the company were acquainted with him; but that most of them—especially the gentlemen in broad-cloth—affected an air of superiority over him. No one talked much to him: for his reserved manner did not invite conversation; but when one of these did address a few words to him, it was in the style usually adopted by the well-to-do citizen, holding converse with his less affluent neighbour. The young fellow was evidently not one to be sneered at or insulted; but, for all that, I could perceive that the broad-cloth gentry did not quite regard him as an equal. Perhaps this may be explained by the hypothesis that he waspoor, and, indeed, it did not require much penetration to perceive that such was the reality. The hunting-shirt, though once a handsome one, was no longer new. On the contrary, it was considerably “scuffed;” and the green baize wrappers upon his limbs were faded to a greenish brown. Other points proclaimed a light purse—perhaps far lighter than the heart of him who carried it—if I was to judge by the expression of his countenance.Notwithstanding all this, the young hunter was evidently an object of interest—whether friendly or hostile—and might have been thecynosureof the supper-table, but for my undress-frock and spread-eagle buttons. These, however, claimed some share of the curiosity of Swampville; and I was conscious of being the object of a portion of its surveillance. I knew not what ideas they could have had about me, and cared as little: but, judging from the looks of the men—the broad-cloth gentlemen in particular—I was impressed with a suspicion that I was neither admired nor welcome. In the eyes of your “sovereign citizen,” the mere military man is not the hero that he is elsewhere; and he must show something more than a uniform coat, to recommend himself to their suffrages. I was conceited enough to imagine that Miss Alvina, and hervis-à-vis, Miss Car’line, did not look altogether unfriendly; but the handsome face and magnificent curls of the young hunter were beside me; and it was no use taking the field against such a rival. I was not jealous of him, however, nor he of me. On the contrary, of all the men present, he appeared most inclined to be courteous to me—as was evinced by his once or twice pushing within my reach those delicate dishes, distributed atverylong distances over the table. I felt an incipient friendship for this young man, which he appeared to reciprocate. He saw that I was a stranger; and notwithstanding the pretentious fashion of my dress, perhaps he noticed my well-worn coat, and conjectured that I might be as poor and friendless as himself. If it was to this conjecture I was indebted for his sympathies, his instincts were not far astray.
I found that I had arrived in the very “nick of time:” for just as I returned from the stable, and was entering the verandah of the hotel, I heard the bell calling its guests to supper. There was no ado made about me: neither landlord or waiter met me with a word; and following the stream of “boarders” or travellers who had arrived before me, I took my seat at the commontable-d’hôte.
Had the scene been new to me, I might have found food for reflection, or observed circumstances to astonish me. But I had been long accustomed to mix in as motley a throng, as that which now surrounded the table of the Swampville hotel. A supper-table, encircled by blanket and “jeans” coats—by buckskin blouses and red-flannel shirts—by men without coats at all—was nothing strange to me; nor was it strange either to find thesebizarrecostumes interspersed among others of fashionable cut and finest cloth. Black broad-cloth frocks, and satin or velvet vests, were quite common. Individuals thus attired formed a majority of the guests—for in young settlements the “hotel” or “tavern” is also a boarding-house, where the spruce “storekeepers” and better class of clerks take their meals—usually sleeping in the office or store.
In glancing around the table, I saw many old “types,” though not one face that I had ever seen before. There was one, however, that soon attracted my attention, and fixed it. It wasnota lady’s face, as you may be imagining; though there were present some of that sex—the landlord’s helpmate who presided over the coffee-pot, with some three or four younger specimens of the backwoods fair—her daughters and nieces. All, however, were absolutely without attraction of any sort; and I somewhat bitterly remembered themotof double meaning, with which my friend had entertained me at parting.
Venus was certainly not visible at the Swampvilletable-d’hôte: for the presiding divinity was a perfect Hecate; and her attendant damsels could have found no place in the train of the Cytherean goddess. No—the face that interested me was neither that of a female, nor in any way feminine. It was the face of aman; and that in the most emphatic sense of the word. He was a young man—apparently about four or five and twenty—and costumed as a backwoods hunter; that is, he wore a buckskin hunting-shirt, leggings, and mocassins—with bullet-pouch and powder-horn suspended over his shoulder, and hunting-knife sheathed in his belt. The coon-skin cap, hanging against the adjacent wall, was his head-dress: I had seen him place it there, before taking his seat at the supper-table. With the personal appearance of this young man the eye was at once satisfied. A figure of correct contour, features of noble outline, a face expressive of fine mental qualities—were the more salient characteristics that struck me at the first glance. Regarding the portrait more particularly, other details became manifest: round hazel eyes, with well-developed lashes; brows finely arched; a magnificent shock of nut-brown curling hair; a small, well-formed mouth, with white, regular teeth—all contributed to the creation of what might be termed a type of manly beauty. This beauty appeared in a somewhat neglected garb. Art might have improved it; but it was evident that none had been employed, or even thought of. It was a clear case of “beauty unadorned;” and the possessor of it appeared altogether unconscious of its existence. I need not add that this mental characteristic, on the part of the young man, heightened the grace of his personal charms.
Why this young fellow fixed my attention, I can scarcely tell. His costume was by no means uncommon: though it was the only one of the kind there present. It was not that, however, nor yet his fine personal appearance, that interested me; but rather something I had observed in his bearing and manner. As we were seated opposite each other, near the foot of the long table, I had an excellent opportunity of observing him. Notwithstanding his undoubted good looks—sufficiently striking to have filled the possessor with vanity—his deportment was marked by a modest reserve, that proved him either unaware of his personal advantages, or without any conceit in them. By the glances occasionally cast towards him, from the opposite end of the table, I could perceive that “Miss Alvina” and “Miss Car’line” were not insensible to his attractions. Neither, however, had reason to congratulate herself upon any reciprocity of her favouring glances. The young man either did not observe, or, at all events, took no notice of them. The melancholy tinge pervading his features remained altogether unaltered. Equally impassible did he appear under the jealous looks of some three or four smart young storekeepers—influenced, no doubt, by tender relations existing between them and the aforementioned damsels, whose slyespièglerieof the handsome hunter could not have escaped their observation.
The young man appeared to be be ratherfriendless, than unknown. I could perceive that almost all of the company were acquainted with him; but that most of them—especially the gentlemen in broad-cloth—affected an air of superiority over him. No one talked much to him: for his reserved manner did not invite conversation; but when one of these did address a few words to him, it was in the style usually adopted by the well-to-do citizen, holding converse with his less affluent neighbour. The young fellow was evidently not one to be sneered at or insulted; but, for all that, I could perceive that the broad-cloth gentry did not quite regard him as an equal. Perhaps this may be explained by the hypothesis that he waspoor, and, indeed, it did not require much penetration to perceive that such was the reality. The hunting-shirt, though once a handsome one, was no longer new. On the contrary, it was considerably “scuffed;” and the green baize wrappers upon his limbs were faded to a greenish brown. Other points proclaimed a light purse—perhaps far lighter than the heart of him who carried it—if I was to judge by the expression of his countenance.
Notwithstanding all this, the young hunter was evidently an object of interest—whether friendly or hostile—and might have been thecynosureof the supper-table, but for my undress-frock and spread-eagle buttons. These, however, claimed some share of the curiosity of Swampville; and I was conscious of being the object of a portion of its surveillance. I knew not what ideas they could have had about me, and cared as little: but, judging from the looks of the men—the broad-cloth gentlemen in particular—I was impressed with a suspicion that I was neither admired nor welcome. In the eyes of your “sovereign citizen,” the mere military man is not the hero that he is elsewhere; and he must show something more than a uniform coat, to recommend himself to their suffrages. I was conceited enough to imagine that Miss Alvina, and hervis-à-vis, Miss Car’line, did not look altogether unfriendly; but the handsome face and magnificent curls of the young hunter were beside me; and it was no use taking the field against such a rival. I was not jealous of him, however, nor he of me. On the contrary, of all the men present, he appeared most inclined to be courteous to me—as was evinced by his once or twice pushing within my reach those delicate dishes, distributed atverylong distances over the table. I felt an incipient friendship for this young man, which he appeared to reciprocate. He saw that I was a stranger; and notwithstanding the pretentious fashion of my dress, perhaps he noticed my well-worn coat, and conjectured that I might be as poor and friendless as himself. If it was to this conjecture I was indebted for his sympathies, his instincts were not far astray.
Chapter Twelve.Colonel Kipp.As soon as I had swallowed supper, I hastened to place myselfen rapportwith the landlord of the hostelry—whose name I had ascertained to be “Kipp,” or “ColonelKipp,” as his guests called him. Though I had no intention of proceeding farther that night, I was desirous of obtaining some information, about the whereabout of my new estate, with such other facts in relation to it, as might be collected in Swampville. The landlord would be the most likely person to give me the desired intelligence. This distinguished individual I encountered soon after in the verandah—seated upon a raw-hide rocking-chair, with his feet elevated some six inches above the level of his nose, and resting across the balustrade of the railing—beyond which his huge horse-skin boots protruded a full half yard into the street. But that I had been already made aware of the fact, I should have had some difficulty in reconciling the portentous title of “colonel” with the exceedingly unmilitary-looking personage before me—a tall lopsided tobacco-chewer, who, at short intervals, of about half a minute each, projected the juice in copious squirts into the street, sending it clean over the toes of his boots!When I first set eyes upon the colonel, he was in the centre of a circle of tooth-pickers, who had just issued from the supper-room. These were falling off one by one; and, noticing their defection, I waited for an opportunity to speak to the colonel alone. This, after a short time, offered itself.The dignified gentleman took not the slightest notice of me as I approached; nor until I had got so near, as to leave no doubt upon his mind that a conversation was intended. Then, edging slightly round, and drawing in the boots, he made a half-face towards me—still, however, keeping fast to his chair.“The army, sir, I prezoom?” interrogatively began Mr Kipp.“No,” answered I, imitating his laconism of speech. “No!”“I have been in the service. I have just left it.”“Oh—ah! From Mexico, then, I prezoom?”“Yes.”“Business in Swampville?”“Why, yes, Mr Kipp.”“I am usooally calledkurnelhere,” interrupted the backwoodsmilitario, with a bland smile, as if half deprecating the title, and that it was forced upon him.“Of course,” continued he, “you, sir, bein’ a strenger—”“I beg your pardon,ColonelKipp: Iama stranger to yourcity, and of course—”“Don’t signify a dump, sir,” interrupted he, rather good-humouredly, in return for the show of deference I had made, as also, perhaps for my politeness in having styled Swampville a city. “Business in Swampville, you say?”“Yes,” I replied; and, seeing it upon his lips to inquire the nature of my business—which I did not wish to make known just then—I forestalled him by the question: “Do you chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearing?”“Chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearin’?”“Yes; Holt’s Clearing.”“Wal, thereairsuch a place.”“Is it distant?”“If you mean Hick Holt’s Clearin’, it’s a leetle better’n six miles from here. He squats on Mud Crik.”“There’s a squatter upon it, then?”“On Holt’s Clearin’? Wal, I shed rayther say thereair a squatteron’t, an’ no mistake.”“His name is Holt is it not?”“That same individooal.”“Do you think I could procure a guide in Swampville—some one who could show me the way to Holt’s Clearing?”“Do I think so? Possible you might. D’ye see that ar case in the coon-cap?” The speaker looked, rather than pointed, to the young fellow of the buckskin shirt; who, outside the verandah, was now standing by the side of a very sorry-looking steed. I replied in the affirmative. “Wal, I reckon he kin show you the way to Holt’s Clearin’. He’s another o’ them Mud Crik squatters. He’s just catchin’ up his critter to go that way.”This I hailed as a fortunate circumstance. If the young hunter lived near the clearing I was in search of, perhaps he could give me all the information I required; and his frank open countenance led me to believe he would not withhold it. It occurred to me, therefore, to make a slight change in my programme. It was yetearly—for supper in the backwoods is what is elsewhere known as “tea.” The sun was still an hour or so above the horizon. My horse had made but a light journey; and nine miles more would be nothing to him. All at once, then, I altered my intention of sleeping at the hotel; and determined, if the young hunter would accept me as a travelling companion, to proceed along with him to Mud Creek. Whether I should find a bed there, never entered into my calculation. I had my great-sleeved cloak strapped upon the cantle of my saddle; and with that for a covering, and the saddle itself for a pillow, I had made shift on many a night, more tempestuous than that promised to be.I was about turning away to speak to the young man, when I was recalled by an exclamation from the landlord:—“I guess,” said he, in a half-bantering way, “you hain’t told me your business yet?”“No,” I answered deferentially, “I have not.”“What on airth’s takin’ you to Holt’s Clearin’?”“That, Mr Kipp—I beg pardon—ColonelKipp—is a private matter.”“Private and particular, eh?”“Very.”“Oh, then, I guess, you’d better keep it to yourself.”“That is precisely my intention,” I rejoined, turning on my heel, and stepping out of the verandah.The young hunter was just buckling the girth of his saddle. As I approached him, I saw that he was smiling. He had overheard the concluding part of the conversation; and looked as if pleased at the way in which I had bantered the “colonel,” who, as I afterwards learnt from him, was the grand swaggerer of Swampville. A word was sufficient. He at once acceded to my request, frankly, if not in the most elegant phraseology, “I’ll be pleased to show ye the way to Holt’s Clarin’. My own road goes jest that way, till within a squ’ll’s jump o’t.”“Thank you: I shall not keep you waiting.”I re-entered the hotel to pay for my entertainment, and give orders for the saddling of my horse. It was evident that I had offended the landlord by my brusque behaviour. I ascertained this by theamountof my bill, as well as by the fact of being permitted to saddle for myself. Even the naked “nigger,” did not make his appearance at the stable. Not much cared I. I had drawn the girth too often, to be disconcerted by such petty annoyance; and, in five minutes after, I was in the saddle and ready for the road. Having joined my companion in the street, we rode off from the inhospitablecaravanseraiof the Jackson Hotel—leaving its warlike landlord to chew his tobacco, and such reflections as my remarks had given rise to.
As soon as I had swallowed supper, I hastened to place myselfen rapportwith the landlord of the hostelry—whose name I had ascertained to be “Kipp,” or “ColonelKipp,” as his guests called him. Though I had no intention of proceeding farther that night, I was desirous of obtaining some information, about the whereabout of my new estate, with such other facts in relation to it, as might be collected in Swampville. The landlord would be the most likely person to give me the desired intelligence. This distinguished individual I encountered soon after in the verandah—seated upon a raw-hide rocking-chair, with his feet elevated some six inches above the level of his nose, and resting across the balustrade of the railing—beyond which his huge horse-skin boots protruded a full half yard into the street. But that I had been already made aware of the fact, I should have had some difficulty in reconciling the portentous title of “colonel” with the exceedingly unmilitary-looking personage before me—a tall lopsided tobacco-chewer, who, at short intervals, of about half a minute each, projected the juice in copious squirts into the street, sending it clean over the toes of his boots!
When I first set eyes upon the colonel, he was in the centre of a circle of tooth-pickers, who had just issued from the supper-room. These were falling off one by one; and, noticing their defection, I waited for an opportunity to speak to the colonel alone. This, after a short time, offered itself.
The dignified gentleman took not the slightest notice of me as I approached; nor until I had got so near, as to leave no doubt upon his mind that a conversation was intended. Then, edging slightly round, and drawing in the boots, he made a half-face towards me—still, however, keeping fast to his chair.
“The army, sir, I prezoom?” interrogatively began Mr Kipp.
“No,” answered I, imitating his laconism of speech. “No!”
“I have been in the service. I have just left it.”
“Oh—ah! From Mexico, then, I prezoom?”
“Yes.”
“Business in Swampville?”
“Why, yes, Mr Kipp.”
“I am usooally calledkurnelhere,” interrupted the backwoodsmilitario, with a bland smile, as if half deprecating the title, and that it was forced upon him.
“Of course,” continued he, “you, sir, bein’ a strenger—”
“I beg your pardon,ColonelKipp: Iama stranger to yourcity, and of course—”
“Don’t signify a dump, sir,” interrupted he, rather good-humouredly, in return for the show of deference I had made, as also, perhaps for my politeness in having styled Swampville a city. “Business in Swampville, you say?”
“Yes,” I replied; and, seeing it upon his lips to inquire the nature of my business—which I did not wish to make known just then—I forestalled him by the question: “Do you chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearing?”
“Chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearin’?”
“Yes; Holt’s Clearing.”
“Wal, thereairsuch a place.”
“Is it distant?”
“If you mean Hick Holt’s Clearin’, it’s a leetle better’n six miles from here. He squats on Mud Crik.”
“There’s a squatter upon it, then?”
“On Holt’s Clearin’? Wal, I shed rayther say thereair a squatteron’t, an’ no mistake.”
“His name is Holt is it not?”
“That same individooal.”
“Do you think I could procure a guide in Swampville—some one who could show me the way to Holt’s Clearing?”
“Do I think so? Possible you might. D’ye see that ar case in the coon-cap?” The speaker looked, rather than pointed, to the young fellow of the buckskin shirt; who, outside the verandah, was now standing by the side of a very sorry-looking steed. I replied in the affirmative. “Wal, I reckon he kin show you the way to Holt’s Clearin’. He’s another o’ them Mud Crik squatters. He’s just catchin’ up his critter to go that way.”
This I hailed as a fortunate circumstance. If the young hunter lived near the clearing I was in search of, perhaps he could give me all the information I required; and his frank open countenance led me to believe he would not withhold it. It occurred to me, therefore, to make a slight change in my programme. It was yetearly—for supper in the backwoods is what is elsewhere known as “tea.” The sun was still an hour or so above the horizon. My horse had made but a light journey; and nine miles more would be nothing to him. All at once, then, I altered my intention of sleeping at the hotel; and determined, if the young hunter would accept me as a travelling companion, to proceed along with him to Mud Creek. Whether I should find a bed there, never entered into my calculation. I had my great-sleeved cloak strapped upon the cantle of my saddle; and with that for a covering, and the saddle itself for a pillow, I had made shift on many a night, more tempestuous than that promised to be.
I was about turning away to speak to the young man, when I was recalled by an exclamation from the landlord:—“I guess,” said he, in a half-bantering way, “you hain’t told me your business yet?”
“No,” I answered deferentially, “I have not.”
“What on airth’s takin’ you to Holt’s Clearin’?”
“That, Mr Kipp—I beg pardon—ColonelKipp—is a private matter.”
“Private and particular, eh?”
“Very.”
“Oh, then, I guess, you’d better keep it to yourself.”
“That is precisely my intention,” I rejoined, turning on my heel, and stepping out of the verandah.
The young hunter was just buckling the girth of his saddle. As I approached him, I saw that he was smiling. He had overheard the concluding part of the conversation; and looked as if pleased at the way in which I had bantered the “colonel,” who, as I afterwards learnt from him, was the grand swaggerer of Swampville. A word was sufficient. He at once acceded to my request, frankly, if not in the most elegant phraseology, “I’ll be pleased to show ye the way to Holt’s Clarin’. My own road goes jest that way, till within a squ’ll’s jump o’t.”
“Thank you: I shall not keep you waiting.”
I re-entered the hotel to pay for my entertainment, and give orders for the saddling of my horse. It was evident that I had offended the landlord by my brusque behaviour. I ascertained this by theamountof my bill, as well as by the fact of being permitted to saddle for myself. Even the naked “nigger,” did not make his appearance at the stable. Not much cared I. I had drawn the girth too often, to be disconcerted by such petty annoyance; and, in five minutes after, I was in the saddle and ready for the road. Having joined my companion in the street, we rode off from the inhospitablecaravanseraiof the Jackson Hotel—leaving its warlike landlord to chew his tobacco, and such reflections as my remarks had given rise to.