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 "L I E. R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS
 
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 sponsible for its return to the library from 
 which it was withdrawn on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
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 are reasons for disciplinary action and may 
 result in dismissal from the University. 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 FEB i i 
 FEB 7 
 
 |9?6 
 1976 
 
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 M 
 
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 L161 — O-1096
 
 THE 
 
 WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 CAPTAIN MAYNE EEID, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE SCALP-HUNTERS," THE WAR-TRAIL, 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 1861. 
 
 {Eight of Translation reserved.)
 
 NONDOK : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAJITORD STREET.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. — THE squatter's CLEARING 
 
 II. — MARIAN AND LILIAN . 
 III. — THE lover's rendezvous 
 IV. — THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS 
 
 V. SQUATTER AND SAINT 
 
 VI. — AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT 
 
 vn. — THE mormon's demand . 
 
 VIII. — A SPLENDID PENSION . " 
 
 IX. — FRIENT)LT ADVICE 
 X.— A CLASSIC LAND 
 XI. — THE 'JACKSON HOTEL ' , 
 XII. — COLONEL KIPP . ^ . 
 
 XIII. — THROUGH THE FOREST 
 
 XIV. SU-WA-NEE . 
 
 XV. — MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT 
 XVI.— A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT 
 XVII. — THE INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 1 
 
 15 
 
 28 
 
 41 
 
 50 
 
 59 
 
 71 
 
 81 
 
 89 
 
 98 
 
 106 
 
 115 
 
 123 
 
 133 
 
 146 
 
 158 
 
 169
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. " PAGB 
 
 XVIII. — A BACKWOODS VENUS . . . 177 
 
 XIX. A SERIES OF C0NTEE-TE3IPS . .187 
 
 XX. — SWEET AND BITTER . . . . 200 
 
 XXI. A RUDE RESPONSE . . . 207 
 
 XXII. — A ROUGH RECEPTION . . .215 
 
 XXIII. — A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS . . 226 
 
 XXIV. WAITING THE WORD . . . . 237 
 
 XXV. — THE DUEL DELAYED . . . 244 
 
 XXVI. — THE PEACEMAKER . . . . 253 
 
 XXVII. — YES — YES ! . . . . 262 
 
 XXVIII. — AN ERRAND OF LOVE . . . 274 
 
 XXIX. — A RED-SKINNED SIBYL . . . 281 
 
 XXX. — A STORM WITHOUT AND WITHIN . . 289 
 
 XXXI. A VIRGIN HEART IN CIPHER . . 297 
 
 XXXII. — A WORD ABOUT MORMON MONSTERS . . 306
 
 THE WILD HUNTRESS, 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE squatter's CLEARING. 
 
 The white-headed eagle, soaring above the 
 spray of a Tennessean forest, looks down upon 
 the clearing of the squatter. To the eye of 
 the bird it is alone visible ; and though but a 
 spot in the midst of that immense green sea, 
 it is conspicuous by the colour of the trees 
 that stand over it. They stand, but grow 
 not : the girdling ring around their stems has 
 deprived them of their sap ; the ivory bill of 
 the log-cock has stripped them of their bark ; 
 their leaves and twigs have long since disap- 
 peared; and only the trunks and greater 
 branches remain, like blanched skeletons, 
 VOL. I. B
 
 "I THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 with arms upstretched to heaven, as if mutely- 
 appealing for vengeance against their de- 
 stroyer. 
 
 The squatter's clearing, still thus encum- 
 bered, is a mere vistal opening in the woods, 
 from which only the underwood has been 
 removed. The more slender saplings have 
 been cut down or rooted up; the tangle of 
 parasitical plants has been torn from the 
 trees ; the cane-brake has been fired ; and the 
 brush, collected in heaps, has melted away 
 upon the blazing pile. Only a few stumps 
 of inferior thickness give evidence, that some 
 little labour has been performed by the axe. 
 
 Even thus the clearing is a mere patch — 
 scarcely two acres in extent — and the rude 
 rail-fence, that zig-zags around it, attests that 
 the owner is satisfied with the dimensions of 
 his agricultural domain. There are no re- 
 cent marks of the axe — not even the 'gird- 
 ling ' of a tree — nothing to show that another 
 rood is required. The squatter is essentially 
 a hunter ; and hates the sight of an extensive 
 clearing — as he would the labour of making
 
 THE squatter's CLEARING. 
 
 one. The virgin forest is his domain, and he 
 is not the man to rob it of its primeval 
 charms. The sound of the lumberer's axe, 
 cheerful to the lonely traveller, has no music 
 for his ear : it is to him a note of evil augury 
 — a knell of dread import. It is not often 
 that he hears it : he dv/ells beyond the circle 
 of its echoes. His nearest neighbour — a 
 squatter like himself — lives at least a mile 
 off; and the most proximate 'settlement' is 
 six times that distance from the spot he has 
 chosen for his cabin. The smoke of his 
 chimney mingles with that of no other : its 
 tall column ascends to heaven solitary as the 
 squatter himself. 
 
 The clearing is of an irregular semicircular 
 shape — a deep narrow stream forming the 
 chord, and afterwards cleaving its way through 
 the otherwise unbroken forest. In the con- 
 vexity of the arc, at that point most remote 
 from the water, stands the cabin — a log 
 ' shanty ' with ' cla -board ' roof — on one side 
 flanked by a rude horse-shed, on the other by 
 a corn-crib of split rails.
 
 4 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 Such a picture is almost peculiar to the 
 backwoods of America. Some may deem it 
 commonplace. For my part, I cannot regard 
 it in this light. I have never looked upon this 
 primitive homestead of the pioneer without 
 receiving from it an impression of romantic 
 pleasure. Something seems to impart to it 
 an air of vague and mystic grandeur. Per- 
 haps I associate the picture with the frame in 
 which it is set — the magnificent forest that 
 surrounds it, every aisle of which is redolent 
 of romance. Such a scene is suggestive of 
 hunter lore and legend — of perils by flood and 
 field, always pleasant to be remembered — of 
 desperate deeds of heroism performed by gal- 
 lant backwoodsmen or their equally gallant 
 antagonists — those red warriors who once 
 strode proudly along the forest path, but 
 whose upright forms are no longer seen under 
 the shadows of its trees. 
 
 Perhaps it is from reflections of this kind, 
 that I view with interest the clearing and 
 cabin of the squatter ; or it may be from 
 having at one period of my life encountered
 
 THE squatter's CLEARIXG. 5 
 
 incidents, in connection with such a scene, of 
 a character never to be forgotten. 
 
 In spring this picture is transformed — sud- 
 denly as by the shifting of a panoramic view ; 
 or, as upon the stage, the spangled Harlequin 
 and brilliant Columbine emerge from the sober 
 disguisement of their dominoes. If in winter 
 the scene might be termed rude or common- 
 place, it now no longer merits such titles. 
 Nature has girded on her robe of green, and 
 by the touch of her magical wand, has toned 
 down its rough features to an almost delicate 
 softness. The young maize — planted in a 
 soil that has lain fallow, perhaps for a thou- 
 sand years — is rapidly culming upward ; and 
 the rich sheen of the long lance-like leaves, as 
 they bend gracefully over, hides from view 
 the sombre hues of the earth. The forest trees 
 appear with their foliage freshly expanded — 
 some, as the tulip-tree, the dogwood, and the 
 white magnolia, already in the act of in- 
 florescence. The woods no longer maintain 
 that monotonous silence which they have 
 preserved throughout the winter. The red
 
 b THE WILD HUNTKESS. 
 
 cardinal chatters among the cane ; the blue 
 jay screams in the pawpaw thicket, perhaps 
 disturbed by the gliding of some slippery 
 snake; while the mock-bird, regardless of 
 such danger, from the top of the tall tulip- 
 tree, pours forth his matchless melody in 
 sweet ever-varying strain. The tiny bark of 
 the squirrel, and the soft cooing of the Caro- 
 linian dove, may be heard among other 
 sounds — the latter suggestive of earth's no- 
 blest passion, as its utterer is the emblem of 
 devotion itself. At night other sounds are 
 heard, less agreeable to the ear : the shrill 
 ' chirrup' of cicadas and tree-toads ringing so 
 incessantly, that only when they cease do 
 you become conscious of their existence ; the 
 dull ' gluck-gluck ' of the great bull-frog ; the 
 sharp cries of the heron and qua-hird ; and the 
 sepulchral screech of the great horned owl. 
 Still less agreeable might appear the fierce 
 miaulling of the red puma, and the howl of the 
 gaunt wolf; but not so to the ears of the 
 awakened hunter, who, through the chinks of 
 his lone cabin, listens to such sounds with a 
 savage joy.
 
 THE squatter's CLEARING, 
 
 These fierce notes are now rare and excep- 
 tional — even in the backwoods — though, un- 
 like the war-whoop of the Indian, they have 
 not altogether departed. Occasionally, their 
 echo may be heard through the aisles of the 
 forest, but only in its deepest recesses — only 
 in those remote river ' bottoms ' where the 
 squatter delights to dwell. Even there, they 
 are heard only at night ; and in the morning 
 give place to softer and sweeter sounds. 
 
 Fancy, then, a fine morning in May — a 
 sunshine that turns all it touches into gold — 
 an atmosphere laden with the perfume of 
 wild-flowers — the hum of honey-seeking bees 
 — the songs of birds commingling in sweetest 
 melody — and you have the mise en scene of a 
 squatter's cabin on the banks of the Obion, 
 half an hour after the rising of the sun. Can 
 such a picture be called commonplace 1 Rather 
 say it is enchanting. 
 
 Forms suddenly appear upon the scene — 
 forms living and lovely — in the presence of 
 which the bright sunshine, the forest glories 
 of green and gold, the bird-music among the
 
 8 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 trees, the flowery aroma in the air, are no 
 longer needed to give grace to the clearing of 
 the squatter. It signifies not that it is a 
 morning in the middle of May : were it the 
 dreariest day of December, the effect would 
 be the same ; and this resembles enchantment 
 itself. The rude hut seems at once transformed 
 into a palace — the dead trunks become Co- 
 rinthian columns carved out of white marble 
 — their stiff branches appear to bend grace- 
 fully over, like the leaves of the recurvent 
 acanthus — and the enclosure of carelessly 
 tended maize-plants assumes the aspect of 
 some fair garden of the Hesperides ! 
 
 The explanation is easy. Magic is not 
 needed to account for the transformation : 
 since there exists a far more powerful form 
 of enchantment in the divine presence of fe- 
 male beauty. And it is present there, in its 
 distinct varieties of dark and fair — typified in 
 the persons of two young girls who issue forth 
 from the cabin of the squatter : more than 
 typified — completely symbolised — since in 
 these two young girls there appears scarce,
 
 THE squatter's CLEARIXG. 9 
 
 one point of resemblance, save the possession 
 of a perfect loveliness. The eye of the soaring 
 eagle may not discover their charms — as did 
 the bird of Jove those of the lovely Leda — 
 but no human eye could gaze for a moment 
 on either one, without receiving the impres- 
 sion that it was looking upon the fairest ob- 
 ject on earth. This impression could only be 
 modified, by turning to gaze upon the other. 
 
 Who are these young creatures ? Sisters ? 
 
 There is nothing in their appearance to 
 suggest the gentle relationship. One is tall, 
 dark, and dark-haired, of that golden-brown 
 complexion usually styled brunette. Her nose 
 is slightly aquiline^ and her eye of the oblique 
 Indian form. Other features present an In- 
 dian character, of that type observable in the 
 nation of the Chicasaws — the former lords of 
 this great forest. She may have Chicasaw 
 blood in her veins ; but her complexion is too 
 light for that of a pure Indian. 
 
 Her dress strengthens the impression that 
 she is a sang-mele. The skirt is of the com- 
 mon homespun of the backwoods, striped
 
 10 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 with a yellowish dye ; but the green bodice is 
 of finer stuff, with more pretensions to orna- 
 ment ; and her neck and wrists are embraced 
 by a variety of those glancing circlets, so 
 seductive in the eyes of an Indian belle. The 
 buskin-mocassin is purely Indian ; and its 
 lines of bead-embroidery gracefully adapt 
 themselves to the outlines of feet and ankles 
 of perfect form. The absence of a head-dress 
 is another point of Indian resemblance. The 
 luxuriant black hair is plaited, and coiled like 
 a coronet around the head. There are no 
 combs or pins of gold, but in their place a 
 scarlet plumelet of feathers — from the wings 
 of the red cardinal. This, set coquettishly 
 behind the plaits, shows that some little atten- 
 tion has been given to her toilet ; and simple 
 though it be, the peculiar coiffure imparts to 
 the countenance of the maiden that air usually 
 styled 'commanding.' 
 
 Although there is nothing masculine in this 
 young girl's beauty, a single glance at her 
 features impresses you with the idea of a 
 character of no ordinary kind — a nature more
 
 THE squatter's CLEARING. 11 
 
 resolute than tender — a heart endowed with 
 courage equalling that of a man. The idea 
 is strengthened by observing that in her hand 
 she carries a light rifle ; while a horn and 
 bullet-pouch, suspended from her left shoulder, 
 hang under the right arm. She is not the 
 only backwoods' maiden who may be seen 
 thus armed and accoutred: many are even 
 skilled in the use of the deadly weapon ! 
 
 In striking contrast with all this is the ap- 
 pearance of her companion. The impression 
 the eye receives in looking on the latter is 
 that of something soft and beautiful, of a glo- 
 rious golden hue. It is the reflection of 
 brght amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin 
 tinted with vermilion, imparting a sort of 
 luminous radiance divinely feminine. Scru- 
 tinise this countenance more closely ; and you 
 perceive that the features are in perfect 
 harmony with each other, and harmonise with 
 the complexion. You behold a face, such as 
 the Athenian fancy has elaborated into an 
 almost living reality in the goddess Cytherea. 
 
 This creature of golden roseate hue is yet
 
 12 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 very young — scarcely more than a child — 
 but in the blue sky above her burns a fiery 
 sun ; and in twelve months she will be a 
 woman. 
 
 Her costume is still more simple than that 
 of her companion : a sleeved dress of the same 
 striped homespun, loosely worn, and open at 
 the breast; her fine amber-coloured hair the 
 only covering for her head — as it is the only 
 shawl upon her shoulders, over which it falls 
 in ample luxuriance. A string of pearls 
 around her neck — false pearls, poor thing ! — 
 is the only effort that vanity seems to have 
 made in the way of personal adornment. 
 Even shoes and stockings are wanting; but 
 the most costly cliaussure could not add to 
 the elegance of those pretty mignon feet. 
 
 Who are they — these fair flowers of the 
 forest ? 
 
 Let the mystery end. They are sisters — 
 though not the children of one mother. They 
 are the daughters of the hunter — the owner 
 of the cabin and clearing — his only chil- 
 dren.
 
 THE squatter's CLEARING. 13 
 
 Happy hunter! poor you may be, and 
 your home lowly ; it can never be lonely in 
 such companionship. The proudest prince 
 may envy you the possession of two such 
 treasures — beyond parallel, beyond price !
 
 CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 MARIAN AND LILIAN. 
 
 Passing outward from the door, the two 
 young girls pause in their steps : an object has 
 attracted their attention. A large dog is seen 
 running out from the shed — a gaunt, fierce- 
 looking animal, that answers to the very ap- 
 propriate name of ' Wolf.' He approaches 
 the sisters, and salutes them with an unwilling 
 wag of his tail. It seems as though he could 
 not look pleased, even while seeking a favour 
 — for this is evidently the purpose that has 
 brought him forth from his lair. He appeals 
 more especially to the older of the girls — 
 Marian. 
 
 * Ho, Wolf ! I see your sides are thin, old
 
 MARIAX AXD LILIAN. 15 
 
 fellow : you want your breakfast ? What can 
 we give him, Lil ?' 
 
 ' Indeed, sister, I know not : there is no- 
 thing for the poor dog.' 
 
 ' There is some deer-meat inside ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! I fear father will not allow Wolf to 
 have that. I heard him say he expected one 
 to take dinner with him to-day ? You know 
 who ?' 
 
 An arch smile accompanies this half- 
 interrogatory ; but, for all that, the words 
 do not appear to produce a pleasant effect. 
 On the contrary, a shade is observable 
 on the brow of her to whom they are ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 'Yes, I do know. Well, he shall not dine 
 with me. 'Tis just for that I've brought out 
 my rifle. To-day, I intend to make my dinner 
 in the woods, or go without, and that's more 
 likely. Never fear. Wolf! you shall have 
 your breakfast, whether I get my dinner or 
 not. Now, for the life of me, Lil, I don't 
 know what we can give the poor brute. Those 
 buzzards are just within range. I could bring
 
 16 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 one of them down ; but the filthy creatures, 
 ugh ! even a dog won't eat them.' 
 
 * See, sister ! yonder is a squirrel. Wolf 
 will eat squirrels, I know : but, ah ! it's a pity 
 to kill the little creature.' 
 
 ' Not a bit. Yon little creature is a precious 
 little thief; it's just been at our corn-crib. By 
 killing it, I do justice in a double sense : I 
 punish the thief, and reward the good dog. 
 Here goes !' 
 
 The squirrel, scared from its depredation on 
 the corn, sweeps nimbly over the ground to- 
 wards the nearest tree. Wolf having espied 
 it, rushes after in headlong pursuit. But it is 
 a rare chance indeed when a dog captures one 
 of these animals upon the ground ; and Wolf, 
 as usual, is unsuccessful. 
 
 He has ' treed ' the squirrel ; but what of 
 that ? The nimble creature, having swooped 
 up to a high limb, seats itself there, and looks 
 down upon its impotent pursuer with a non- 
 chalant defiance — at intervals more emphati- 
 cally expressing the sentiment by a saucy jerk 
 of its tail. But this false security proves the
 
 MARIAN AXD LILIAX. 17 
 
 squirrel's ruin. Deceived by it, the silly 
 animal makes no effort to conceal its body 
 behind the branch ; but, sitting upright in a 
 fork, presents a fair mark to the rifle. 
 
 The girl raises the piece to her shoulder, 
 takes aim, and fires. 
 
 The shot tells ; and the tiny victim, hurled 
 from its high perch — after making several 
 somersaults in the air — falls right into the 
 jaws of that hungry savage at the bottom of 
 the tree. 
 
 Wolf makes his breakfast upon the squirrel. 
 
 This young Diana of the backwoods ap- 
 pears in no way astonished at the feat she has 
 performed ; nor yet Lilian. Doubtless, it is 
 an every-day deed. 
 
 * You must learn to shoot, Lil.' 
 
 * O sister, for what purpose ? You know I 
 have neither the taste for it, nor skill that you 
 have.* 
 
 * The skill you will acquire by practice. It 
 is worth knowing how, I can assure you. 
 Besides it is an accomplishment one might 
 stand in need of some day. Why, do you 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 know, sister, in the times of the Indians, every 
 girl understood how to handle a rifle — so 
 father says. True, the fighting Indians are 
 gone away from here ; but what if you were to 
 meet a great bear in the woods ?' 
 
 ' Surely I should run away from him.' 
 
 ' And surely I shouldn't, Lil. I have never 
 met a bear, but I'd just like to try one.' 
 
 ' Dear sister, you frighten me. Oh, do not 
 think of such a thing ! Indeed, Marian, I am 
 never happy when you are away in the woods. 
 I am always afraid of your meeting with some 
 great wild beast, which may devour you. Tell 
 me, why do you go ? I am sure I cannot see 
 what pleasure you can have in wandering 
 through the woods alone.' 
 
 ' Alone ! Perhaps I am not always alone! 
 
 These words are uttered in a low voice — 
 not loud enough for Lilian to hear, though 
 she observes the smile that accompanies them. 
 
 ' You see, sister Lil,' continues Marian in a 
 louder tone, ' our tastes differ. You are young, 
 and like better to read the story-books your 
 mother left you, and look at the pictures in
 
 MARIAX AXD LILIAN. 19 
 
 them. My mother left me no story-books, 
 nor pictures. She had none ; and did not care 
 for them, I fancy. She was half-Indian, you 
 know ; and I suppose I am like her : for I, too, 
 prefer realities to pictures. I love to roam 
 about in the woods ; and as for the dane:er — 
 pooh, pooh — I have no fear of that. I fear 
 neither bear nor panther, nor any other qua- 
 druped. Ha ! I have more fear of a two- 
 legged creature I know of; and I should be 
 in greater danger of m.eeting with that dreaded 
 biped by staying at liome," 
 
 The speech appears to give rise to a train 
 of reflections in which there is bitterness. The 
 heroine of the rifle remains silent while in the 
 act of reloading ; and the tinge of melancholy 
 that pervades her countenance tells that her 
 thoughts are abstracted. While priming the 
 piece, she is even maladroit enough to spill a 
 quantity of the powder — though evidently not 
 from any lack of practice or dexterity. 
 
 Lilian has heard the concluding words of 
 her sister's speech with some surprise, and also 
 noticed the abstracted air. She is about to
 
 20 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ask for an explanation, when the dialogue is 
 interrupted. Wolf rushes past with a fierce 
 growl : some one approaches the clearing. 
 
 A horseman — a man of about thirty years 
 of age, of spare form and somewhat sinister 
 aspect — a face to be hated on sight. And at 
 sight of it the shadow deepens on the brow of 
 Marian. 
 
 Her sister exhibits no particular emotion. 
 The new-comer is no stranger : it is only Josh 
 Stebbins, the schoolmaster of Swampville. 
 He is their father's friend, and comes often to 
 visit them : moreover, he is that day expected, 
 as Lilian knows. Only in one way does she 
 show any interest in his arrival ; and that is, 
 on observing that he is better dressed than 
 usual. The cut of his dress too, is dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 ' See, sister Marian !' cries she in a tone of 
 raillery, ' how fine Mister Josh is ! black coat 
 and waistcoat : a standing collar too ! Why, 
 he is exactly like the Methody minister of 
 Swampville ! Perhaps he has turned one. I 
 shouldn't wonder: for they say he is very
 
 MARIAN AND LILIAN. 21 
 
 learned. Oh, if that be, we may hear him 
 preach at the next camp-meeting. How I 
 should like to hear him hold forth ! — ha, 
 ha, ha !' 
 
 The young creature laughs heartily at her 
 own fantastic conceits ; and her clear silvery 
 voice for a moment silences the birds — as if 
 they paused to listen to a music more melo- 
 dious than their own. 
 
 The mock-bird echoes back the laugh : but 
 not so Marian. She has observed the novelty 
 as well as her sister ; but it appears to impress 
 her in a very different manner. She does not 
 even smile at the approach of the stranger ; 
 but, on the contrary, the cloud upon her brow 
 becomes a shade darker. 
 
 Marian is some years older than her sister 
 — old enough to know that there is evil in the 
 world : for neither is the ' backwoods ' the 
 home of an Arcadian innocence. 
 
 She knows the schoolmaster sufficiently to 
 dislike him ; and, judging by his appearance, 
 one might give her credit for having formed 
 a correct estimate of his character. She sus-
 
 22 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 pects the object of his visit ; more than that, 
 she knows it : she is herself its object. With 
 indifferent grace, therefore, does she receive 
 him : scarcely conceahng her aversion as she 
 bids him the customary welcome. 
 
 Without being gifted with any very acute 
 perception, the new-comer might observe this 
 degout on the part of the young girl. He takes 
 no notice of it, however — either by word, or 
 the movement of a feature. On the contrary, 
 he appears perfectly indifferent to the cha- 
 racter of the reception given him. Not that 
 his manner betrays anything like swagger — 
 for he is evidently not one of the swaggering 
 sort. Eather is his behaviour characterised by 
 a cool, quiet effrontery — a sort of sarcastic as- 
 surance — ten times more irritating. This is 
 displayed in the laconic style of his salutation : 
 * Morning, girls ! father at home ?' — in the fact 
 of his dismounting without waiting to be in- 
 vited — in sharply scolding the dog out of his 
 way as he leads his horse to the shed ; and, 
 finally, in his throwing the saddle-bags over 
 his arm, and stepping inside the cabin-door.
 
 MARIAN AXD LILIAX. 23 
 
 with the air of one who is not only master of 
 the house, but of the ' situation.' 
 
 Inside the door he is received by the squat- 
 ter himself; and in the exchange of saluta- 
 tions, even a casual observer might note a re- 
 markable difference in the manner of the two 
 men : the guest cool, cynical, confident — the 
 host agitated, with eye unsteady, and heart 
 evidently ill at ease. 
 
 There is a strange significance in the salu- 
 tation, as also in the little incident that fol- 
 lows. Before a dozen words have passed 
 between the two men, the schoolmaster turns 
 quietly upon his heel, and closes the door be- 
 hind him — the squatter making no objection 
 to the act, either by word or gesture ! 
 
 The incident may appear of trifling im- 
 portance ; but not so to Marian, w^ho stands 
 near, watching every movement, and listening 
 to every word. 
 
 Why is the door closed, and by Josh Steb- 
 bins? — that rude door, that, throughout the 
 long summer day, is accustomed to hang open 
 on its raw-hide hinges ? All day, and often
 
 24 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 all night — except during the cold wintry- 
 winds, or when rain-storms blow from the 
 west? Why is it now closed, and thus un- 
 ceremoniously ? 
 
 No wonder that Marian attaches a signi- 
 ficance to the act. 
 
 Neither has she failed to note the agitated 
 mien of her father while receiving his visitor 
 —that father, at all other times, and in the 
 presence of all other people, so bold, fierce, 
 and impassible ! She observes all this with a 
 feeling of pain. For such strange conduct 
 there must be a cause, and a serious one : that 
 is her reflection. 
 
 The young girl stands for some moments in 
 the attitude she has assumed. Her sister has 
 gone aside to pluck some flowers growing by 
 the bank of the stream, and Marian is now 
 alone. Her eye is bent upon the door ; and 
 she appears to hesitate between two thoughts. 
 Shall she approach and listen ? She knows a 
 little — she desires to know more. 
 
 She has not merely conjectured the object 
 of the schoolmaster's visit ; she is certain it
 
 MARIAN AND LILIAN. 25 
 
 concerns herself. It is not simply that which 
 troubles her spirits. Left to herself, she would 
 make light of such a suitor, and give him his 
 conge with a brusque promptitude. But her 
 father — why does he yield to the solicitations 
 of this man ? This is the mystery she desires 
 to unravel. 
 
 Can it be a debt 1 Scarcely that In the 
 lawless circle of backwoods' society, the screw 
 of the creditor has but little power over the 
 victim of debt — certainly not enough to en- 
 slave such a free fearless spirit as that of 
 Hickman Holt. The girl knows this, and 
 hence her painful suspicions that points to 
 some other cause. What cause ? She would 
 know. 
 
 She makes one step towards the house, as 
 if bent upon espionage. Again she pauses, 
 and appears undecided. The chinks between 
 the logs are open all around the hut — so, too, 
 the interstices between the hewn planks of the 
 door. No one can approach near to the walls 
 without being seen from the inside ; and a lis- 
 tener would be sure of beins: discovered.
 
 26 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 Is it this reflection that stays her in her 
 steps ? that causes her to turn back ? Or does 
 the action spring from a nobler motive ? 
 
 Whichever it be, it seems to bring about 
 a change in her determination. Suddenly 
 turning away, she stands facing to the forest 
 — as if with the intention of launching herself 
 into its sombre depths. 
 
 A call of adieu to her sister — a signal to 
 Wolf to follow — and she is gone. 
 
 Whither, and for what purpose? Why 
 loves she these lone rambles under the wild- 
 wood shade ? She has declared that she 
 dehghts in them ; but can we trust her decla- 
 ration ? True, hers is a strange spirit — tinged, 
 no doubt, with the moral tendencies of her 
 mother's race — in which the love of solitude is 
 almost an idiosyncrasy. But with her this 
 forest-ranging is almost a new practice : only 
 for a month or so has she been indulging in 
 this romantic habit — so incomprehensible to 
 the home-loving Lilian. Her father puts no 
 check upon such inclinations : on the contrary, 
 he encourages them, as if proud of his daugh-
 
 MARIAX AXD LILIAX. 27 
 
 ter's penchant for the chase. Though purely 
 a white man, his nature has been Indianised 
 by the habits of his life ; and in his eyes, the 
 chase is the noblest accomplishment — even for 
 a woman ! 
 
 Does the fair Marian think so ? Or has she 
 another motive for absenting herself so 
 frequently from her home ? 
 
 Let us follow her into the forest. There, 
 perhaps, we may find an answer to the
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE lovers' rendezvous. 
 
 Glance into the forest-glade ! It is an 
 opening in the woods — a clearing^ not made 
 by the labour of human hands, but a work of 
 Nature herself: a spot of earth where the 
 great timber grows not, but in its place 
 shrubs and tender grass, plants and perfumed 
 flowers. 
 
 About a mile distant from the cabin of 
 Hickman Holt, just such an opening is found 
 — in superficial extent about equal to the 
 squatter's corn-patch. It lies in the midst of 
 a forest of tall trees — among which are con- 
 spicuous the tulip-tree, the white magnolia, 
 cotton- woods, and giant oaks. Those that
 
 THE LOYERS' RENDEZVOUS. 29 
 
 immediately encircle it are of less stature : 
 graduating inward to its edge, like the seats 
 in an amphitheatre— as if the forest trees 
 stooped downward to kiss the fair flowers that 
 sparkle over the glade. 
 
 These lesser trees are of various species. 
 They are the sassafras laurel^ famed for its 
 sanitary sap ; the noble Carolina bay, with its 
 aromatic leaves ; the red mulberry ; and the 
 singular Osage orange-tree {maelura auran- 
 tica), the 'bow- wood' of the Indians. The 
 pawpaw also is present, to attest the extreme 
 richness of the soil ; but the flowering plants, 
 that flourish in profuse luxuriance over the 
 glade, are sufficient evidence of its fertility. 
 Why the trees grow not there, is one 
 of Nature's secrets, not yet revealed to 
 man. 
 
 It is easier to say why a squatter's cabin is 
 not there. There is no mystery about this : 
 though there might appear to be, since the 
 clearing is found ready to hand. The ex- 
 planation is simple : the glade is a mile 
 distant from water — the nearest beina: that of
 
 30 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 the creek already mentioned as running past 
 the cabin of the squatter. 
 
 Thus Nature, as if jealous of this pretty 
 wild-wood garden, protects it from the defile- 
 ment of man. 
 
 Nevertheless, the human presence is not 
 unknown to it. On this very morning — this 
 fair morning in May, that has disclosed to our 
 view the cabin and clearing of the squatter — 
 a man may be observed entering the glade. 
 
 t The light elastic step, the lithe agile form, 
 the smooth face, all bespeak his youth ; while 
 the style of his dress, his arms and equip- 
 
 ^ ments, proclaim his calling to be that of a 
 
 f hunter. 
 
 ^He is a man of the correct size, and, it 
 ihay be added, of the correct shape — that is, 
 one with whose figure the eye finds no fault. 
 It is pleased at beholding a certain just 
 distribution of the members promising strength 
 and activity for the accomplishment of any 
 possible physical end. 
 
 The countenance is equally expressive of 
 good mental qualities. The features are
 
 THE LOYEES' RENDEZVOUS. 31 
 
 regular and open, to frankness. A prominent 
 chin denotes firmness ; a soft hazel eye, 
 gentleness; and a full rounded throat, in- 
 trepid daring. 
 
 There is neither beard upon the chin, nor 
 moustache upon the lip — not that the face is 
 too young for either, but both have been 
 shaven off. In the way of hair, a magnificent 
 chevelure of brown curls ruffles out under the 
 rim of the cap, shadowing over the cheeks 
 and neck of the wearer. Arched eyebrows, a 
 small mouth, and regular teeth, give the finish 
 to a face which might be regarded as a type 
 of manly beauty. 
 
 And yet this beauty appears under a russet . 
 garb. There is no evidence of excessive , 
 toilet-care. The brush and comb have been 
 but sparingly used ; and neither perfume nor 
 pomatum has been employed to heighten the 
 shine of those luxuriant locks. There is sun- 
 tan on the face, that, perhaps, with the aid of 
 soap, might be taken off; but it is permitted 
 to remain. The teeth, too, might be made 
 whiter with a dentifrice and brush ; but in all
 
 32 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 likelihood the nearest approach to their having 
 ever been cleansed has been while chewing a 
 piece of tough deer-meat. 
 
 Nevertheless, without any artificial aids, 
 the young man's beauty proclaims itself in 
 every feature — the more so, perhaps, that, in 
 gazing upon his face, you are impressed with 
 the idea that there is an ' outcome ' in it. 
 
 In his dress, there is not much that could 
 be altered for the better. The hunting-shirt, 
 of finest buckskin leather, with its fringed 
 cape and skirt, hangs upon his body with all 
 the grace of an Athenian tunic ; w^hile its 
 open front permits to be seen the manly 
 contour of his breast, but half concealed under 
 the softer fawn-skin. The wrappers of green 
 baize, though folded more than once around 
 his legs, do not hide their elegant tournure ; 
 and an appropriate covering for his feet is a 
 pair of strong mocassins, soled with thick 
 leather. A coon-skin cap sits high upon his 
 head, slightly slouched to the right. With 
 the visage of the animal turned to the front, 
 and the full plume-like tail, with its alternate
 
 THE LOV^ERS' REXDEZYOUS. 
 
 rings, drooping to the shoulder, it forms a 
 head-dress that is far from ungraceful. A 
 belt around the waist — a short hunting- 
 knife in its sheath — a large powder-horn 
 hanging below the arm-pit — a bullet-pouch 
 underneath, and voila tout ! No, not all : 
 there remains to be mentioned the rifle — 
 the arm par excellence of the American 
 hunter. 
 
 The portrait is that of Frank Wingrove — a 
 dashing young backwoodsman, whose calling 
 is the chase. 
 
 The hunter has entered the glade, and is 
 advancing across it. He walks slowly, but 
 without caution — without that habitual stealthy 
 tread that distinguishes the sons of St. Hubert 
 in the west. On the contrary, his step is free, 
 and the flowers are crushed under his feet. 
 He is not even silent ; but humming a tune as 
 he goes. Notwithstanding that he appears 
 accoutred for the chase, his movements are 
 not those of one in pursuit of game. For this 
 morning, at least, he is out upon a difl'erent 
 errand ; and, judging from his jovial aspect, 
 
 \0L. I. ' D
 
 34 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 it should be one of pleasure. The birds 
 themselves seem not more gay. 
 
 On emerging from the shadow of the tall 
 trees into the open glade effulgent with 
 flowers, his gaiety seems to have reached 
 its climax : it bre^iks forth in song ; and 
 for some minutes the forest re-echoes the 
 well-known lay of ' Woodman, spare that 
 tree /' 
 
 Whence this joyous humour? Why are 
 those eyes sparkling with a scarce concealed 
 triumph? Is there a sweetheart expected? 
 Is the glade to be the scene of a love-interview 
 — that glade perfumed and flowery, as if 
 designed for such a purpose ? 
 
 The conjecture is reasonable : the young 
 hunter has the air of one who keeps an 
 assignation — one, too, who dreams not of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Near the edge of the glade, on the side 
 opposite to that by which the hunter has come 
 in, is a fallen tree. Its branches and bark 
 have long since disappeared, and the trunk is 
 bleached to a brilliant white. In the phrase-
 
 THE lovers' rendezvous. 35 
 
 ology of the backwoods, it is no longer a tree, 
 but a 'log.' Towards this the hunter ad- 
 vances. On arriving at the log, seats him- 
 self upon it, in the attitude of one who does 
 not anticipate being for long alone. 
 
 There is a path that runs across the glade, 
 bisecting it into two nearly equal parts. It is 
 a tiny track, evidently not much used. It 
 conducts from the stream on which stands the 
 cabin of the squatter Holt, to another ' fork ' 
 of the same river — the Obion — where clear- 
 ings are numerous, and where there is also a 
 large settlement bearing the dignified title of 
 ' town.' It is the town of Swampville — a 
 name perhaps more appropriate than eupho- 
 nious. 
 
 Upon this path, where it debouches from 
 the forest, the eye of Frank Wingrove 
 becomes fixed— not in the direction of Swamp- 
 ville, but towards the clearing of the squatter. 
 From this it would appear probable that he 
 expects some one ; and that the person ex- 
 pected should come from that side. 
 
 A good while passes, and yet no one
 
 36 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 answers his inquiring glance. He begins to 
 manifest signs of impatience. As if to kill 
 time, he repeatedly rises_, and again reseats 
 himself. With .his eye he measures the 
 altitude of the sun — the watch of the back- 
 woodsman — and as the bright orb rises 
 higher in the heavens, his spirits appear to 
 sink in proportion. His look is no longer 
 cheerful. He has long since finished his 
 song ; and his voice is now heard again, 
 only when he utters an ejaculation of im- 
 patience. 
 
 All at once, the joyous expression is re- 
 stored. There is a noise in the woods, and it 
 proceeds from the right direction — a rustling 
 of dead leaves that litter the path, and 
 occasionally the ' swish ' of recoiling branches. 
 Some one approaches the glade. 
 
 The young hunter springs to his feet, and 
 stands listening. 
 
 Presently, he hears voices; but he hears 
 them rather with surprise than pleasure — as 
 is indicated by another quick change passing 
 over his countenance The cheerful aspect
 
 THE lovers' rendezvous. 37 
 
 has again given place to a look of disappoint- 
 ment — this time approaching to chagrin. 
 
 ' Thar's talk goin' on ;' mutters he to him- 
 self. ' Then she's not alone ! Thar's someb'dy 
 along wi' her. Who the darnation can it be ?' 
 
 After this characteristic soliloquy, he re- 
 mains silent — listening far more eagerly than 
 before. 
 
 The noises become more distinct, and the 
 voices louder. More than one can be dis- 
 tinguished mingling in the conversation. 
 
 For some seconds^ the hunter maintains his 
 attentive attitude — his eye sternly fixed upon 
 the embouchure of the path. 
 
 His suspense is of short duration. Hearing 
 the voices more plainly, he recognises their 
 tones ; and the recognition appears to give a 
 another sudden turn to his thoughts. The 
 expression of chagrin gives place to one of 
 simple disappointment. 
 
 ' Bah !' exclaims he, throwing himself back 
 upon the dead wood. ' It ain't her^ after all! It's 
 only a gang o' them rovin' redskins. What, 
 in Old Nick's name, fetches 'em this
 
 38 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 way, an' jest at the time when they ain't 
 wanted ?' 
 
 After a moment's reflection, he starts up 
 from the log, continuing to mutter : ' I must 
 hide, or they'll be for havin' a parley. That 
 'ud never do, for I guess she can't be far off 
 by this. Hang the crooked luck !' 
 
 With this elegant finish, the speaker glides 
 rapidly round the end of the fallen tree, and 
 makes for the nearest underwood — evidently 
 with the design of screening himself from 
 sight. He is too late — as the ' ugh ' uttered 
 on the opposite side of the glade convinces 
 him — and, changing his intention, he fronts 
 round, and quietly returns to his former 
 position upon the log. 
 
 The hunter's conjecture has proved correct. 
 Bronzed faces show themselves over the tops 
 of the bushes on the opposite edge of the 
 glade; and, the moment after, three Indians 
 emerge into the open ground. 
 
 That they are Indians, their tatterdemalion 
 dress of coloured blankets, leggings, and 
 moccasins would indicate ; but their race is
 
 THE lovers' rendezvous. 39 
 
 even recognisable in their mode of march. 
 Though there are but three of them, and the 
 path runs no longer among trees, they follow 
 one another in single file, and in the true 
 typical ' trot ' of the red aboriginal. 
 
 The presence of Indians in these woods 
 requires explanation — for their tribe has long 
 before this time been transported to their new 
 lands west of the Mississippi. It only needs 
 to be said that a few families have preferred 
 to remain — some from attachment to the 
 scenes of their youth, not to be severed by 
 the prospect of a far happier home; some 
 from associations formed with the whites ; 
 and some from more trivial causes — perhaps 
 from being the degraded outcasts of their 
 tribes. Throughout the whole region of the 
 backwoods, there still exists a sparse popula- 
 tion of the indigenous race : dwelling, as their 
 ancestors did, under tents or in the open air ; 
 trafficking in small articles of their own 
 manufacture; in short, performing very 
 much the same metiei' as the Gitanos in 
 Europe. There are other points of resem 
 blance between these two races — amounting
 
 40 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 almost to a family likeness — and which fairly 
 entitles the Indians to an appellation some- 
 times bestowed upon them— ^Ae Gipsies of the 
 New World. 
 
 The three Indians who have entered the 
 glade are manifestly what is termed an 
 'Indian family,' or part of one. They are 
 father, and mother, and daughter — the last a 
 girl just grown to womanhood. 
 
 The man is in the lead, the woman follows, 
 and the young girl brings up the rear. They 
 are bent upon a journey, and its object is also 
 manifest. The pannier borne upon the back 
 of the woman, containing fox and coon skins, 
 with little baskets of stained wicker — and 
 the bead-embroidered moccasins and wampum 
 belts that appear in the hands of the girl — 
 bespeak a purposed visit to the settlement of 
 Swampville. 
 
 True to the custom ' of his fathers,' the 
 Indian himself carries nothing — if we except a 
 long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small 
 hatchet in his belt : rendering him rather a 
 formidable-looking fellow on his way to a 
 market.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS. 
 
 The log on which the young hunter has 
 seated himself is some paces distant from 
 the path. He has a slight knowledge of this 
 Indian family, and simply nods to them as 
 they pass. He does not speak, lest a word 
 should bring on a conversation — for the avoid- 
 ance of which he has a powerful motive. 
 
 The Indian makes no halt, but strides 
 silently onward, followed by his pannier-laden 
 squaw. The girl, however, pauses in her 
 steps — as if struck by some sudden thought. 
 
 The action quickly follows the thought ; 
 and, turning out of the path, she approaches 
 the spot where the hunter is seated.
 
 42 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 What wants she with him ? Can this be 
 the she he has been expecting with such im- 
 patience ? Surely not ! 
 
 And yet the maiden is by no means ill- 
 looking. In her gleaming oblique eyes there 
 is a certain sweetness of expression ; and a 
 tinge of purple-red, bursting through the 
 bronze of her cheeks, lends to her countenance 
 a peculiar charm. Add to this, luxuriant 
 black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines — 
 which the sparse savage costume but half 
 conceals — and you have a portrait something 
 more than pretty. Many a time and oft, 
 in the history of backwoods life, has the 
 heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at 
 such a shrine. Is this, then, the expected one ? 
 
 No. Her actions answer the question ; 
 and his too. He does not even rise to receive 
 her, but keeps his seat upon the log — regard- 
 ing her approach with a glance of indifference, 
 not unmingled with a slight expression of dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 Her object is presently apparent. A 
 bullet-pouch of white buckskin, richly worked
 
 THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS. 43 
 
 with porcupine quills, is hanging over her 
 arm. 
 
 On arriving before the hunter, she holds it 
 out, as if about to present it to him. One 
 might fancy that such is her intention ; and 
 that the pouch is designed as a gage d' amour ; 
 but the word ' dollar,' which accompanies the 
 offer, precludes the possibility of such a sup- 
 position. It is not thus that an Indian girl 
 makes love. She is simply soliciting the 
 pale-face to purchase. 
 
 In this design she is almost certain to be 
 successful. The pouch proclaims its value, 
 and promises to sell itself. Certainly it is a 
 beautiful object — with its quills of brilliant 
 dye, and richly embroidered shoulder-strap. 
 Perhaps no object could be held up before the 
 eyes of Frank Wingrove more likely to elicit 
 his admiration. 
 
 He sees and admires. He knows its value. 
 It is cheap at a dollar ; besides, he was just 
 thinking of treating himself to such a one. 
 His old catskin is worn and greasy. He has 
 grown fastidious of late — for reasons that
 
 44 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 may be guessed. This beautiful pouch 
 would sit well over his new hunting-shirt, 
 and trick him out to a T. In the eyes of 
 Marian 
 
 His desire to become the possessor of the 
 coveted article hinders him from continuing 
 the reflection. Fortunately his old pouch 
 contains the required coin ; and in another 
 instant, a silver dollar glances in the palm of 
 the Indian girl. 
 
 But the ' goods ' are not delivered over in 
 the ordinary manner. A thought seems to 
 strike the fair huckster ; and she stands for a 
 moment gazing upon the face of the handsome 
 purchaser. 
 
 Is it curiosity ? or is it, perhaps, some softer 
 emotion that has suddenly germinated in her 
 soul ? 
 
 Her hesitation lasts only for an instant. 
 With a smile that seems to solicit, she ap- 
 proaches nearer to the hunter. The pouch is 
 held aloft, with the strap extended between 
 her hands. Her design is evident — she pur- 
 poses to adjust it upon his shoulders.
 
 THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS. 45 
 
 The young hunter does not repel the 
 proffered service — how could he ? It would 
 not be Frank Wingrove to do so. On the 
 contrary, he leans his body forward to aid in 
 the action. 
 
 The attitude brings their faces almost close 
 together : their lips are within two inches of 
 touching ! 
 
 For a moment, the girl appears to have 
 forgotten her purpose, or else she executes it 
 in a manner sufficiently maladroit. In pass- 
 ing the strap over the high coon -skin cap^ her 
 fingers become entangled in the brown curls 
 beneath. Her eyes are not directed that 
 way : they are gazing with a basilisk glance 
 into the eyes of the hunter. 
 
 The attitude of Wingrove is at first shrink- 
 ing ; but a slight smile curling upon his lip, 
 betokens that there is not much pain in the 
 situation. A reflection, however, made at 
 the moment, chases away the smile. It is 
 this: 
 
 ' Tarnal earthquakes ! were Marian to see 
 me now ! She'd never believe but that I'm in
 
 46 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 love with this young squaw : she's been jea- 
 lous o' her already.' 
 
 But the reflection passes ; and with it for 
 an instant the remembrance of ^ Marian.' 
 The sweetest smelling flower is that which is 
 nearest — so sings the honey-bee. Human 
 blood cannot bear the proximity of those 
 pretty lips; and the kindness of the In- 
 dian maiden must be recompensed by a 
 kiss. 
 
 She makes no resistance. She utters no 
 cry. Their lips meet ; but the kiss is inter- 
 rupted ere it can be achieved. 
 
 The bark of a dog — followed by a half- sup- 
 pressed scream in a female voice — causes the 
 interruption. 
 
 The hunter starts back, looking aghast. 
 The Indian exhibits only surprise. Both 
 together glance across the glade. Marian 
 Holt is standing upon its opposite edge ! 
 
 Wingrove's cheek has turned red. Fear 
 and shame are depicted upon his face. In 
 his confusion he pushes the Indian aside — 
 more rudely than gently.
 
 THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS. 47 
 
 ' Go !' he exclaims in an under voice. * For 
 God's sake, go ! — you have ruined me !' 
 
 The girl obeys the request and gesture — 
 both sufficienly rude, after such sweet com- 
 plaisance. She obeys, however ; and moves 
 off from the spot — not without reproach in 
 her glance, and reluctance in her steps. 
 
 Before reaching the path, she pauses, turns 
 in her track, and glides swiftly back towards 
 the hunter. 
 
 Wingrove stands astonished — half affrighted. 
 Before he can recover himself, or divine her 
 intent, the Indian is once more by his side. 
 
 She snatches the pouch from his shoulders 
 — the place where her own hands had sus- 
 pended it — then, flinging the silver coin at 
 his feet, and uttering in a loud angry tone the 
 words, ' False pale-face !' she turns from the 
 spot, and glides rapidly away. 
 
 In another moment she has entered the 
 forest-path, and is lost to the sight. 
 
 The scene has been short — of only a few 
 seconds' duration. Marian has not moved, 
 since the moment she uttered that wild half-
 
 48 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 suppressed scream. She stands silent and 
 transfixed, as if its utterance had deprived her 
 of speech and motion. Her fine form pic- 
 turesquely draped with bodice and skirt ; 
 the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the 
 coiled coronet of shining hair surmount- 
 ing her head ; the rille in her hand, resting 
 on its butt, as it had been dashed mechani- 
 cally down ; the huge gaunt dog by her side 
 — all these outlined upon the green back- 
 ground of the forest leaves, impart to the 
 maiden an appearance at once majestic and 
 imposing. Standing thus immobile, she sug- 
 gests the idea of some rival huntress, whom 
 Diana, from jealousy, has suddenly trans- 
 formed into stone. 
 
 But her countenance betrays that she is no 
 statue. The colour of her cheeks — alter- 
 nately flushing red and pale — and the indig- 
 nant flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you 
 look upon a living woman — one who breathes 
 and burns under the influence of a terrible 
 emotion. 
 
 Wingrove is half frantic. He scarce knows
 
 THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS. 49 
 
 what to say, or what to do. In his confusion, 
 he advances towards the young girl, calling 
 her by name ; but before he has half crossed 
 the glade, her words fall upon his ear, causing 
 him to hesitate and falter in his steps. 
 
 ' Frank Wingrove !' she cries, ' come not 
 near me. Your road lies the other way. 
 Go ! follow your Indian damsel. You will 
 find her at Swampville, no doubt, selling her 
 cheap kisses to triflers like yourself Traitor ! 
 we meet no more !* 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, or even to 
 note the effect of her words, Marian Holt 
 steps back into the forest, and disappears. 
 
 The young hunter is too stupefied to follow. 
 With ' false pale-face ' ringing in one ear, 
 and traitor' in the other, he knows not in 
 what direction to turn. 
 
 At length the log falls under his eye ; and, 
 striding mechanically towards it, he sits down 
 — to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, 
 and the unpleasant consequences of an unhal- 
 lowed kiss. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SQUATTER AND SAINT. 
 
 Return we to the squatter's cabin — this time 
 to enter it. 
 
 Inside, there is not much to be seen or 
 described. The interior consists of a single 
 room — of which the log-walls are the sides, 
 and the clapboard roof the ceiling. In one 
 corner, there is a little partition or screen — 
 the materials composing it being skins of the 
 black bear and fallow deer. It is pleasant to 
 look upon this little chamber : it is the shrine 
 of modesty and virgin innocence. Its presence 
 proves that the squatter is not altogether a 
 savage. 
 
 Rude as is the interior of the sheiling, it
 
 SQUATTER AND SAINT. 51 
 
 contains a few relics of bygone, better days — 
 not spent there, but elsewhere. Some books 
 are seen upon a little shelf — the library of 
 Lilian's mother — and two or three pieces of 
 furniture, that have once been decent, if not 
 stylish. But chattels of this kind are scarce 
 in the backwoods — even in the houses of more 
 pretentious people than a squatter ; and a log- 
 stool or two, a table of spUt poplar planks, an 
 iron pot, some pans and pails of tin, a few 
 plates and pannikins of the same material, a 
 gourd Mipper' or drinkiiig-cup, and half-a- 
 dozen common knives, forks^ and spoons, con- 
 stitute the whole ' plenishing ' of the hut. 
 
 The skin of a cougar, not long killed, hangs 
 against the wall. Beside it are the pelts of 
 other wild animals — as the gray fox, the ra- 
 coon, the rufous lynx, musk-rats, and minks. 
 These, draping the roughly-hewn logs, rob 
 them to some extent of their rigidity. 
 
 By the door is suspended an old saddle, of 
 the fashion known as American — a sort of 
 cross between the high-peaked siUa of the 
 Mexicans, and the flat pad-like English saddle.
 
 52 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 On the adjacent peg hangs a bridle to match 
 — its reins black with age, and its bit reddened 
 with rust. 
 
 Some light articles of female apparel are 
 seen hanging against the wall, near that sacred 
 precinct where, during the night-hours, repose 
 the fair daughters of the squatter. 
 
 The cabin is a rude dwelling indeed — a 
 rough casket to contain a pair of jewels so 
 sparkling and priceless ! 
 
 Just now, it is occupied by two individuals 
 of a very different character — two men already 
 mentioned — the hunter Hickman Holt, and 
 his visitor Joshua Stebbins, the schoolmaster of 
 Swampville. 
 
 The personal appearance of the latter has 
 been already half described. It deserves a 
 more detailed delineation. His probable age 
 has been stated — about thirty. His spare 
 figure and ill-omened aspect have been alluded 
 to. Add to this, low stature, a tripe-coloured 
 skin, a beardless face, a shrinking chin, a nose 
 sharp-pointed and peckish, lank black hair fall- 
 ing over the forehead, and hanging down al-
 
 SQUATTER AND SAINT. 53 
 
 most low enough to shadow a pair of deep-set 
 weazel-like eyes : give to this combination of 
 features a slightly sinister aspect, and you have 
 the portrait of Joshua Stebbins. It is not easy 
 to tell the cause of this sinister expression : 
 for the features are not irregular; and, but 
 for its bilious colour, the face could scarcely 
 be termed ill-looking. The eyes do not squint ; 
 and the thin lips appear making a constant 
 effort to look smiling and saint-like. Perhaps 
 it is this outward affectation of the saintly 
 character — belying, as it evidently does, the 
 spirit within, that produces the unfavourable 
 impression. In earlier youth, the face may 
 have been better favoured ; but a career, spent 
 in the exercise of evil passions, has left more 
 than one * blaze ' upon it. 
 
 It is difficult to reconcile such a career with 
 the demeanour of the man, and especially with 
 his present occupation. But Joshua Stebbins 
 has not always been a schoolmaster ; and the 
 pedagogue of a border settlement is not neces- 
 sarily expected to be a model of morality. 
 Even if it were so, this lord of the hickory-
 
 d4 the wild huntkess. 
 
 switch is comparatively a stranger in Swamp- 
 ville ; and, perhaps, only the best side of his 
 character has been exhibited to the parents 
 and guardians of the settlement. This is of 
 the saintly order ; and, as if to strengthen the 
 illusion, a dress of clerical cut has been as- 
 sumed, as also a white cravat, and black boat- 
 brimmed hat. The coat, waistcoat, and trou- 
 sers are of broad-cloth — though not of the 
 finest quality. It is just such a costume as 
 might be worn by one of the humbler class of 
 Methodist border ministers, or by a Catholic 
 priest — a somewhat rarer bird in the back- 
 woods. 
 
 Joshua Stebbins is neither one nor the 
 other; although, as will shortly appear, his 
 assumption of the ecclesiastical style is not 
 altogether confined to his dress. Of late 
 he has also affected the clerical calling. The 
 ci-devant attorney's clerk — whilom the school- 
 master of Swampville — is now an * apostle ' of 
 the 'Latter-day Saints.' 
 
 The character is new — the faith itself is not 
 very old — for the events we are relating oc-
 
 SQUATTER AND SAINT. 55 
 
 curred during the first decade of the Mormon 
 revelation. Even Holt himself has not yet 
 been made aware of the change: as wouhl 
 appear from a certain air of astonishment, 
 with which at first sight he regards the cle- 
 rical habiliments of his visitor. 
 
 It would be difficult to imagine a greater 
 contrast than that presented in the appearance 
 of these two men. Were we to select two 
 parallel types from the animal world, they 
 would be the sly fox and the grizzly bear — the 
 latter represented by the squatter himself. 
 
 In Hickman Holt we behold a personage 
 of unwonted aspect : a man of gigantic stature, 
 with a beard reaching to the second button of 
 his coat, and a face not to be looked upon 
 without a sensation of terror — a countenance 
 expressive of determined courage, but at the 
 same time of fierceness, untempered by any 
 trace of a softer emotion. A shaggy sand- 
 coloured beard, slightly grizzled ; eyebrows 
 like a chevaux de frise of hogs' bristles; eyes 
 of a greenish gray, and a broad livid scar across 
 the left cheek — are component parts in pro-
 
 66 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 ducing this aspect; which a red cotton ker- 
 chief, wound turban-like around the head, and 
 pulled low down in front, renders its expression 
 more palpable and pronounced. 
 
 A loose surtout of thick green blanket-cloth, 
 somewhat faded and worn, adds to the colossal 
 appearance of the man ; while a red flapnel 
 shirt serves him also for a vest. His huge 
 limbs are encased in pantaloons of blue Ken- 
 tucky 'jeans;' but these are scarcely visible — 
 as the skirt of his ample coat drapes down so 
 as to cover the tops of a pair of rough horse- 
 skin boots, that reach upward to his knees. 
 The costume is common enough on the banks 
 of the Mississippi ; the colossal form is not 
 rare ; but the fierce, and somewhat repulsive 
 countenance — that is more individual. 
 
 Is this the father of Marian and Lilian ? 
 Is it possible that from so rude a stem could 
 spring such graceful branches — flowers so fair 
 and lovely ? If so, then must the mothers of 
 both have been beautiful beyond common ! 
 
 It is even true, and true that both were 
 beautiful — were, for they are gone, and Hick-
 
 SQUATTER AXD SAIXT. 57 
 
 man Holt is twice a widower. Long ago, he 
 
 buried the half-blood mother of Marian ; and 
 
 at a later period — though still some years 
 
 ago — her gentle golden-haired successor was 
 
 carried to an early grave. 
 
 The latter event occurred in one of the 
 
 settlements, nearer to the region of civilised life. 
 
 There was a murmur of mystery about the 
 
 second widowhood of Hickman Holt, which 
 
 only became hushed on his ' moving ' further 
 
 west — to the wild forest where we now find 
 
 him. Here no one knows aught of his past 
 
 life or history — one only excepted — and that 
 
 is the man who is to-day his visitor. 
 « « « « 
 
 Contrasting the two men — regarding the 
 superior size and more formidable aspect of 
 the owner of the cabin, you would expect his 
 guest to make some show of obeisance to him. 
 On the contrary, it is the squatter who exhi- 
 bits the appearance of complaisance. He has 
 already saluted his visitor with an air of em- 
 barrassment, but ill concealed under the words 
 of welcome with which he received him.
 
 58 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 Throughout the scene of salutation, and after- 
 wards, the schoohnaster has maintained his 
 characteristic demeanour of half-smiling, half- 
 sneering coolness. Noting the behaviour of 
 these two men to one another, even a careless 
 observer could perceive that the smaller man 
 is the master !
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT. 
 
 The morniDg needed no fire, but there were 
 embers upon the clay-hearth — some smoulder- 
 ing ends of fagots — over which the breakfast 
 had been cooked. On one side of the fire- 
 place the squatter placed a stool for his visitor ; 
 and then another for himself^ as if mecha- 
 nically, on the opposite side. 
 
 A table of rough-hewn planks stood be- 
 tween. On this was a bottle containing 
 maize-corn whisky — or ' bald face,' as it is 
 more familiarly known in the backwoods — 
 two cracked tea-cups to drink it out of; a 
 couple of corn-cob pipes ; and some black 
 tobacco.
 
 60 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 All these preparations had been made be- 
 forehand ; and confirmed, what had dropped 
 from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had 
 been expected. 
 
 Beyond the customary phrases of saluta- 
 tion, not a word was exchanged between the 
 host and guest, until both had seated them- 
 selves. The squatter then commenced the 
 conversation. 
 
 ' Yev hed a long ride, Josh,' said he, lean- 
 ing towards the table, and clutching hold of 
 the bottle : ' try a taste o' this hyur rot-gut — 
 'taint the daintiest o' drink to offer a man so 
 genteelly dressed es you air this mornin' ; 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. It's 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' mixin' — ha, ha, ha !' 
 
 The squatter laughed at his own jest — not
 
 AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT. 61 
 
 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 suc- 
 cess 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 begin- 
 ning 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' crit- 
 ters o' preechers I often see prowl in' about 
 Swampville. Durn it, man ! what dodge air 
 you up to now ? You haint got rileegun, I 
 reck'n ?' 
 
 * I have,' gravely responded Stebbins. 
 
 ' Hooraw ! ha, ha, ha ! Wal — what: sort 
 o' thing is't anyhow ?'
 
 62 THE AVILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 * My religion is of the right sort, Brother 
 Holt/ 
 
 ^Methody?' 
 
 ' Nothing of the kind.' 
 
 ' What then ? I thort they wur all Me- 
 thodies in Swampville ?' 
 
 ' They're all Gentiles in Swampville — worse 
 than infidels themselves.' 
 
 ' Wal — I know they brag mightily on thur 
 genteelity. I reckon you're about right thur 
 — them storekeepers air stuck up enough for 
 any thin'.' 
 
 ' 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 Eevela- 
 tion ?' 
 
 *Heern o' the new rev'lation. Wal, 1 
 
 don't know as I hev. What's the name o't ?' 
 
 * The book of Moiinon," 
 
 ' Oh ! Morn\ons ! I've heern o' them. 
 
 Haint they been a fightin' a spell up thur in 
 
 Massouray or Illinoy, whar they built 'em a
 
 AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT. 63 
 
 grandiferous temple? I've heern 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 perse- 
 cuted by the Egyptian Pharaohs,' 
 
 ^An' haint they killed their head man — 
 Smith he wur called_, if I reccollex right.' 
 
 ' Alas, true ! Joseph Smith has been made 
 a martyr, and is by this time an angel in hea- 
 ven. 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 
 heern he wur at the head of a putty con- 
 sid'able host o' 'em up thur in Massoury — 
 fifty wives they said he hed ! Wur that ere 
 true, Josh ?' 
 
 ' Scandal, Brother Holt — all scandal of the 
 wicked enemies of our faith. They were but 
 wives in the spirit. That the Gentiles can't 
 comprehend ; since their eyes have not been 
 opened by the Revelation.' 
 
 ' Wal, it 'peers to be a tol'able free sort
 
 64 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 o' rlleegun anyhow. Kind o' Turk, aint 
 it?' 
 
 * Nothing of the kind. It has nothng in 
 common with the doctrines of Mohamme- 
 danism.' 
 
 * But whar did you get it, Josh Stubbins ? 
 Who gin it to you ?' 
 
 ' You remember the man I brought over 
 here last fall V 
 
 ' 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 1 Don't ye reccollex 
 the trick that ar minx played on him ? She 
 unbuckled the girt o' his saddle, jest as he 
 wur agoin' 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 encou-
 
 AX APOSTOLIC EFFORT. 65 
 
 rage 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 ! 'Twant 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 re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 ^ Yes — that same man who was here with 
 rae 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.' 
 
 YOL. T. F
 
 66 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' Apostles ?' 
 
 ' Yes, one of the Twelve, intrusted with 
 spreading the true faith of the Saints over all 
 the world.' 
 
 ' Hooraw for you, Josh Stebbins ! You'll 
 be jest the man for that sort o' thing ; ye've 
 got the larnin' for it, haint you ?' 
 
 * No doubt, Brother Holt, with the help of 
 the Lord, my humble acquirements will be 
 useful ; for though He only can open for us 
 poor sinners the kingdom of Grace, he suffers 
 such weak instruments, as myself, to point 
 out the narrow path that leads to it. Just as 
 with the Philistines of old, the hearts of the 
 Gentiles are hardened like flint-stones, and 
 refuse to receive the true faith. Unlike the 
 followers of Mohammed, ice propagate not by 
 the sword, but by the influence of ratiocina- 
 tion.' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 * Ratiocination.' 
 
 ' What mout that be ?' 
 
 ' Reason — reason.' 
 
 ' Oh ! common sense you mean, I s'pose ?'
 
 AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT. 67 
 
 * Exactly so — reasoning that produces con- 
 viction ; and^ I flatter myself, that, being 
 gifted with some little sense and skill, my 
 eflPorts may be crowned with success.' 
 
 * Wal, Josh, 'ithout talkin' o' common 
 sense, ye've got a good grist o' lawyer's sense 
 — that I know ; an' so, I suppose, ye've tuk 
 it into your head to make beginnin' on me. 
 Aint that why yeVe 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 en- 
 deavours 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 import- 
 ance ; and it was with a view to ascertain 
 the nature of this business, and relieve him- 
 self from suspense, that the interrogatory was
 
 68 THE WILD HUNTEESS. 
 
 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 ao so, notwithstanding 
 his pretended opposition to the faith. 
 
 He was half indulging himself in the hope 
 that this might be the errand on which Steb- 
 bins had come : as was evinced by a more 
 cheerful expression on his countenance ; but, 
 as the Saint lingered long before making reply, 
 the shadows of suspicion again darkened over 
 the brow of the squatter ; and, with a nervous 
 uneasiness, he awaited the answer. 
 
 ' It'll be a tough job. Josh,' said he, with an 
 effort to appear unconcerned — ' a tough job, 
 mind ye.' 
 
 ' Well, so I should expect,' answered the 
 apostle drily ; ' and, just for that reason, I 
 don't intend to undertake it : though I should 
 like, Brother Holt, to see you gathered into the 
 fold. I know our great High Priest would 
 make much of a man like you. The Saints 
 have many enemies ; and need strong arms 
 and stout hearts such as yours, Hickman Holt.
 
 AX APOSTOLIC EFFORT. 69 
 
 The Lord has given to his Prophet the right 
 to defend the true faith — even with carnal 
 weapons, if others fail ; and woe be to them 
 who make war on us ! Let them dread the 
 Destroying A ngels F 
 
 'The Destroying Angels! What sort o' 
 critters be they ?' 
 
 * They are the Danites' 
 
 * Wal, Tm jest as wise as ever, Josh. Dod 
 rot it, man ! don't be mystiferous. Who air 
 the Danites, I shed like to know ?' 
 
 ' You can only know them by initiation ; 
 and you should know them. You're just the 
 man to be one of them ; and I have no doubt 
 you'd be made one, as soon as you joined 
 us.' 
 
 The apostle paused as if to note the effect 
 of his words ; but the colossal hunter appeared 
 as if he had not heard them. It was not that 
 he did not comprehend their meaning, but 
 rather because he was not heeding what had 
 been said — his mind being occupied with a 
 presentiment of some more unpleasant pro- 
 posal held in reserve by his visitor. He
 
 70 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 remained silent, however; leaving it to the 
 latter to proceed to the declaration of his de- 
 sign. 
 
 The suspicions of the squatter — if directed 
 to anything connected with his family affairs 
 — were well grounded, and soon received con- 
 firmation. After a pause, the Mormon con- 
 tinued : 
 
 ' No, Hickman Holt, it aint with you my 
 business lies to-day — that is, not exactly with 
 you.' 
 
 ^Who, then?' 
 
 ' Your daughter /'
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 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 con- 
 ceal it. It was noticed for all that ; and the 
 emotion that caused it perfectly understood. 
 The keen eye of the ci-devant law clerk was 
 too skilled in reading the human counte- 
 nance, to be deceived by an effort at im- 
 passibility. 
 
 ' My daughter ?' muttered Holt, half inter- 
 rogatively. 
 
 'Your daughter!' echoed the Mormon, 
 with imperturbable coolness. 
 
 ' But which o' 'em ? Thur's two.'
 
 72 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' 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 ad- 
 mirably. I suppose you know that the Saints 
 
 have moved off from Illinois, and are now 
 
 ' . ^ • 
 
 located beyond the Eocky Mountains ?' 
 
 ' I've heern somethin' o't.' 
 
 ' Well, I propose going there to join them ; 
 and I must take a wife with me : for no man 
 is welcome who comes there without one.' 
 
 * Y — e — es,' 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
 
 THE mormon's demand. 73 
 
 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 
 git 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 1 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 Ar- 
 kansas ; and it'll be prepared by the time I 
 get there, to move over the plains. I've bought 
 me a team and waggon. It's already loaded 
 and packed ; and there's a corner in it left
 
 74 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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, notwith- 
 standing his fierce and formidable aspect, did 
 not dare to reply in the same strain. He was 
 evidently cowed, and suffering under some 
 fearful apprehension. 
 
 ' Must go ?' he muttered, half-involuntarily, 
 as if echoing the other's words.' 
 ' Yes, must and shalV 
 ' I tell ye, Josh Stebbins, she'll niver con- 
 sent.' 
 
 'And I tell you, Hickman Holt, I don't 
 want her consent. That I leave you to ob- 
 tain ; and if you can't get it otherwise, you 
 must force it. Bah ! what is it for ? A 
 good husband — a good home — plenty of meat, 
 drink, and dress : for don't you get it into 
 your fancy that the Latter Day Saints resem- 
 ble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, 
 who think they please God by their miserable 
 penances. Quite the reverse, I can assure
 
 THE MORMON S DEMAND. 70 
 
 you. We mean to live as God intended men 
 should live — eat, drink, and be merry. Look 
 there !' 
 
 The speaker exhibited a handful of shining 
 gold pieces. 
 
 ' That's the way our church provides for its 
 apostles. Your daughter will be a thousand 
 times better off there, than in this wretched 
 hovel. Perhaps she will not mind the change 
 so much as you appear to think. I know 
 many a first-rate girl that would be glad of 
 the chance.' 
 
 ' I know she won't give in — fur less to be 
 made a Mormon o'. I've heern her speak 
 agin 'em.' 
 
 * I say again, she must give in. Afler all, 
 you needn't tell her I'm a Mormon: she 
 needn't know anything about that. Let her 
 think I'm only moving out west — to Oregon — 
 where there are plenty of respectable emi- 
 grants now going. She'll not suspect any- 
 thing in that. Once out at Salt Lake City, 
 she'll soon get reconciled to Mormon life, I 
 guess.'
 
 76 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 fiend- 
 ish 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
 
 THE mormon's demaxd. 77 
 
 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 dis- 
 pute. Like the buffalo of the plains stung 
 with Indian arrows, or the great mysticetus of 
 the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, 
 all the angry energies of his nature appeared 
 suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and 
 he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the 
 presence of his tormentor. 
 
 'D — m — n !' cried he, striking the floor 
 with his heavy heel, * she won't do it — she 
 won't, and she shan't /' 
 
 * Keep cool, Hickman Holt !' rejoined the 
 Mormon, without moving from his seat' — 
 ' keep cool ! I expected this ; but it's all 
 bluster. I tell you she will, and she shall,' 
 
 ' Hev a care, Josh Stebbins ! Hev a care 
 what yur about ! Ye don't know what you 
 may drive me to ' 
 
 ' But I know what I may lead you to,' 
 interrupted the other with a sneering smile. 
 
 'What?' involuntarily inquired Holt.
 
 78 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 * The gallows/ laconically answered Steb- 
 bins. 
 
 ' Devils an' d — m — n !' 
 
 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/ con- 
 tinued the Mormon, after a certain time had 
 passed in silence. ' My mind's made up — 
 the girl must go with me. Say yes or no^ 
 If yes, then all's well — well for your daughter, 
 and well for you too. I shall be out of your 
 way — Salt Lake's a long distance off — and 
 it's not likely you II 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 ;
 
 THE mormon's demaxd. 79 
 
 and its continuance proved, that it was in- 
 fluencing him to take a different view of the 
 Mormon's proposal. 
 
 He spoke at length ; but no longer in the 
 tone of rage — for his passion seemed to have 
 subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up, 
 
 ' An' s'pose I say no T 
 
 '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 — hring a murderer 
 to justice ^^ 
 
 ' Hush ! Josh Stebbins — for Heaven's sake, 
 speak low ! You know it isnH true — but, 
 hush ! The gurls are 'ithout. 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
 
 80 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 be upon him ; ay, and if he could even get 
 clear of them^ he could not escape out of my 
 power. I have told you I am an Apostle of 
 the great Mormon Church; and that man 
 would be cunning indeed who could shun the 
 vengeance of our Destroying Angels. Now, 
 Hickman Holt, which is it to be ? yes or no T 
 
 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 1'
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SPLENDID PENSION. 
 
 The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was fol- 
 lowed by an extensive dehandement, which 
 sent many thousands of sabres ringing back 
 into their scabbards — some of them soon after 
 to spring forth in the cause of freedom, ca- 
 lumniously called * fillibustering ;' others per- 
 haps destined never to be drawn again. Using 
 a figurative expression, not a few were con- 
 verted into spades ; and in this/'acz^c fashion, 
 carried to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean 
 — there to delve for Californian gold — while 
 still others were suspended in the counting- 
 house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idle- 
 ness. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 A three years' campaign under the sultry 
 skies of Mexico — drawing out the war-fever 
 that had long burned in the bosoms of the 
 American youth — had satisfied the ambition 
 of most. It was only those who arrived late 
 upon the field — too late to pluck a laurel — 
 who would have prolonged the strife. 
 
 The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield 
 — ci-devant captain of a corps of ' rangers ' 
 — was not one of the last mentioned. With 
 myself, as with many others, the great Mexi- 
 can campaign was but the continuation of the 
 little w^ar — la petite guerre — ihsX had long 
 held an intermittent existence upon the bor- 
 ders 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 Ana- 
 huac, 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
 
 A SPLEXDID PENSION. 83 
 
 the dolce far nienie, 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 trial of it, but for the inter- 
 ference of one of those ill-starred contingencies 
 that often embarrass the best intentions. A 
 phrase of common occurrence will explain the 
 circumstance that offered opposition to my 
 will : ' want of the wherewith to support a 
 wife.' 
 
 I had been long enough in the wilderness, 
 to know that even a ' dwelling in the desert ' 
 cannot be maintained without expense ; and 
 that, however pure the desert air, the fairest 
 ' spirit ' would require something more sub- 
 stantial to live upon.
 
 84 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 Under this prudential view of the case, 
 marriage was altogether out of the question. 
 We, the debandes, were dismissed without 
 pension : the only reward for our warlike 
 achievements being a piece of 'land scrip,' 
 good for the number of acres upon the face of 
 it — to be selected from ' government land,' 
 wherever the holder might choose to ' locate.' 
 
 The scrip was for greater or less amount, 
 according to the term of the receiver's service. 
 Mine represented a ' section ' of six hundred 
 and forty acres — worth, in ordinary times, a 
 dollar and quarter per acre ; but just then — 
 on account of the market being flooded by 
 similar paper — reduced to less than half its 
 value. 
 
 With this magnificent ' bounty ' was I re- 
 warded 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 SPLENDID PENSION. 85 
 
 — a true rifle, that I had myself carried 
 equally as far — a pair of Colt's pistols — and a 
 steel ' Toledo,' taken at the storming of 
 Chapultepec — constituted the bulk of my 
 available property. Add to this, a remnant 
 of my last month's pay — in truth, not enough 
 to provide me with that much coveted article, 
 a civilians 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 thread-bare as the coat itself; and 
 yet I was not wanting in friends, who fancied 
 that it might still exist! How little under- 
 stood they the real state of the case, and how 
 much did they misconstrue my involuntary 
 motives ! 
 
 It was just to escape from such unpleasant 
 associations, that I had held on to my * scrip.' 
 Most of my brother-oflacers 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
 
 86 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 the 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 manv 
 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 No. 9, 
 Township , as my future plantation. It
 
 A SPLENDID PENSION. 87 
 
 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 \Yith the 
 Mississippi. 
 
 The official believed there had been some 
 ' improvement ' made upon the land by 
 a squatter; but whether the squatter still 
 lived upon it, he could not tell. 'At all 
 events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise 
 the pre-emption rights 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 
 wood-cutter ; 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 docu- 
 ments, that constituted me legal owner and 
 lord of the soil of Section 9. 
 
 The only additional information the agent
 
 88 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 IX. 
 
 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.'
 
 90 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 '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!' 
 
 *0 yes — though I can't promise that you 
 will see anything of Venus in the woods, you 
 may enjoy to your heart's content the noble 
 art of venerie. The Obion bottom is a very 
 paradise for hunters. It was it that gave 
 birth to the celebrated Crockett.' 
 
 'On that account it will be all the more 
 interesting to me ; and, from what you say, 
 it is just the sort of place I should have 
 chosen to squat upon.' 
 
 'By the by,' interrupted my friend, looking 
 a little grave as he spoke, ' your making use 
 of that familiar phrase, recalls the circum- 
 stance you mentioned just now. Did I 
 understand you to say, there was a squatter on 
 the land ?' 
 
 'There teas one— so the agent has told 
 me ; but whether he be still squatted there, 
 the official could not say.'
 
 FRIEXDLY ADVICE. 91 
 
 'Rather awkward^ if he be,' rejoined my 
 friend, in a sort of musing soliloquy ; while, 
 with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept 
 pulling his * goatee ' to its full length. 
 
 ' In what way awkward ?' I asked in some 
 surprise. ' How can that signify ?' 
 
 ' A great deal. These squatters are queer 
 fellows — ugli/ customers to deal with — espe- 
 cially when you come to turn them out of 
 their house and home, as they consider it. 
 It is true, they have the pre-emjJtion 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 of ''possession being 
 nine points of the law," is, in the squatters' 
 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
 
 92 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 a fellow he is. They are not all alike. If 
 he should chance to be one of the obstinate 
 and pugnacious kind, you are likely enough 
 to have trouble with him.' 
 
 ' But surely the law' 
 
 ' Will aid you in ousting him — that's what 
 you were going to say ?' 
 
 ' I should expect so — in Tennessee, at all 
 events.' 
 
 'And you would be disappointed. In 
 almost any other part of the state, you might 
 rely upon legal assistance ; but, I fear, that 
 about Swampville you will find society not 
 very different from that you have encoun- 
 tered on the borders of Texas ; and you 
 know how little help the law could afford you 
 there, in the enforcement of such a claim?' 
 
 ' Then I must take the law into my own 
 hands,' rejoined I, falling into very old- 
 fashioned phraseology — for I was beginning 
 to feel indignant at the very idea of this 
 prospective difiiculty. 
 
 'No, Warfield,' replied my sober friend, 
 'do not take that course. I know you are
 
 FRIENDLY ADVICE. 93 
 
 not the man to be scared out of your rights ; 
 but, in the present case, prudence is the 
 proper course to follow. Your squatter, if 
 there be one— it is to be hoped that, like 
 many of our grand cities, he has only an 
 existence on the map — but if there should 
 be a real live animal of this description on 
 the ground, he will be almost certain to have 
 neighbours — some half-dozen of his own kid- 
 ney — 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 hornet's nest about 
 your ears. Even were you to succeed in so 
 clearing your land, you would find ever 
 afterward 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.'
 
 94 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 '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 
 he a squatter^ and one likely to prove obstinate, 
 approach him as gently as you can, and state 
 your case frankly. You will find this the 
 best mode of treating with these fellows — 
 many of whom have a dash of honour, as 
 well as honesty, in their composition. Speak 
 of the improvements he has made, and offer 
 him a recompense.' 
 
 * Ah! friend Blount,' replied I, addressing 
 my kind host by his baptismal name, * it is 
 much easier to listen to your advice than to 
 follow it.' 
 
 ' Come, old comrade !' rejoined he, after a 
 momentary pause, ' I think I understand 
 vou. There need be no concealment between 
 friends, such as we are. Let not that diffi- 
 culty hinder you from following the course I 
 have recommended. The old general's pro- 
 perty is not all gone yet ; and, should you
 
 FRIEXDLY ADVICE. 95 
 
 stand in need of a hundred or two, to make a 
 second purchase of your plantation, send me 
 word, and' — - — 
 
 ' Thanks, Blount — thanks ! it is just as I 
 should have expected ; but I shall not become 
 your debtor for such a purpose. I have been 
 a frontiersman too long to be bullied by a 
 backwoodsman' 
 
 ' There now, Warfield ! just your own 
 passionate self! Nay, you must take my 
 advice. Pray, do not go rashly about it, but 
 act as I have counselled you.' 
 
 'That will depend upon contingencies. 
 Should Master Holt — for I believe that is 
 my predecessor's name — should he prove 
 amiable, I may consent to go a little in your 
 debt, and pay him for whatever log- chopping 
 he has done. If otherwise, by the Lady of 
 Guadalupe ! you remember our old Mexican 
 shibboleth — he shall be cleared out of his 
 clearing sans facon. Perhaps we have been 
 wasting words upon an ideal existence 
 Perhaps there is no squatter after all; or 
 that old Holt has long since " gone under "
 
 96 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 and only his ghost will be found flitting around 
 the precincts of this disputed territory. 
 Would not that be an interesting companion 
 for my hours of midnight loneliness? A 
 match for the wolves and wild-cats ! Ha, 
 ha, ha !' 
 
 ' Well, old comrade ; I trust it may turn 
 out no worse. The ghost of a squatter 
 might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than 
 the squatter himself, dispossessed of his 
 squatment. Notwithstanding this badinage, 
 I know you will act with judgment; and 
 you can count upon my help in the matter, 
 if you should require it.' 
 
 I grasped the speaker's hand, to express 
 my gratitude ; and the tight pressure re- 
 turned, told me that I was parting with one 
 of the few friends I had in the world. 
 
 7^ 7^ 7(y 7^ Tfr 
 
 My impedimenta had been already packed. 
 They did not need much stowage. A pair 
 of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all 
 my personal property — including the title- 
 deeds of my freehold ! My arms I carried
 
 FRIENDLY ADVICE. 97 
 
 upon my person: my sword only being 
 strapped along the saddle. 
 
 Bidding adieu to my friend, I mounted 
 my noble Arab ; and, heading him to the 
 road, commenced journeying towards the 
 Western .Reserve. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 A CLASSIC LAND. 
 
 Between Nashville and Swampville ex- 
 tends a distance of more than a hundred 
 miles — ^just three days' travel on horseback. 
 For the first ten miles — to Harpeth River — 
 I found an excellent road, graded and 
 macadamised, running most of the way 
 between fenced plantations. 
 
 My next point was Paris ; and forty miles 
 further on, I arrived in Dresden I 
 
 So far as the nomenclature was concerned, 
 I might have fancied myself travelling upon 
 the continent of Europe. By going a little 
 to the right, I might have entered Asia : 
 since I was told of Smyrna and Troy being
 
 A CLASSIC LAKD. 99 
 
 at no great distance in that direction ; and 
 by proceeding in a south-westerly course, I 
 should have passed through Denmark, and 
 landed at Memphis — certainly an extensive 
 tour within the short space of three days ! 
 
 Ugh ! those ugly names ! What hedge- 
 schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely 
 and profusely over this lovely land? Whip 
 the wretch with rattlesnakes ! Memphis 
 indeed ! — as if Memphis with its monolithic 
 statues needed commemoration on the banks 
 of the Mississippi ! A new Osiris — a new 
 Sphinx, 'half horse, half alligator, with a 
 sprmkling of the snapping turtle/ 
 
 At every forking of the roads, whenever I 
 inquired my way, in my ears rang those 
 classic homonym es, till my soul was sick of 
 the sounds. Swampville was euphony, and 
 ' Mud Creek ' soft music in comparison ! 
 
 Beyond Dresden, the titles became more 
 appropriate, and much more rare. There 
 were long stretches having no names at all : 
 for the simple reason, that there were no 
 places to bear them. The numerous creeks.
 
 100 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 however, had been baptized ; 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 Keserve, 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, appel- 
 latives by them bestowed. 
 
 Unfortunately, the system is followed up 
 to this hour by the Fremonts and other 
 pseudo-explorers of the farthest west. The 
 soft and harmonious sound of Indian and 
 Spanish nomenclature — as well as the more 
 striking titles bestowed by the trappers — are 
 rapidly being obliterated from the maps ; their 
 places to be supplied — at the instigation of a 
 fulsome flattery — by the often vulgar names 
 of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads 
 of the employing bureau. 
 
 ' I know the old general will be pleased — 
 perhaps reciprocate the compliment in his
 
 A CLASSIC LAXD. 101 
 
 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,' * Jeffer- 
 son,' ' Madison,' and ' Washington,' over- 
 looking 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 harmoni- 
 ous. But that is another question, and must
 
 102 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 not hinder us from entering our protest 
 against the nomenclature of Smith, Jones, 
 and Robinson f * * * * 
 
 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 direc- 
 tion. 
 
 As I neared the point of my destination, I 
 became naturally curious to learn something 
 about it — that is, about Swampville — since it 
 was evident that this was to be the point 
 d'appui of my future efforts at colonisation — 
 my depot and port of entry. I should have 
 inquired had I found any one to inquire 
 from; but, for ten miles along the road, I 
 encountered not a human creature. Then 
 only a ' darkey ' with an ox-cart loaded with 
 wood; but, despairing of information from 
 such a source, I declined detaining him. The 
 only intelligence I was able to draw from the 
 negro was that: 'da *'city" o' Swam'- 
 ville, massr, he lay 'bout ten mile furrer down 
 da crik.'
 
 A CLASSIC LAXD. 103 
 
 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 Swamp- 
 ville 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 ap- 
 proaching it, was that I had been coming in 
 the wrong direction — in other words, I had 
 approached it from behind, 
 
 Swampville was in reality a riverine town. 
 To it the east was a back country ; and its front 
 face was to the west. In that direction lay 
 its world, and the ways that opened to it. 
 
 Log-shanties began to line the road — stand- 
 ing thicker as I advanced ; while, at intervals,
 
 104 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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,' em- 
 bellished 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 dis- 
 mounted 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
 
 A CLASSIC LAND. 105 
 
 his ivories and the whites of his eyes in an 
 expression of ill-concealed astonishment, pro- 
 duced apparently by the presence of my uni- 
 form coat — to the ' darkey/ no doubt, an un- 
 common apparition.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE 'JACKSON HOTEL. 
 
 I FOUND that I had arrived m 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 nor waiter met me with a word ; and, 
 following the stream of ' boarders ' or travel- 
 lers who had arrived before me, I took my 
 seat at the common tahle-d'Mte. 
 
 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
 
 THE * JACKSON HOTEL.' 107 
 
 Swampville hotel. A supper-table, encircled 
 by blanket and * jeans' coats — by buckskin 
 blouses and red-flannel shirts — by men without 
 coats at all — was nothing strange to me ; nor 
 was it strange either to find these bizarre cos- 
 tumes 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 'store-keepers' and better 
 class of clerks take their meals — usually 
 sleeping in the oflfice 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 at- 
 tracted my attention, and fixed it. It was 
 not a lady's face, as you may be imagining ; 
 though there were present some of that sex — 
 the landlord's helpmate who presided over the 
 coffee-pot, with some three or four younger 
 specimens of the backwoods fair — her daugh-
 
 108 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ters and nieces. All, however, were abso- 
 lutely without attraction of any sort ; and I 
 somewhat bitterly remembered the mot of 
 double meaning, with which my friend had 
 entertained me at parting. 
 
 Veims was certainly not visible at the 
 Swampville tahle-dliote : for the presiding di- 
 vinity was a perfect Hecate ; and her atten- 
 dant damsels could have found no place in the 
 train of the Cytherean goddess. 
 
 No — the face that interested me was neither 
 that of a female, nor in any way feminine. It 
 was the face of a man ; and that in the most 
 emphatic sense of the word. 
 
 He was a young man — apparently about 
 four or five and twenty — and costumed as a 
 backwoods hunter ; that is, he wore a buckskin 
 hunting'shirt, leggings, and moccasins — with 
 bullet-pouch and powder-horn suspended over 
 his shoulder, and hunting-knife sheathed in his 
 belt. The coonskin 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.
 
 THE ' JACKSON HOTEL.' 109 
 
 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, w^ell-formed 
 mouth, with white, regular teeth — all contri- 
 buted to the creation of what might be termed 
 a type of manly beauty. 
 
 This beauty appeared in a somewhat ne- 
 glected garb. Art might have improved it ; 
 but it was evident that none had been em- 
 ployed, 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
 
 110 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 op- 
 portunity of observing him. 
 
 Notwithstanding his undoubted good looks 
 — sufficiently striking to have filled the pos- 
 sessor 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 occa- 
 sionally cast towards him, from the opposite 
 end of the table, I could perceive that ' Miss 
 Alvina ' and ' Miss Car'line ' were not insen- 
 sible 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 melan- 
 choly tinge pervading his features remained 
 altogether unaltered.
 
 THE 'JACKSON HOTEL.' Ill 
 
 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 afore- 
 mentioned damsels, whose sly espieglerie of 
 the handsome hunter could not have escaped 
 their observation. 
 
 The young man appeared to be rather 
 friendless, than unknown. I could perceive 
 that almost all of the company were acquainted 
 with him ; but that most of them — especially 
 the gentlemen in broadcloth — 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 afl3uent neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 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 hy-
 
 112 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 pothesis that he was/?0(?r,- and, indeed, it did 
 not require much penetration to perceive that 
 such was the reality. The hunting-shirt, though 
 once a handsome one, was no longer new. On 
 the contrary, it was considerably 'scuffed;' 
 and the green baize wrappers upon his limbs 
 were faded to a greenish brown. Other points 
 proclaimed a light purse — perhaps far lighter 
 than the heart of him who carried it — if I was 
 to judge by the expression of his countenance. 
 Notwithstanding all this, the young hunter 
 was evidently an object of interest — whether 
 friendly or hostile — and might have been the 
 cynosure of the supper-table, but for my un- 
 dress-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.
 
 THE 'JACKSON HOTEL.' 113 
 
 In the eyes of your ' sovereign citizen, ' the 
 mere military man is not the hero that he is 
 elsewhere ; and he must show something more 
 than a uniform coat, to recommend himself 
 to their suffrages. 
 
 I was conceited enough to imagine that 
 Miss Alvina, and her vis-a-vis^ Miss Caroline, 
 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 cour- 
 teous to me — as was evinced by his once or 
 twice pushing within my reach those delicate 
 dishes, distributed at very long distances over 
 the table. 
 
 I felt an incipient friendship for this young 
 man, which he appeared to reciprocate. He 
 saw that I was a stranger ; and, notwithstand- 
 ing the pretentious fashion of my dress, per- 
 haps he noticed my well-worn coat, and con- 
 
 voL. I. r
 
 114 THE WILD HUXTRESH. 
 
 jectured 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 XIL 
 
 COLONEL KIPP. 
 
 As soon as I had swallowed supper, I has- 
 tened to place myself en rapport with the 
 landlord of the hostelry — whose name I had 
 ascertained to be ' Kipp,' or ' Colonel Kipp,' 
 as his guests called him. Though I had no 
 intention of proceeding farther that night, I 
 was desirous of obtaining some information 
 about the w^hereabouts 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
 
 116 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 pro- 
 truded 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 per- 
 sonage 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, no- 
 ticing their defection, I waited for an oppor- 
 tunity to speak to the colonel alone. 
 
 This, after a short time, offered itself 
 
 The dignified gentleman took not the slight- 
 est notice of me as I approached ; nor until I 
 had got so near, as to leave no doubt upon his
 
 COLONEL KIPP. 117 
 
 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 pre- 
 zoom ?' 
 ^Yes.' 
 
 * Business in Swampville ?' 
 
 ' Why, yes, Mr. Kipp ' 
 
 'I am usooally called kumel here,' inter- 
 rupted the backwoods inilitario, with a bland 
 smile, as if half deprecating the title, and that 
 it was forced upon him. ' Of course,' conti- 
 nued he, ' you, sir, bein' a strenger' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. Colonel Kipp : I am 
 a stranger to your citi/, and of course' 
 
 ' Don't signify a dump, sir,' interrupted he
 
 118 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 Hole's 
 Clearin'?' 
 
 ' Yes— Holt's Clearing.' 
 
 * Wal, there air such a place.' 
 'Is it distant?' 
 
 * If you mean Hick Holt's Clearin', it's a 
 lee tie better'n six miles from here. He squats 
 on Mud Crik.' 
 
 * There 's a squatter upon it, then ?' 
 
 ' On Holt's Clearin' ? Wal, I shed rayther 
 say there air a squatter on't, an' no mistake.' 
 ^ His name is Holt, is it not ?' 
 ' That same individooal.'
 
 COLOXEL KIPP. 119 
 
 * Do you think I could procure a guide in 
 Swampville — some one who can show me the 
 way to Holt's Clearing ?' 
 
 ' Do I think so ? Possible you might. D'ye 
 see that ar case in the coon-cap ?' 
 
 The speaker looked, rather than pointed, 
 to the young fellow of the buckskin-shirt ; who, 
 outside the verandah, was now standing by 
 the side of a very sorry-looking steed. 
 I replied in the affirmative. 
 ' Wal, I reckon he kin show you the way 
 to Holt's Clearin'. He 's another o' them 
 Mud Crik squatters. He 's just catchin' up 
 his critter to go that way.' 
 
 This I hailed as a fortunate circumstance. 
 If the young hunter lived near the clearing I 
 was in search of, perhaps he could give me all 
 the information I required ; and his frank 
 open countenance led me to believe he would 
 not withhold it. 
 
 It occurred to me, therefore, to make a 
 slight change in my programme. It was 
 yet early — for supper in the backwoods is 
 what is elsewhere known as ' tea.' The sun
 
 120 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 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 excla- 
 mation from the landlord. 
 
 ' I guess,' said he, in a half-bantering way, 
 * you haint told me your business yet ?' 
 
 ' No/ I answered deferentially, ' I have 
 not.' 
 
 ' What on airth's takin' you out to Holt's 
 Clearin'?'
 
 COLONEL KIPP. 121 
 
 ' That, Mr. Kipp — I beg pardon — Colonel 
 Kipp — is a private matter.' 
 
 ' Private and par tickler, eh ?' 
 
 ' Very/ 
 
 ' Oh, then, I guess, you'd better keep it to 
 yourself/ 
 
 ' That is precisely my intention/ 1 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 
 learned 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.'
 
 122 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 I re-entered the hotel, to pay for my en- 
 tertainment, and give orders for the saddling 
 of my horse. 
 
 It was evident that I had offended the land- 
 lord by my brusque behaviour. I ascertained 
 this by the amount of my bill, as well as by the 
 fact of being permitted to saddle for myself. 
 Even the naked ' nigger ' did not make his 
 appearance at the stable. 
 
 Not much cared I. I had drawn the girth 
 too often, to be disconcerted by such petty 
 annoyance ; and, in five minutes after, I was 
 in the saddle and ready for the road. 
 
 Having joined my companion in the street, 
 
 we rode off from the inhospitable caravanserai 
 
 of the Jackson Hotel — leaving its warlike 
 
 landlord to chew his tobacco, and such reflec- 
 
 ions as my remarks had given rise to.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THROUGH THE FOREST. 
 
 As we passed up the street, I was conscious of 
 being the subject of Swampville speculation. 
 Staring faces at the windows, and gaping 
 groups around the doors, proved by their looks 
 and gestures, that I was regarded as a rare 
 spectacle. It could scarcely be my companion, 
 who was the object of this universal curiosity. 
 A buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday 
 sight in Swampville — not so, a well-mounted 
 military man, armed, uniformed, and equip- 
 ped. No doubt, my splendid Arab, caracoUng 
 as if he had not been out of the stable for a 
 week, came in for a large share of the admi- 
 ration. •
 
 124 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 We were soon beyond its reach. Five 
 minutes sufficed to carry us out of sight of 
 the Swampvillians : for, in that short space 
 of time, we had cleared the suburbs of the 
 * city,' and were ridhig under the shadows of 
 an unbroken forest. 
 
 Its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief — 
 shading us at one and the same time from 
 the fiery sun, and the glances of vulgar obser- 
 vation through which we had run the gauntlet. 
 I at least enjoyed the change ; and for some 
 minutes we rode silently on, my guide keep- 
 ing in advance of me. 
 
 This mode of progression was not volun- 
 tary, but a necessity, arising from the nature 
 of the road — which was a mere ' trace ' or 
 bridle-path blazed across the forest. No wheel 
 had ever made its track in the soft deep mud 
 — ^into which, at every step, our steeds sank 
 far above the fetlocks — and, as there was not 
 room for two riders abreast, I followed the 
 injunction of my companion by keeping my 
 horse's head * at the tail o' his'n.' 
 
 In this fashion we progressed for a mile or
 
 THROUGH THE FOREST. 125 
 
 more, through a tract of what is termed ' bot- 
 tom-timber ' — a forest of those gigantic water- 
 loving trees — the sycamore and cottonwood. ■ 
 Their tall gray trunks rose along the path, 
 standing thickly on each side, and sometimes 
 in regular rows, like the columns of a 
 grand temple. I felt a secret satisfaction in 
 gazing upon these colossal forms : for my 
 heart hailed them as the companions of my 
 future solitude. At the same time, I could 
 not help the reflection, that, if my new estate 
 was thus heavily encumbered, the clearing of 
 the squatter was not likely to be extended 
 beyond whatever limits the axe of Mr. Holt 
 had already assigned to it. 
 
 A little further on, the path began to ascend. 
 We had passed out of the bottom-lands, and 
 were crossing a ridge, which forms the divide 
 between Mud Creek and the Obion Eiver. 
 The soil was now a dry gravel, with less signs 
 of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest. 
 The trees were of slender growth; and at 
 intervals their trunks stood far apart, giving 
 us an opportunity to ride side by side. This
 
 126 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 was exactly what I wanted : as I was longing 
 for a conversation with my new acquaintance. 
 
 Up to this time he had observed a profound 
 silence ; but for all that, I fancied he was not 
 disinclined to a little causerie. His reserve 
 seemed to spring from a sense of modest 
 delicacy — as if he did not desire to take the 
 initiative. I relieved him from this embar- 
 rassment, by opening the dialogue. 
 
 ' What sort of a gentleman is this Mr. 
 Holt?' 
 
 ' Gentleman !' 
 
 ' Yes — what sort oi person is he ?' 
 
 * Oh, what sort o' person. Well, stranger, 
 he's what we, in these parts, call a rough 
 customer.' 
 
 ' Indeed ?' 
 
 ' Eayther, I shed say.' 
 
 ' Is he what you call a poor man ?' 
 
 ' All that I reckon. He hain't got nothin,' 
 as I knows on, 'ceptin ' his old critter o' a boss, 
 an' his clarin' o' a couple o' acres or there- 
 about ; besides, he only squats upon that.' 
 
 ' He's only a squatter, then ?'
 
 THROUaH THE FOREST. 127 
 
 * That's all, stranger ; tho' I reckon he 
 considers the clarin' as much his own, as I do 
 my bit o' ground, that's been bought an' paid 
 for.' 
 
 ' Indeed ?' 
 
 * Yes — I shedn't like to be the party that 
 would buy it over his head.' 
 
 The speaker accompanied these words with 
 a significant glance, which seemed to say, ' I 
 wonder if that's liis business here.' 
 
 * Has he any family ?' 
 
 ' Thar's one — a young critter o' a girl ' — 
 
 *' That all ?' I asked — seeing that my com- 
 panion hesitated, as if he had something 
 more to say, but was backward about de- 
 claring it. 
 
 ' No, stranger — thar war another girl — older 
 than this 'un.' 
 
 ' And she ?' 
 
 ' She — she's gone away.' 
 
 'Married, I suppose ?' 
 
 'That's what nobody 'bout here can tell 
 — nor whar she s gone, neyther.' 
 
 The tone in which the young fellow spoke
 
 128 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 had suddenly altered from gay to grave ; and, 
 by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could per- 
 ceive that his countenance was shadowed and 
 sombre. 
 
 I could have but little doubt as to the cause 
 of this transformation. It was to be found in 
 the subject of our conversation — the absent 
 daughter of the squatter. 
 
 From motives of delicacy, I refrained from 
 pushing my inquiries farther ; but, indeed, 
 I should have been otherwise prevented from 
 doing so : for, just at that moment, the road 
 once more narrowed, and we were forced 
 apart. 
 
 By the eager urging of his horse into the 
 dark path, I could perceive that the hunter 
 was desirous of terminating a dialogue — to 
 him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter 
 memories. 
 
 For another half hour we rode on in silence 
 — my companion apparently buried in a reverie 
 of thought — myself speculating on the chances 
 of an unpleasant encounter : which, from the 
 hints I had just had, was now rather certain
 
 THEOUGH THE FOREST. 129 
 
 than probable. Instead of a welcome from 
 the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his 
 cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a 
 wordy war ; and, perhaps afterwards, of spend- 
 ing my night in the woods. 
 
 Once or twice, I was on the point of pro- 
 claiming my errand, and asking the young 
 hunter for advice as to how I should act ; but, 
 as I had not yet ascertained whether he was 
 friend or foe of my future hypothetical an- 
 tagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep 
 my secret to myself. 
 
 His voice again fell upon my ear — this time 
 in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to 
 say, that I ' might shortly expect a better 
 road — we were approaching a *' gleed ;" be- 
 yont that the trace war wnder, an' we might 
 ride thegither again.' 
 
 We were just entering the glade, as he 
 finished speaking — an opening in the woods 
 of limited extent. The contrast between it 
 and the dark forest-path we had traversed 
 was striking — as the change itself was pleasant. 
 It was like emerging suddenly from darkness 
 
 VOL. 1. K
 
 130 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 into daylight: for the full moon, now soaring 
 high above the spray of the forest, filled the 
 glade with the ample effulgence of her light. 
 The dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling 
 like gems; and, even though it was night, 
 their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off 
 in the forest. There was not a breath of air 
 stirring ; and the unruffled leaves presented 
 the sheen of shining metal. Under the clear 
 moonlight, I could distinguish the varied hues 
 of the frondage — that of the red maple from 
 the scarlet sumacs and sassafras laurels ; and 
 these again, from the dark green of the Caro- 
 lina bay-trees, and the soft silvery foliage of 
 the magnolia glauca. 
 
 Even before entering the glade, this magni- 
 ficent panorama had burst upon my sight — 
 from a little embayment that formed the 
 debouchure of the path — and I had drawn 
 bridle, in order for a moment to enjoy its 
 contemplation. 
 
 The young hunter was still the length of his 
 horse in advance of me ; and I was about 
 requesting him to pull up ; but before I
 
 THEOUGH THE FOUEST. 131 
 
 could give utterance to the words, I saw him 
 make halt of himself. This, however, was done 
 in so awkward and hurried a manner, that I 
 at once turned from gazing upon the scene, 
 and fixed my eyes upon my companion. 
 
 As if by an involuntary effort, he had 
 drawn his horse almost upon his haunches: 
 and was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with 
 blanched cheeks and eyes sparkling in their 
 sockets — as if some object of terror was before 
 him ! 
 
 I did not ask for an explanation. I knew 
 that the object that so strangely affected him 
 must be visible — though not from the point 
 where I had halted. 
 
 A touch of the spur brought my horse 
 alongside his, and gave me a view of the 
 whole surface of the glade. 
 
 I looked in the direction indicated by the 
 attitude of the hunter : for — apparently para- 
 lysed by some terrible surprise — he had neither 
 pointed nor spoken. 
 
 A little to the right of the path, I beheld a 
 white object lying along the ground — a dead
 
 132 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 tree, whose barkless trunk and smooth naked 
 branches gleamed under the moonlight with 
 the whiteness of a blanched skeleton. 
 
 In front of this, and a pace or two from 
 it, was a dark form, upright and human-like. 
 Favoured by the clear light of the moon, I 
 had no difficulty in distinguishing the form to 
 be that of a woman.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SU-WA-NEE. 
 
 Beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a 
 woman — a young one too, as evinced by her 
 erect bearing, and a light agile movement, 
 made at the moment of our first beholding her. 
 Her attire was odd. It consisted of a brown- 
 ish-coloured tunic — apparently of doeskin 
 leather — reaching from the neck to the knees ; 
 underneath which appeared leggings of like 
 material, ending in moccasins that covered 
 the feet. The arms, neck, and head were 
 entirely bare •, and the colour of the skin, as 
 seen in the moonlight, differed from that of 
 the outer garments only in being a shade or 
 two darker ! The woman, therefore, was not
 
 134 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 white, but an Indian : as was made further 
 manifest by the sparkling of beads and bangles 
 around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal 
 circlets upon her arms — all reflecting the light 
 of the moon in copious coruscations. 
 
 As I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived 
 that the figure was advancing towards us, and 
 with rapid step. 
 
 My steed set his ears, and snorted with 
 affright. The jade of the hunter had already 
 given the example — each, no doubt, acting 
 under the impulse of his rider. 
 
 Mine was a feeling of simple astonishment. 
 Such an apparition in that place, and at that 
 hour, was sufficient cause for surprise ; but a 
 more definite reason was, my observing that a 
 different emotion had been roused in the breast 
 of the young hunter. His looks betrayed 
 fear, rather than surprise ! 
 
 ' Fear of what ?' I asked myself, as the 
 figure advanced ; and still more emphatically 
 as it came near enough to enable me to make 
 out the face. As far as the moonlight would 
 permit me to judge, there was nothing in that
 
 SU-WA-XEE, 135 
 
 face to fray either man or horse : certainly 
 nothing to create an emotion, such as was de- 
 picted in the countenance of my companion. 
 
 The complexion was brown, as already ob- 
 served ; but the features, if not of the finest 
 type, were yet comely enough to attract ad- 
 miration ; and they were lit up by a pair of 
 eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the sheen of 
 the golden pendants sparkling on each side of 
 them. 
 
 I should have been truly astonished at the 
 behaviour of my guide, but for the natural 
 reflection, that there was some cause for it, 
 yet unknown to me. Evidently, it was not 
 his first interview with this forest maiden : 
 for I could now perceive that the person who 
 approached was not exactly a woman, but 
 rather a well-grown girl on the eve of woman- 
 hood. She was of large stature, nevertheless, 
 with bold outline of breast, and arms that gave 
 token of something more than feminine 
 strength. In truth, she appeared possessed 
 of a pliysique sufficiently formidable to inspire 
 a cowardly man with fear — had such been her
 
 136 THE "WILD HUNTRESS 
 
 object — but I could perceive no signs of menace 
 in her manner. 
 
 Neither could cowardice be an attribute of 
 my travelling-companion. There was an un- 
 explained something, therefore, to account for 
 his present display of the emotion. 
 
 On arriving within six paces of the heads 
 of our horses, the Indian paused, as if he- 
 sitating to advance. Up to this time, she 
 had not spoken a word. Neither had my 
 companion — beyond a phrase or two that had 
 involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering 
 her presence in the glade. 
 
 ^ She here ? an' at this time o' night !' I 
 had heard him mutter to himself ; but nothing 
 more, until the girl had stopped, as described. 
 Then, in a low voice, and wdth a slightly 
 trembling accent, he pronounced interroga- 
 tively, the words ' Su-wa-nee ?' 
 
 It was the name of the Indian maiden ; but 
 there was no reply. 
 
 ' Su-wa-nee !' repeated he, in a louder tone, 
 ' is it you ?' 
 
 The answer was also given interrogatively.
 
 SU-WA-NEE. 137 
 
 'Has the White Eagle lost his eyes, by 
 gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of 
 Swampville ? There is light in the sky, and 
 the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it. Let 
 him look on it: it is not lovely like that 
 of the half'hlood, but the White Eagle will 
 never see that face again/ 
 
 This declaration had a visible effect on the 
 young hunter : the shade of sadness deepened 
 upon his features ; and I could hear a sigh, 
 with difficulty suppressed — while, at the same 
 time, he appeared desirous of terminating the 
 interview. 
 
 ' It's late, girl,' rejoined he, after a pause : 
 ' what for are ye here ?' 
 
 ' Su-wa-nee is here for a purpose. For 
 hours she has been waiting to see the White 
 Eagle. The soft hands of the pale-faced 
 maidens have held him long.' 
 
 ' Waitin' to see me ! What do you want 
 wi' me ?' 
 
 'Let the White Eagle send the stranger 
 aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to him alone.' 
 
 ' Thar's no need o' that : it's a friend that's 
 wi' me.'
 
 138 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 * Would the White Eagle have his secrets 
 known ? There are some he may not wish 
 even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell 
 him one that will crimson his cheeks like the 
 flowers of the red maple.' 
 
 'I have no saycrets, girl — none as I'm 
 afraid o' bein' heerd by anybody.' 
 'What of the half-blood?' 
 
 * I don't care to hear o' her.' 
 
 ' The White Eagle speaks falsely I He does 
 care to hear. He longs to know what has be- 
 come of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell 
 him.' 
 
 The last words produced an instantaneous 
 change in the bearing of the young hunter. 
 Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hither- 
 to observed towards the Indian girl, I saw 
 him bend eagerly forward — as if desirous of 
 hearing what she had to say. 
 
 Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the 
 Indian again pointed to me, and inquired : 
 
 *Is the pale-faced stranger to know the 
 love-secrets of the White Eagle ?' 
 
 I saw that my companion no longer desired 
 me to be a listener. Without waiting for his
 
 SU-WA-XEE. 139 
 
 reply, I drew my horse's head in the opposite 
 direction, and was riding away. 
 
 In the turning, I came face to face with 
 him ; and by the moonlight shining full over 
 his countenance, I fancied I could detect 
 some traces of mistrust still lingering upon 
 it. 
 
 My fancy was not at fault : for, on brush- 
 ing close past him, he leaned over towards me, 
 and, in an earnest manner, muttered : 
 
 ' Please, stranger ! don't go fur — thar's 
 danger in this girl. She's been arter me be- 
 fore.' 
 
 I nodded assent to his request ; and, turn- 
 ing back into the little bay, that formed the 
 embouchure of the path, I pulled up under 
 the shadow of the trees. 
 
 At this point I was not ten paces from the 
 hunter, and could see him ; but a little clump 
 of white magnolias prevented me from seeing 
 the girl — at the same time that it hid both 
 myself and horse from her sight. 
 
 The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered 
 me from hearing all of what was said ; but
 
 140 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 many words reached my ear, and with suffi- 
 cient distinctness, to give me a clue to the 
 subject of the promised revelation. 
 
 Delicacy would have prompted me to retire 
 a little farther off; but the singular caution 
 I had received from my companion, prevented 
 me from obeying its impulse. 
 
 I could make out that a certain Marian 
 was the subject of the conversation; and 
 then more distinctively, that it was Marian 
 Holt. Just as I expected, the daughter 
 of my squatter : that other and older 
 one, of whom mention had been already 
 made. 
 
 This part of the revelation was easily un- 
 derstood: since I was already better than 
 half prepared for it. Equally easy of com- 
 prehension was the fact, that this Marian was 
 the sweetheart of my travelling companion — 
 had been, I should rather say ; for, from what 
 followed, I could gather that she was no longer 
 in the neighbourhood ; that some months be- 
 fore she had left it, or been carried away — 
 spirited off in some mysterious manner, leav-
 
 SU-WA-XEE. 141 
 
 ing no traces of the why or whither she had 
 gone. 
 
 Nearly all this I had conjectured before : 
 since the young hunter had half revealed it to 
 me by his manner, if not by words. Now, 
 however, a point or two was added to my 
 previous information relating to the fair Ma- 
 rian. She was married. Married — and to 
 some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian 
 appeared to speak slightingly. His name I 
 could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, 
 or something of the sort — not very intelligible 
 by the Indian's mode of pronouncing it — and, 
 furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster 
 in Swampville. 
 
 During the progress of the dialogue, I had 
 kept my eye fixed on the young hunter. I 
 could perceive that the announcement of the 
 marriage was quite new to him ; and its 
 effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of 
 course, equally unknown to him had been the 
 name of the husband ; though, from the ex- 
 clamatory phrase that followed, he had no 
 doubt had his conjectures.
 
 142 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' O God !' he exclaimed, ' I thort so — 
 the very man to a done it. Lord ha' mercy 
 on her !' 
 
 All this was uttered in a voice hoarse with 
 emotion. 
 
 'Tell me!' continued he, ' whar are they 
 gone ? Ye say ye know !' 
 
 The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, break- 
 ing forth at that moment, hindered me from 
 hearing the reply. The more emphatic words 
 only reached me, and these appeared to be 
 ' Utah ' and ' Great Salt Lake.' They were 
 enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt 
 and her husband. 
 
 * One question more !' said the rejected 
 lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. * Can 
 ye tell me — whether — she went icillinli/y or 
 whether — thar want some force used? — by 
 her father, or some un else ? Can ye tell me 
 that, girl ?' 
 
 I listened eagerly for the response. Its im- 
 portance can easily be understood by one who 
 has sued in vain — one who has wooed without 
 winning. The silence of the cicada favoured
 
 SU-WA-NEE. 143 
 
 me ; but a long interval passed, and there 
 came not a word from the lips of thelndian. 
 
 * Answer me, Su-wa-nee !' repeated the 
 young man in a more appealing tone. ' Tell 
 me that, and I promise' — — 
 
 ' Will the White Eagle promise to forget 
 his lost love ? Will he promise' 
 
 ' No, Su-wa-nee ; I cannot promise that : 
 I can niver forget her.' 
 
 ' The heart can hate without forgetting.' 
 
 ' Hate her 1 hate Marian ? No ! no !' 
 
 ' Not if she be false ?' 
 
 ' Ho^v do I know that she war false ? You 
 haven't told me whether she went willin'ly or 
 agin her consent.' 
 
 ' The White Eagle shall know then. His 
 gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the 
 wolf- — willingly^ I repeat. Su-wa-nee can 
 give proof of her words.' 
 
 This was the most terrible stroke of all. T 
 could see the hunter shrink in his saddle, a 
 death-like pallor overspreading his cheeks, 
 while his eyes presented the glassy aspect of 
 despair.
 
 144 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' Now !' continued the Indian, as if taking 
 advantage of the blow she had struck, ' will the 
 White Eagle promise to sigh no more after 
 his false mistress ? Will he promise to love 
 one that can be true ?' 
 
 There was an earnestness in the tone in 
 which these interrogatories were uttered — an 
 appealing earnestness — evidently prompted by 
 a burning, headlong passion. It was now the 
 turn of her who uttered them, to wait with 
 anxiety for a response. 
 
 It came at length — perhaps to the lacera- 
 tion of that proud heart : for it was a negative 
 to its dearest desire. 
 
 ' No, no !' exclaimed the hunter confusedly. 
 ' Impossible eyther to hate or forget her. She 
 may a been false, an' no doubt are so ; but it's 
 too late for me : / can niver love agin' 
 
 A half-suppressed scream followed this de- 
 claration, succeeded by some words that ap- 
 peared to be uttered in a tone of menace or 
 reproach. But the words were in the Chica- 
 saw tongue, and I could not comprehend their 
 import.
 
 SU-WA-NEE. 145 
 
 Almost at the same instant, I saw the 
 young hunter hurriedly draw back his horse — 
 as if to get out of the way. 
 
 I fancied that the crisis had arrived, when 
 my presence . might be required. Under this 
 belief, I touched my steed with the spur, and 
 trotted out into the open ground. 
 
 To my astonishment, I perceived that the 
 hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee had disappeared 
 from the glade ! 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEE XY. 
 
 MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. 
 
 * Where is she ? — gone ?' I mechanically 
 asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my 
 surprise. 
 
 ' Yes — gone ! gone ! an' wi' a Mormon !' 
 
 ' A Mormon ?' 
 
 ' Ay, stranger, a Mormon — a man wi' twenty 
 wives ! God forgi' her ! I'd rather a heerd 
 o' her death !' 
 
 * Was there a man with her ? I saw no 
 one.' 
 
 ' O stranger, excuse my talk — you're think- 
 in' 'o' that ere Injun girl. 'Taint her I'm 
 speakin' about.' 
 
 'Who then?'
 
 MAKING A CLEAX BREAST OF IT. 147 
 
 The young hunter hesitated : he was not 
 aware that I was already in possession of his 
 secret ; but he knew that I had been witness 
 of his emotions, and to declare the name 
 would be to reveal the most sacred thought of 
 his heart. 
 
 Only for a moment did he appear to re- 
 flect ; and then, as if relieved from his em- 
 barrassment, by some sudden determination, 
 he replied : 
 
 'Stranger ! I don't see why I shedn't tell 
 ye all about this bisness. I don know the 
 reezun, but you've made me feel a kind o' con- 
 fidence in you. I know it's a silly sort o' 
 thing to fall in love wi' a handsum girl ; but 
 if ye'd only seen her V 
 
 ' I have no doubt, from what you say, she 
 was a beautiful creature' — this was scarcely 
 my thought at the moment — ' and as for fall- 
 ing in love with a pretty girl, none of us are 
 exempt from that little weakness. The 
 proud Koman conqueror yielded to the seduc- 
 tions of the brown-skinned Egyptian queen ; 
 and even Hercules himself was conquered by
 
 148 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 a woman's charms. There is no particular 
 silliness in that. It is but the common des- 
 tiny of man.' 
 
 * Well, stranger, it's been myen ; an' I've 
 hed .reezun to be sorry for it. But it's no use 
 tryin' to shet up the stable arter the boss 's 
 been stole out o't. She are gone now; an' 
 that's the end o' it. I reckon I'll niver set 
 eyes on her agin.' 
 
 The sigh that accompanied this last ob- 
 servation, with the melancholy tone in which 
 it was uttered, told me that I was talking to a 
 man who had truly loved. 
 
 ' No doubt,' thought I, ' some strapping 
 backwoods wench has been the object of his 
 passion ' — for what other idea could I have 
 about the child of a coarse and illiterate squat- 
 ter ? ' Love is as blind as a bat ; and this red- 
 haired hoyden has appeared a perfect Venus 
 in the eyes of the handsome fellow — as not 
 unfrequently happens. A Venus with evi- 
 dently a slight admixture of the prudential 
 Juno in her composition. The young back- 
 woodsman is poor; the schoolmaster perhaps
 
 MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. 149 
 
 a little better off ; in all probability not much, 
 but enough to decide the preference of the 
 shrewd Marian.' 
 
 Such were my reflections at the moment^ 
 partly suggested by my own experience. 
 
 'But you have not yet told me who this 
 sweetheart was ? You say it is not the Indian 
 damsel you've just parted with ?' 
 
 ' No, stranger, nothin' o' the kind : though 
 there are some Injun in her too. 'Twar o' 
 her the girl spoke when ye heerd her talk o' a 
 half-blood. She aint just that — she's more 
 white than Injun; her mother only war a 
 a half-blood — o' the Chickasaw nation, that 
 used to belong in these parts.' 
 
 ' Her name ?' 
 
 * It war Marian Holt. It are now Steb- 
 bins, I s'pose ! since I've jest heerd she's 
 married to a feller o' that name.' 
 
 ' She has certainly not improved her name.' 
 
 ' She are the daughter o' Holt the squatter 
 — the same whar you say you're a-goin'. 
 Thar's another, as I told ye; but she's a 
 younger un. Her name's Lilian.'
 
 150 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ^ A pretty name. The older sister was 
 very beautiful you say ?' 
 
 ' I niver set eyes on the like o' her.' 
 
 ' Does the younger one resemble her ?' 
 
 ' Ain't a bit like her — different as a squ'll 
 from a coon.' 
 
 ' She's not beautiful, then ?' 
 
 ' Well, that depends upon people's ways o' 
 thinkin'. Most people as know 'em liked 
 Lilian the best, an' thort her the handsumest 
 o' the two. That wan't my notion. Besides, 
 Lilly's only a young critter — not out o' her 
 teens yit.' 
 
 ' But if she be also pretty, why not try 
 to fall in love with her ? Down in Mexico, 
 where I've been lately, they have a shrewd 
 saying : Un clavo saca otro clavo, meaning 
 that " one nail drives out another " — as much 
 as to say, that one love cures another.' 
 
 ' Ah, stranger ! that may be all very well 
 in Mexico, whar I've heerd they ain't par- 
 tickler about thar way o' lovin' ; but we've a 
 say in' here jest the contrairy o' that : '' two 
 bars can't get into the same trap." '
 
 MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. 151 
 
 ' Ha, ha, ha ! Well your backwoods pro- 
 verb is perhaps the truer one, as it is the 
 more honest. But you have not yet told me 
 the full particulars of your affair with Marian ? 
 You say she has gone away from the neigh- 
 bourhood ?' 
 
 * You shall hear it all, stranger. I reckon 
 thar can be no harm in tellin' it to you ; an' 
 if you've a mind to listen, I'll make a clean 
 breast o' the whole bisness.' 
 
 The hunter proceeded with his revelation 
 — to him, a painful one — and, although I had 
 already divined most of the particulars, I 
 interrupted him only with an occasional in- 
 terrogative. 
 
 The story was as I had anticip^ated. He 
 had been in love with Marian Holt \ and was 
 under the impression that she returned it. 
 She had given him frequent meetings in the 
 forest — in that very glade where we had en- 
 countered the Indian girl, and in which we 
 were still lingering. Her father was not aware 
 of these interviews. There had been some 
 coolness between him and the young hunter ;
 
 152 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 and the lovers were apprehensive that he 
 might not approve of their conduct. 
 
 This was the prologue of the hunter's story. 
 The epilogue I give in his own words : 
 
 ' 'Twar a mornin' — ^jest five months ago — 
 she had promised to meet me here ; an' I 
 war seated on yonder log waitin' for her. 
 Jest then some Injuns war comin' through the 
 gleed. That girl ye saw war one o' 'em. 
 She had a nice bullet-pouch to sell, an' I 
 bought it. The girl would insist on puttin' 
 it on ; an' while she war doin' so, I war fool 
 enough to gie her a kiss. Some devil hed put 
 it in my head. Jest at that minnit, who shed 
 come right into the gleed but Marian herself! 
 I meant nothin' by kissin' the Injun ; but I 
 s'pose Marian thort I did : she'd already 
 talked to me 'bout this very girl ; an' I be- 
 lieve war a leetle bit jealous o' her — for the 
 Injun ain't to say ill-lookin'. I wanted to 
 'pologise to Marian; but she wouldn't listen 
 to a word ; an' went off in a way I niver seed 
 her in before. 'Twar the last time I ever set 
 eyes on her.'
 
 MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. 153 
 
 'Indeed/ 
 
 ' Ay, stranger, an it's only this minnit, an' 
 from that same Injun girl, that I've heerd 
 she's married, an' gone off to the Mormons. 
 The Injuns had it from some o' her people, 
 that seed Marian a crossin' the parairies.' 
 
 ^This Indian damsel — Su-wa-nee, I think 
 you named her — what of her ? She appears 
 to take considerable interest in your affairs ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! stranger, that's another o' the konse- 
 quences o' doin' what aint right. Since the 
 day I gin her that kiss, she'd niver let me 
 alone, but used to bother me every time I 
 met her in the woods ; an wud a come arter 
 me to my own cabin, if it hadn't been for the 
 dogs, that wud tar an Injun to pieces. She 
 war afeerd o' them ; but not o' me, no matter 
 how I thraitened her. I war so angry wi' 
 her, for what had happened — though, arter 
 all, 'twar more my fault than hern — but I 
 war so vexed wi' her about the ill-luck^ that I 
 used to keep out o' her way as well as I could- 
 an' didn't speak to her for a long time. She 
 got riled 'bout that, an' thraitened revenge ;
 
 154 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 an' one ni^ht, as I war comin from Swamp- 
 ville, 'bout this time — only 'twar as dark as a 
 pot o' pitch — I war jest ridin' out into this 
 very gleed, when all o' a suddint my ole hoss 
 gin a jump forrard, an I feeled somethin' 
 prick me from behind. 'Twar the stab o' 
 some sort o' a knife, that cut me a leetle 
 above the hip, an' made me bleed like a buck. 
 I know'd who did it ; tho' not that night — for 
 it war so dark among the bushes, I couldn't 
 see a steim. But I kim back in the mornin', 
 and seed tracks. They war the tracks o' a 
 moccasin. I know'd them to be hern.* 
 ' Su-wa-nee's tracks ?' 
 
 * Sartin. I know'd them well enough, as 
 I'd often seed her tracks through the crik 
 bottom.' 
 
 ' Did you take no steps to punish her ?' 
 
 * Well— no— I didn't.' 
 
 ' How is that ? I think it would have been 
 but prudent of you to have done something — 
 if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger.' 
 
 ' Well, stranger ! to tell truth, I war a leetle 
 ashamed o' the whole bisness. Had it been a
 
 MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. 155 
 
 man, I'd a punished him ; but they do say the 
 girl 's in love wf me, arter her Injun way ; 
 an' I didn't like to be revengeful. Besides, it 
 war mostly my own fault : I had no bisness to 
 a fooled wi' her.' 
 
 ' And you think she will not trouble you 
 again ?' 
 
 ' I don know about that, arter what's hap- 
 pened the night. She's gone away thraitnin' 
 agin. I did think she'd gin up the notion o' re- 
 venge : for she know'd I'd found out that 'twar 
 her that stabbed me. I told her so, the next 
 time I seed her ; an' she 'peared pleased 'bout 
 my not havin' her ta'en up. She said it war 
 generous o' the White Eagle — that's the name 
 her people gies me — for thar's a gang o' them 
 still livin' down the crik. She gin me a sort 
 o' promise she wouldn't trouble me agin ; but 
 I warn't sure o' her. That's the reezun, 
 stranger, I didn't want ye to go fur away.' 
 
 ' I think it would be prudent in you to keep 
 well on your guard. This redskin appears to 
 be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from 
 what you have told me, a dangerous one. She 
 certainly has a strange way of showing her
 
 156 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 affection ; but it must be confessed, you gave 
 her some provocation ; and, as the poet says, 
 " Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned." ' 
 
 * That's true, stranger !' 
 
 ^ Her conduct, however, has been too violent 
 to admit of justification. You appear to have 
 been unfortunate in your sweethearts — with 
 each in an opposite sense. One loves you too 
 much, and the other apparently not enough ! 
 But how is it you did not see her again — 
 Marian, I mean ?' 
 
 ' Well, you understand, I wan't on the best 
 o' tarms wi' old Hick Holt, an' couldn't go to 
 his clarin'. Besides, arter what had happened, 
 I didn't like to go near Marian anyhow — 
 leastwise for a while. I thort it would blow- 
 over — 's soon 's she'd find out that I war only 
 jokin' wi' the Injun.' 
 
 ' So one would have supposed.' 
 
 ' 'Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd any- 
 thing o' her ; an' then I larned that she war 
 gone away. Nobody could tell why or whar, 
 for nobody knew, 'ceptin Hick Holt hisself ; 
 an' he ain't the sort o' man to tell say ere ts. 
 Lord o' mercy ! I know now ; an' it's worse
 
 MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. 157 
 
 than I expected. I'd sooner a heerd she war 
 dead.' 
 
 A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom 
 of his soul, admonished me that the speaker 
 had finished his painful recital. 
 
 I had no desire to prolong the conversation. 
 1 saw that silence would be more agreeable to 
 my companion ; and, as if by a mutual and 
 tacit impulse, we turned our horses' heads to 
 the path, and proceeded onwards across the 
 glade. 
 
 As w^e were about entering the timber on 
 the other side, my guide reined up his horse ; 
 and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular 
 spot — as if something there had attracted his 
 attention. 
 
 What ? There was no visible object — at 
 least, none that was remarkable — on the 
 ground, or elsewhere ! 
 
 Another sigh, with the speech that followed, 
 explained the singularity of his behaviour. 
 
 'Thar!' said he, pointing to the entrance 
 of the forest-path — ' thar's the place whar I 
 last looked on Marian !'
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT. 
 
 For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace 
 continued wide enough to admit of our riding 
 abreast ; but, notwithstanding this advantage, 
 no word passed between us. My guide had 
 relapsed into his attitude of melancholy — 
 deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he 
 had just received — and sat loosely in his 
 saddle, his head drooping forward over his 
 breast. Bitter thoughts within rendered him 
 unconscious of what was passing without ; 
 and I felt that any effort I might make to 
 soften the acerbity of his reflections would 
 be idle. 
 
 There are moments when words of con-
 
 A PREDICAMENT IiV PROSPECT. 159 
 
 solation may be spoken in vain — when, instead 
 of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its 
 sting. 
 
 I made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my 
 companion from his reverie ; but rode on by 
 his side, silent as he. 
 
 Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness 
 in my own reflections to give me occupation. 
 Though troubled by no heart-canker of the 
 past, I had a future before me that was 
 neither brilliant nor attractive. The fore- 
 knowledge I had now gained of squatter Holt, 
 had imbued me with a keen presentiment, 
 that I was treading upon the edge of a not 
 very distant dilemma. 
 
 Once, or twice, was I on the point of com- 
 municating my business to my travelling 
 companion ; and why not ? With the open- 
 ness of an honest heart, had he confided to me 
 the most important, as well as the most pain- 
 ful, secret of his life. Why should I with- 
 hold my confidence from him on a subject of 
 comparatively little importance ? 
 
 My reason for not making a confidant of
 
 160 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 him sooner has been already given. It no 
 longer existed. So far from finding in him 
 an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all 
 likelihood, I should have him on my side. 
 At all events, I felt certain I might count 
 upon his advice ; and, with his knowledge 
 of the situation^ that might be worth 
 having. 
 
 I was on the eve of declaring the object of 
 my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, 
 when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn 
 towards me. In the former movement, I 
 imitated his example. 
 
 ' The road forks here/ said he. * The path 
 on the left goes straight down to Holt's Clarin' 
 — the other's the way to my bit o' a shanty.' 
 
 ' I shall have to thank you for the very 
 kind service you have rendered me, and say 
 " Good night." ' 
 
 * No — not yet. I ain t agoin' to leave ye, 
 till I've put you 'ithin sight o' Holt's cabin, 
 tho' I can't go wi' ye to the house. As I told 
 ye, he an' I ain't on the best o' tarms.' 
 
 ' I cannot think of your coming out of your
 
 A PREDICAMENT TN PROSPECT. 161 
 
 way — especially at this late hour. I'm some 
 little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I 
 can make out the path.' 
 
 ' No, stranger ! Thar*s places whar the 
 trace is a' most blind, and you mout get out 
 o' it. Thar'll be no moon on it. It runs 
 through a thick timbered bottom, an' thar's an 
 ugly bit o' swamp. As for the lateness, I'm 
 not very reg'lar in my hours ; an' thar's a 
 sort o' road up the crik by which I can get 
 home. 'Twan't to bid you good-night, that I 
 stopped here.' 
 
 ' What, then ?' thought I, endeavouring to 
 conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing 
 in his speech. 
 
 ' Stranger !' continued he in an altered tone, 
 ' I hope you won't take offence if I ask you a 
 question ?' 
 
 ' Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it 
 freely.' 
 
 ' Are ye sure o' a bed at Holt's ?' 
 
 * Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I 
 am by no means sure of one. It don't sig- 
 nify, however. I have my old cloak and my 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 saddle ; and it wouldn't be the first time, by 
 hundreds, I've slept in the open air.' 
 
 ' My reezuns for askin you air, that if you 
 ain't sure o' one, an' don't mind stretchin' 
 yourself on a bar-skin, thar 's such a thing in 
 my shanty entirely at your sarvice.' 
 
 ' It is very kind of you. Perhaps I may 
 have occasion to avail myself of your offer. 
 In truth, I am not very confident of meeting 
 with a friendly reception at the hands of your 
 neighbour Holt — much less being asked to 
 partake of his hospitality.' 
 
 * D'ye say so ?' 
 
 ' Indeed, yes. From what I have heard, I 
 have reason to anticipate rather a cold wel- 
 come.' 
 
 ' I'deed ? But ' 
 
 My companion hesitated in his speech — as 
 if meditating some observation which he felt 
 a delicacy about making. 
 
 ' I'm a'most ashamed,' continued he, at 
 length, * to put another question, that war on 
 the top o' my tongue.' 
 
 * I shall take pleasure in answering any
 
 A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT. 163 
 
 question, you may think proper to ask 
 me.' 
 
 * I shedn't ask it, if it want for what you've 
 jest now said : for I heerd the same question 
 put to you this night afore, an' I heerd your 
 answer to it. But I reckon 'twar the way in 
 which it war asked that offended you ; an' on 
 that account your answer war jest as it should 
 a been ?' 
 
 ' To what question do you refer ?' 
 
 * To your bisness out here wi' Hick Holt. 
 I don't want to know it, out o' any curiosity 
 o' my own — that's sartin, stranger.' 
 
 ^You are welcome to know all about it. 
 Indeed, it was my intention to have told you 
 before we parted — at the same time to ask you 
 for some advice about the matter.' 
 
 Without further parley, I communicated 
 the object of my visit to Mud Creek — con- 
 cealing nothing that I deemed necessary for 
 the elucidation of the subject. 
 
 Without a word of interruption, the young 
 hunter heard my story to the end. From the 
 play of his features, as I revealed the more
 
 164 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 salient points, I could perceive that my 
 chances of an amicable adjustment of my claim 
 were far from being brilliant. 
 
 ' Well — do you know,' said he, when I had 
 finished speaking, 'I had a suspeecion that 
 that might be your bisness ? I don know why 
 I shed a thort so ; but maybe 'twar because 
 thar's been some others come here to settle o' 
 late, an' found squatters on thar groun — jest 
 the same as Holt's on yourn. That's why ye 
 heerd me say, a while ago, that I shedn't like 
 to buy over his head.' 
 
 ' And why not ?' 
 
 I awaited the answer to this question, not 
 without a certain degree of nervous anxiety. 
 I was beginning to comprehend the counsel of 
 my Nashville friend on the ticklish point of 
 pre-emption, 
 
 ' Why, you see, stranger — as I told you, 
 Hick Holt's a rough customer ; an' I reckon 
 hell be an ugly one to deal wi', on a bisness o' 
 that kind.' 
 
 ' Of course, being in possession, he may 
 purchase the land ? He has the right of pre- 
 emption ?'
 
 A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT. 165 
 
 * 'Taint for that. He ain't agoin' to pre- 
 empt, nor buy neyther ; an' for the best o' 
 reezuns. He hain't got a red cent in the 
 world, an' couldn't buy as much land as would 
 make him a mellyun patch — not he.' 
 
 ' How does he get his living, then ?' 
 ' Oh, as for that, jest some'at like myself 
 Thar's gobs o' game in the woods — both bar 
 an' deer; an' the clarin' grows him corn. 
 Thar's squ'lls, an' 'possum, an turkeys too ; 
 an' lots o' fish in the crik — if one gets tired o' 
 the bar an' deer meat, which I shed niver do.' 
 ' But how about clothing, and other neces- 
 saries that are not found in the woods ?' 
 
 * As for our clothin', it ain't hard to find. 
 We can get that in Swampville by swopping 
 skins for it, or now an' then some deer-meat. 
 O' anythin' else, thar ain't much needed 'bout 
 here — powder, an' lead, an' a leetle coffee, an 
 tobacco. Once in a while, if ye like it, a 
 taste o' old corn' 
 
 ' Corn ! I thought the squatter raised that 
 for himself ?' 
 
 * So he do raise corn ; but I see, stranger,
 
 166 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 you don't understand our odd nameSo Thar's 
 two kinds o' corn in these parts — that as has 
 been to the still, and that as hain't. It's the 
 first o' these sorts that Hick Holt likes best.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I perceive your meaning. He's fond 
 of a little corn-whisky, I presume?' 
 
 ' I reckon he are — that same squatter- — 
 fonder o't than milk.' 
 
 ^ But surely,' continued the hunter, chang- 
 ing the subject, as well as the tone of his 
 speech — ' surely, stranger, you ain't agoin on 
 your bisness the night ?' 
 
 ' I've just begun to think, that it is rather 
 an odd hour to enter upon an estate. The 
 idea didn't occur to me before.' 
 
 ' Besides,' added he, ' thar's another reezun. 
 If Hick Holt's what he used to be, he ain't 
 likely to be very nice about this time o' night. 
 I hain't seen much o' him lately ; but, I 
 reckon, he's as fond o' a drink as ever he war ; 
 an tain't often he goes to his bed 'ithout a 
 skinful. Thar's ten chances agin one, o' your 
 findin' him wi' a brick in his hat.' 
 
 * That would be awkward.'
 
 A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT. 167 
 
 'Don't think o' goin' to-night,' continued 
 the young hunter in a persuasive tone. ' Come 
 along wi' me ; an' you can ride down to Holt's 
 in the mornin'. You'll then find him more 
 reezonable to deal wi', I can't offer you no 
 great show o' entertainment ; but thar's a 
 piece o' deer-meat in the house, an' I reckon 
 I can raise a cup o' coffee, an' a pone or two 
 o' bread. As for your horse, the ole corn-crib 
 ain't quite empy yet.' 
 
 ' Thanks — thanks !' said I, grasping the 
 hunter's hand in the warmth of my gratitude. 
 ' I accept your invitation.' 
 
 * This way, then, stranger !' 
 
 We struck into the path that led to the 
 right ; and, after riding about two miles fur- 
 ther, arrived at the solitary home of the 
 hunter — a log-cabin surrounded by a clearing. 
 
 I soon found he was its sole occupant — as 
 he was its owner — some half-dozen large dogs 
 being the only living creatures that were pre- 
 sent to bid us welcome. 
 
 A rude horse-shed was at hand — a ' loose 
 box,' it might be termed, as it was only in-
 
 168 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 tended to accommodate one — and this was 
 placed at the disposal of my Arab. The 
 * critter' of my host had, for that night, to take 
 to the woods, and choose his stall among the 
 trees — but to that sort of treatment he had 
 been well inured. 
 
 A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a 
 bear-skin for a bed ; cold venison, corn- bread, 
 and coffee for supper ; with a pipe to follow : 
 all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty 
 welcome, constitute an entertainment not to 
 be despised by an old campaigner ; and such 
 was the treatment I met with, under the hos- 
 pitable daphoard roof of the young backwoods- 
 man — Frank Win grove.
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Look fortli on the forest ere autumn wind scatters 
 
 Its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold : 
 That forest, through which the great * Father of Waters ' 
 
 For thousands of years his broad cm-rent has rolled ! 
 Gaze over that forest of opaline hue, 
 With a heaven above it of glorious blue, 
 And say is there scene, in this beautiful world, 
 Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled ? 
 Or think'st thou, that e'en in the regions of bliss, 
 There 's a landscape more truly Elysian than this ? 
 
 Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed. 
 
 Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife ! 
 And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade. 
 
 The sassafras laurel, restorer of life ! 
 Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue, 
 And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue ; 
 And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold. 
 Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold ; 
 And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen. 
 But for ever enrobed in its mantle of green !
 
 170 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 And list to the music bome over the trees ! 
 
 It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic — 
 The song of the birds and the hum of the bees 
 
 Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic. 
 Hark ! hear you the red-crested cardinal's call 
 From the groves of annona ? — from tulip-tree taU 
 The mock-bird responding ? — ^below, in the glade, 
 The dove softly cooing in mellower shade — 
 While the oriole answers in accents of mirth ? 
 Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth ? 
 
 In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers, 
 
 Who falsely declared 'twas a land without song ! 
 Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbers 
 
 That liven its woods through the summer-day long — 
 Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees. 
 Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze, 
 He would scarcely have ventured on statement so]' 
 
 wrong — 
 ' Her plants without perfume, her birds without song,' 
 Ah ! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour, 
 You had never beheld the magnolia's flower ? 
 
 Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found — 
 
 For how could such land to the gods be unknown ? 
 And where is there spot upon African ground 
 
 So like to a garden a goddess would own ? 
 And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree, 
 Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea, 
 Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold — 
 Was nought but that monster — the mammoth of old. 
 If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed, 
 Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West !
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 171 
 
 The memory of that scene attunes my soul 
 to song, awaking my muse from the silence 
 in which she has long slumbered. But the 
 voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than 
 of yore: she shies me for my neglect: and 
 despite the gentlest courting, refuses to breathe 
 her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a 
 sweeter strain. 
 
 And this scene lay not upon the classic 
 shores of the Hellespont — not in the famed 
 valleys of Alp and Apennine — not by the 
 romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the 
 banks of Mud Creek in the state of Tennes- 
 see! 
 
 In truth, it was a lovely landscape, or 
 rather a succession of landscapes, through 
 which I rode, after leaving the cabin of my 
 hospitable host. It was the season of ' Indian 
 summer' — that singular phenomenon of the 
 occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing 
 his southern declension, appears to return along 
 the line of the zodiac. He loves better the 
 ' Virgin ' than ' Aquarius •/ and lingering to 
 take a fond look on that fair land he has
 
 172 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his 
 intruding antagonist, the hoary Boreas. 
 
 But his last kiss kills : there is too much 
 passion in his parting glance. The forest is 
 fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest 
 forms the rival god of the north may never 
 clasp in his cold embrace. In suttee-hke 
 devotion, they scorn to shun the flame ; but, 
 with outstretched arms inviting it, offer them- 
 selves as a holocaust to him who, through the 
 long summer-day, has smiled upon their 
 trembling existence. 
 
 At this season of the year, too, the virgin 
 forest is often the victim of another despoiler — 
 the hurricane. Sweeping them with spiteful 
 breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the 
 trees like fragile reeds — prostrating at once the 
 noblest and humblest forms. Not one is left 
 standing on the soil : for the clearing of the 
 hurricane is a complete work; and neither 
 stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where 
 it has passed. Even the giants of the forest 
 yield to its strength, as though smitten by the 
 hand of a destroying angel ! Uprooted, they
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 173 
 
 lie along the earth side by side — the soil 
 still clinging to the clavicles of their roots, 
 and their leafy tops turned to the lee — in 
 this prostrate alignment slowly to wither and 
 decay ! 
 
 A forest, thus fallen, presents for a time 
 a picture of melancholy aspect. It suggests 
 the idea of some grand battle-field, where the 
 serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of ' grape 
 and canister,' have been struck down on the 
 instant : not one being left to look to the bodies 
 of the slain — neither to bury nor remove 
 them. Like the battle-field, too, it becomes 
 the haunt of wolves and other wild beasts ; 
 who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a 
 fastness securing them from the pursuit both 
 of hound and hunter. Here in hollow log the 
 black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs, 
 training them to climb over the decaying 
 trunks ; here the lynx and red couguar choose 
 their cunning covert ; here the racoon rambles 
 over his beaten track ; the sly opossum crawls 
 warily along the log, or goes to sleep among 
 the tangle of dry rhizomes ; while the gaunt
 
 174 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 brown wolf may be often heard howling amidst 
 the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the mid- 
 night moon. 
 
 In a few years, however, this sombre scene 
 assumes a more cheerful aspect. An under- 
 growth springs up, that soon conceals the 
 skeletons of the dead trees : plants and shrubs 
 appear — often of different genera and species 
 from those that hitherto usurped the soil — and 
 the ruin is no longer apparent. The mourn- 
 ful picture gives place to one of luxuriant 
 sweetness : the more brilliant sheen of the 
 young trees and shrubs, now covering the 
 ground, and contrasting agreeably with the 
 sombre hues of the surrounding forest. No 
 longer reigns that melancholy silence that, for 
 a while, held dominion over the scene. If, at 
 intervals, be heard the wild scream of the 
 couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these 
 scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly 
 upon the ear — poured out from the throats of 
 varied songsters — the red cardinals, the orioles, 
 the warbling fringillklce^ and the polyglott 
 thrushes — who meet here, as if by agreement.
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 175 
 
 to make this lovely sylvan spot the scene of 
 their forest concerts. * * * 
 
 Shortly after leaving the cabin of the young 
 backwoodsman, my path, hitherto passing 
 under the gloomy shadows of the forest, 
 debouched upon just such a scene. I had 
 been warned of its proximity. My host, at 
 parting, had given me directions as to how I 
 should find my way across the her^rikin — 
 through which ran the trace that conducted 
 to the clearing of the squatter, some two 
 miles further down the creek. 
 
 I was prepared to behold a tract of timber 
 laid prostrate by the storm — the trees all 
 lying in one direction, and exhibiting the 
 usual scathed and dreary aspect. Instead of 
 this, on emerging from the dark forest, I was 
 agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape 
 that burst upon my view. 
 
 It was, as already stated, that season of the 
 year when the American woods array them- 
 selves in their most attractive robes — when 
 the very leaves appear as if they were flowers, 
 so varied and brilliant are their hues — when
 
 176 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 the foliage of the young beeches becomes a 
 pale yellow, and glimmers translucent against 
 the sun— when the maples are dying off of a 
 deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning 
 respectively crimson and scarlet — when the 
 large drupes of the Osage orange, the purple 
 clusters of the fox-grape, and the golden 
 berries of the persimmon or Virginian lotus, 
 hang temptingly from the tree : just at that 
 season when the benignant earth has per- 
 fected, and is about to yield up, her annual 
 bounty ; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing 
 at the gift. 
 
 No wonder I was agreeably impressed by 
 the gorgeous landscape — no wonder I reined 
 up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it ; 
 while my heart responded to the glad chorus, 
 that, from bird and bee, was rising up to 
 heaven around me ! I, too, felt joyous under 
 the reflection that, amid such lovely scenes, I 
 had chosen my future home.
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 A BACKWOODS YENUS. 
 
 After indulging for some time in a sort of 
 dreamy contemplation, I once more gave the 
 bridle to my horse, and rode onward. 
 
 I was prepared for a tortuous path : my 
 host had forewarned me of this. The herrikin, 
 he said, was only about three hundred yards 
 in breadth ; but I should have to ride nearly 
 twice that distance in crossing it. His state- 
 ment proved literally true. 
 
 The old trace, passing down the creek 
 bottom, had run at right angles to the direc- 
 tion of the storm ; and, of course, the trees 
 had fallen perpendicularly across the path — 
 where they still lay, thick as hurdles set for a 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 178 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 donkey-race. Some of them could be stepped 
 over by a horse, and a few might be * jumped,' 
 but there were others that rose breast high ; 
 and a flying-leap over a five-barred gate 
 would have been an easy exploit, compared 
 with clearing one of these monstrous barriers. 
 I might add, also, from experience, that leap- 
 ing a log is a feat of considerable danger. 
 There is no room for ' topping ;' and should 
 the iron hoof strike, there is nothing that will 
 yield. On the other side, the rider has the 
 pleasant prospect of a broken neck — either for 
 himself or his horse. 
 
 Not bemg in any particular hurry, I took 
 the matter quietly; and wound my way 
 through a labyrinth worthy of being the maze 
 of Fair Eosamond. 
 
 I could not help remarking the singular 
 effect which the herrikin had produced. To 
 the right and left, as far as my view could 
 range, extended an opening, like some vast 
 avenue that had been cleared for the passage 
 of giants, and by giants made ! On each side 
 appeared the unbroken forest — the trunks
 
 A BACKWOODS VENUS. 179 
 
 standing like columns, with shadowy aisles 
 between : their outward or edge row trending 
 in a straight line^ as if so planted. These 
 showed not a sign that the tierce tornado had 
 passed so near them ; though others, whose 
 limbs almost interlocked with theirs, had been 
 mowed down without mercy by the ruthless 
 storm. 
 
 I had arrived within fifty yards of the op- 
 posite side, and the dark forest was again 
 before my face ; but even at that short dis- 
 tance, the eye vainly endeavoured to pierce 
 its sombre depths. 
 
 I was congratulating myself, that I had 
 passed the numerous logs that lay across the 
 path, when yet one more appeared between 
 me and the standing trees. It had been one 
 of the tallest victims of the tornado ; and now 
 lay transversely to the line of the track, 
 which cut it about midway. 
 
 On nearing this obstacle, I saw that the 
 trace forked into two — one going around the 
 tops of the decaying branches, while the other 
 took the direction of the roots ; which, with the
 
 180 THE WILD HUNTRESS, 
 
 soil still adhering to them, formed a rounded 
 buttress-like wall of full ten feet in diameter. 
 The trunk itself was not over five — that being 
 about the thickness of the tree. 
 
 It was a matter of choice which of the 
 paths should be followed : since both appeared 
 to come together again on the opposite side 
 of the tree ; but I had made up my mind to 
 take neither. One of my motives, in seeking 
 this forest-home, had been a desire to indulge 
 in the exciting exercise of the chase ; and the 
 sooner I should bring my horse into practice, 
 the sooner I might take the field with a pros- 
 pect of success. Log-leaping was new to my 
 Arab ; and he might stand in need of a little 
 training to it. The log before me had open 
 ground on both sides; and afforded a very 
 good opportunity for giving him his first lesson. 
 
 Thus prompted by St. Hubert, I was about 
 spurring forward to the run; when a hoof- 
 stroke falling upon my ear, summoned me to 
 desist from my intention. 
 
 The sound proceeded from the forest before 
 my face ; and, peering into its darkness, I
 
 A BACKWOODS VENUS. 181 
 
 could perceive that some one, also on horse- 
 back, was coming along the path. 
 
 This caused me to ^change my design, or 
 rather to pause until the person should pass. 
 Had I continued in my determination to leap 
 the log, I should, in all likelihood, have dashed 
 my horse at full gallop against that of the 
 approaching traveller : since our courses lay 
 directly head to head. 
 
 While waiting till he should ride out of the 
 way, I became aware that I had committed 
 an error — only in regard to the sex of the 
 person who was approaching. It was not a 
 he ! On the contrary, something so very 
 different that, as soon as I had succeeded in 
 shading the sun-glare out of my eyes, and 
 obtained a fair view of the equestrian traveller, 
 my indifference was at an end : I beheld one 
 of the loveliest apparitions ever made manifest 
 in female form, or, I need scarcely add, in 
 any other. 
 
 It was a young girl — certainly not over 
 sixteen years of age — but with a contour close 
 verging upon womanhood. Her beauty was
 
 182 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 of that character which cannot be set forth by 
 a detailed description in words. In true love- 
 liness there is a harmony of the features 
 that will not suffer them to be considered 
 apart ; nor does the eye take note of any one, 
 to regard it as unique or characteristic. It is 
 satisfied with the coup d'osil of the whole — if I 
 may be permitted the expression. Real 
 beauty needs not to be considered : it is ac- 
 knowledged at a glance : eye and heart, im- 
 pressed with it at the same instant, search not 
 to study its details. 
 
 The impression made upon me by the first 
 sight of this young girl, was that of some- 
 thing soft and strikingly beautiful, of a glo- 
 rious golden hue — the reflection of bright 
 amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin, tinged 
 with a hue of vermilion — something that im- 
 parted a sort of luminous radiance divinely 
 feminine. Even under the shadow of the 
 trees, this luminous radiance was apparent — 
 as if the face had a halo around it ! 
 
 The reader may smile at such exalted ideas, 
 and deem them the offspring of a romantic
 
 A BACKAVOODS VENUS. 183 
 
 fancy ; but had he looked, as I, into the liquid 
 depths of those large eyes, with their blue 
 irides and darker pupils *, had he gazed upon 
 that cheek tinted as with cochineal — those lips 
 shaming the hue of the rose — that throat of 
 ivory white — those golden tresses translucent 
 in the sunlight — he would have felt as I, that 
 something shone before his eyes — a face such 
 as the Athenian fancy has elaborated into an 
 almost living reality, in the goddess Cytherea. 
 
 In short, it w^as the Venus of my fancy — • 
 the very ideal I had imbibed from gazing upon 
 many a picture of the Grecian goddess. The 
 prognostication of my friend had proved em- 
 phatically false. If it was not Venus I saw 
 'before me, it appeared her counterpart in hu- 
 man form ! 
 
 And this fair creature was costumed in the 
 simplest manner — almost coarsely clad. A 
 sleeved dress of homespun with a yellowish 
 stripe, loosely worn, and open at the breast. 
 A cotton * sun-bonnet * was the only covering 
 for her head — her bright amber-coloured hair 
 the only shawl upon her shoulders, over which
 
 184 THE WILD nUXTRESS. 
 
 it fell in ample luxuriance. A string of pearls 
 around her neck — false ones I could see — was 
 the sole effort that vanity seemed to have 
 made : for there was no other article of adorn- 
 ment. Even shoes and stockings were want- 
 ing ; but the most costly ehaussure could not 
 have added to the elegance of those mignon 
 feet, that, daintily protruding below the skirt 
 of her dress, rested along the flank of the 
 horse. 
 
 More commonplace even than her home- 
 spun frock was the steed that carried her — a 
 sorry-looking animal, that resembled the ske- 
 leton of a horse with the skin left on ! There 
 was no saddle — scarce the semblance of one. 
 A piece of bear-skin, strapped over the back 
 with a rough thong, did service for a saddle ; 
 and the little feet hung loosely down with- 
 out step or stirrup. The girl kept her seat, 
 partly by balancing, but as much by hold- 
 ing on to the high bony withers of the horse, 
 that rose above his shoulders like the hump of 
 a dromedary. The scant mane, wound around 
 her tiny fingers, scarcely covered them ; while
 
 A BACKWOODS YEXUS. 185 
 
 with the other hand she clasped the black reins 
 of an old dilapidated bridle. 
 
 The want of saddle and stirrup did not 
 hinder her from poising herself gracefully 
 upon the piece of bear-skin ; but hers was a 
 figure that could not be ungraceful in any 
 attitude ; and, as the old horse hobbled along, 
 the rude movement all the more palpably 
 displayed the magnificent mouldmg of her 
 body and limbs. 
 
 The contrast between horse and rider — the 
 old critter and the young creature — was ridi- 
 culously striking : the former appearing a 
 burlesque on the most beautiful of quadru- 
 peds, while the latter was the very imper- 
 sonation of the loveliest of biped forms. 
 
 It is scarcely probable that the Cyprian 
 goddess could ever have been brought into 
 such ludicrous juxtaposition — a shame upon 
 Mercury if she was ! In classic lore we find 
 mention of no such sorry steed ; and, for his 
 counterpart in story, we must seek in more 
 modern times — fixing upon the famed charger 
 of Calatrava*s knight. But here the analogy
 
 '186 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 must end. The charms of the dark-haired 
 Dulcinea can be brought into no comparison 
 with those of the golden-haired wood-nymph 
 of the Obion Bottom.
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 A SERIES OF COXTRE-TEMPS. 
 
 At sight of this charming equestrian, all 
 thoughts of leaping the log were driven out of 
 my mind ; and I rode quietly forward, with 
 the intention of going round it. 
 
 It might be that I timed the pace of my 
 horse — mechanicalbj^ no doubt — but, however 
 that may have been, I arrived at the pros- 
 trate tree, just as the young girl reached it 
 from the opposite side. We were thus brought 
 face to face, the log-barrier between us. 
 
 I would have spoken ; but, for the life of 
 me, I could not think of something graceful 
 to say ; and to have used the hackneyed 
 phraseology of ' Fine morning, miss ! ' would, 
 in those beautiful blue eyes that glistened
 
 188 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 under the shadow of the sun-bonnet, have 
 rendered me as commonplace as the remark. 
 I felt certain it would ; and therefore said 
 nothing. 
 
 Some acknowledgement, however, was 
 necessary ; and, lifting the forage-cap from 
 my head, I bowed slightly — as such a saluta- 
 tion required — but with all the verve that 
 politeness would permit. 
 
 My salutation was acknowledged by a nod, 
 and, as I fancied, a smile. Either was grace 
 enough for me to expect; but, whether the 
 smile was the offspring of a feeling in my 
 favour, or at my expense, I was unable at 
 the moment to determine. 
 
 I should have an opportunity of repeating 
 the bow, as we met again in going round the 
 tree. Then I should certainly speak to her ; 
 and, as I turned my horse's head to the path, 
 I set about thinking of something to say. 
 
 I had taken the path leading to the right — 
 that which passed around the root of the tree. 
 Of the two ways this appeared to be the 
 shorter and more used.
 
 A SERIES OF COXTRE-TEMF . 189 
 
 What was my chagrin, when, m glancing 
 over my arm, I perceived that I had made 
 a most grievous mistake : the girl was going 
 in the opposite direction ! 
 
 Yes — she had chosen to ride romid the 
 branching tops of the dead-wood — by all the 
 gods, a much wider circuit ! 
 
 Was it accident, or design ? It had the 
 appearance of the latter. I fancied so, and 
 fell many degrees in my own estimation. 
 Her choosing, what was evidently the 'round- 
 about' direction, argued unwillingness that we 
 should meet again : since the mazy movement 
 we were now performing precluded all chance 
 of a second encounter, except with the great 
 log still between us. Even then we should 
 be no longer vis-a-vis as before, but dos-a- 
 dos, almost on the instant of our approach- 
 ing ! 
 
 To insure even this poor privilege, I rode 
 rapidly round the great buttress of roots, that 
 for a moment concealed the fair equestrian 
 from my sight. I did this with the intention 
 of getting forward in time.
 
 190 THE WILD HUNTRESS 
 
 So rapidly did I pass, and so absorbed was 
 I in the idea of another sweet salutation, that 
 I saw not the fearful creature that lay basking 
 upon the log — on the sunny side of the 
 upheaved mass of earth. 
 
 Once on the other side, I discovered that I 
 had made a third mistake — equally as pro- 
 voking as the second — I had arrived too soon I 
 Golden-hair was away up among the tangle 
 of the tree-tops. I could see her bright face 
 gleaming through the branches — now and 
 then hidden by the broad leaves of the 
 bignonias that laced them together. To make 
 me still more miserable, I fancied that she 
 was moving with a studied slowness I 
 
 I had already reached that point, where 
 the path parted from the log. I dared not 
 pause : there was no excuse for it. Not the 
 shadow of one could I think of; and, with a 
 lingering look towards that glittering attrac- 
 tion, I reluctantly headed my horse to the 
 forest. 
 
 A last glance over my shoulder disclosed 
 no improvement in my situation : she was
 
 A SERIES OF COXTRE-TEMPS. l91 
 
 still behind the trellised leaf-work of the 
 bignonias, where she had stayed perhaps to 
 pluck a flower. 
 
 ' Happier far if I had never seen her !' 
 was the reflection that occurred to me, as I 
 entered under the gloomy shadow of the trees 
 — less gloomy than my own thoughts. 
 
 With one circumstance I now reproached 
 myself: why had I been so shy with this forest 
 damsel? The very way to secure her in- 
 difference. Why had I not spoken to her, if 
 only in commonplace ? Even * Good-day ' 
 would have promised me a response ; and the 
 result could not have been more unfavourable. 
 Why the deuce had I not bidden her ' Good- 
 dav? ' 
 
 I should have heard her voice — no doubt 
 an additional charm — for I never yet saw a 
 beautiful woman with a harsh voice ; and I 
 fear the inverse proposition is equally true. 
 Why passed I without speaking ? No doubt, 
 she deems me a yokel ! Perhaps it was my 
 very shyness she was smiling at ? S 'death ! 
 what a simpleton Ho ! what do I hear ?
 
 192 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 A woman's voice — a cry ? — of terror ? There 
 again! — a scream! the words, *Help, oh! 
 help!' Is it she who is calhng? Yes — yes 
 it is she ! 
 
 By such strange sounds were my reflections 
 interrupted. 
 
 Turning my horse with a wrench, I urged 
 him back along the path. I was yet scarcely 
 a dozen lengths from the log — for the reflec- 
 tions above detailed were but the thoughts of 
 a moment. 
 
 Half-a-dozen bounds of my steed brought 
 me back to the edge of the standing timber — 
 where I pulled up, to ascertain the purport of 
 the singular summons that had reached 
 me. 
 
 I made no inquiry — no explanation was 
 needed. The scene explained itself: for, at 
 the moment of my emerging from the shadowy 
 path, I had a tableau under my eyes, ex- 
 pressive as it was terrifying. 
 
 The girl was upon the other side of the 
 log, and near the point w^here she should 
 have turned off* from it ; but, instead of
 
 A SERIES OF CONTRE-TEMPS. 193 
 
 advancing, I saw that she had come to a halt 
 — her attitude expressing; the wildest terror, 
 as if some fearful object was before her ! The 
 jade, too, showed affright, by snorting loudly 
 — his head raised high in air, and his long 
 ears pointing forward. 
 
 The young girl was dragging mechanically 
 on the bridle — as if to head him away from 
 the spot. But this was impossible : another 
 log overlapping the first, formed an avenue, 
 so narrow as to leave not the slightest chance 
 of a horse being able to turn in it. Into this 
 the animal had backed. There was no way 
 of his getting from between the two trunks, 
 but by going straight forward or backward. 
 Forward he dared not go ; and backward he 
 was moving, as fast as the nature of the 
 place would permit : now halting with his 
 hips against one of the logs ; then with a 
 quick rush backing against the other, that, 
 but for the support thus obtained, would have 
 brought him upon his haunches ! 
 
 The retrograde movement on the part of 
 the horse was evidently the result of terror, 
 
 VOL. I. ' O
 
 194 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 at sight of some object in front. It was 
 aided also by the half-mechanical action of 
 the rider : who, pulling continuously on the 
 bridle, and repeating her cries for help, 
 appeared equally to suffer from affright ! 
 
 My astonishment was of short duration. 
 Effect and cause came under my eye almost 
 at the same instant. The latter I saw upon 
 the log in hideous form — the form of a 
 couguar I 
 
 Slowly advancing along the dead-wood — 
 not by bounds or paces, but with the stealthy 
 tread of a cat — his long red body stretched 
 out to its full extent — the beast more re- 
 sembled a gigantic caterpillar than a quad- 
 ruped. I could scarcely detect the movement 
 of his limbs, so closely did the monster crawl ; 
 but his great tail, tapering three feet behind 
 him, was seen vibrating from side to side, 
 or at intervals moving with quick jerks — 
 expressive of the enjoyment he was receiv- 
 ing in the contemplation of his prey — for 
 such he deemed the helpless maiden before 
 him.
 
 A SERIES OF CONTRE-TEMPS. 195 
 
 I saw not the couguar's face — hideous sight 
 at such a moment — nor yet his eyes. Both 
 were turned from me, and fixed steadfasly 
 upon his intended victim. 
 
 The fierce beast did not perceive my ap- 
 proach — perhaps a fortunate circumstance. 
 Once or twice I saw him pause, as if crouch- 
 ing for a spring. Luckily, the old horse, 
 making a fresh retrogression, caused the cou- 
 guar again to advance along the log, in the 
 same creeping attitude as before. 
 
 "With a glance, I had comprehended the 
 situation : indeed, at the first glance I under- 
 stood it perfectly. 
 
 M}^ delay in acting only arose from the 
 necessity of preparing for action ; and that 
 did not take long. 
 
 It was habitual with me to carry my rifle 
 over my shoulder, or rested across the pom- 
 mel of my saddle : in either case, always in 
 hand. It was but the work of a moment to 
 get the piece ready. 
 
 The pressure of the muzzle against my 
 horse's ear, was a signal well understood ; and
 
 196 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 at once rendered him as immobile as if made 
 of bronze. 
 
 Many years of practice — during which I 
 had often aimed at higher game — had steeled 
 my nerves and straightened my sight. Both 
 proved sufficiently true for the destruction of 
 the couguar. 
 
 Quick after the crack, I saw his red body 
 roll back from the log ; and, when the smoke 
 thinned off, I could see the animal writhing 
 upon the ground. 
 
 Why the couguar had fallen to my side, I 
 could not tell : for he was fairly on the ridge 
 of the dead-wood when I fired. Perhaps, on 
 receiving the shot, he had fancied that it came 
 from the only enemy visible to him ; and, by 
 an instinct impelling him to escape, had tum- 
 bled off in the opposite direction. 
 
 I perceived that he was not yet dead. He 
 was still wriggling about among the branches ; 
 but it was clear that the piece of lead had 
 taken the ' spring ' out of him. The bullet 
 had passed through his spine, crashing the 
 column in twain.
 
 A SERIES OF CONTRE-TEMPS. 197 
 
 After playing upon him with my revolving 
 pistol, mitil I had emptied three or four of its 
 chambers, 1 had the satisfaction of seeing him 
 give his last spasmodic ' kick.' 
 
 * * * * 
 
 What followed, I leave to the imagination 
 of my reader. Suffice it to say, that the in- 
 cident proved my friend. The ice of indiffe- 
 rence was broken ; and I was rewarded for 
 my sleight-of-haiid prowess by something more 
 than smiles — by words of praise that rang 
 melodiously in my ear — words of gratitude 
 spoken with the free innocent naivete of 
 childhood — revealing, on the part of her 
 who gave utterance to them, a truly grateful 
 heart. 
 
 I rode back with my fair protegee across 
 the track of fallen timber — I could have gone 
 with her to the end of the world ! The tor- 
 tuous path hindered me from holding much 
 converse with her : only, now and then, was 
 there opportunity for a word. 
 
 I remember little of what was said — on my 
 side, no doubt, much that was conmionplace ;
 
 198 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 but even her observations I can recall but con- 
 fusedly. Tbe power of love was upon me, 
 alike absorbing both soul and sense — engross- 
 ing every thought in the contemplation of the 
 divine creature by my side. I cared not to 
 talk— enough for me to look and listen. 
 
 I did not think of questioning her as 
 to whence she had come. Even her name 
 was neither asked nor ascertained ! Whither 
 she was going was revealed only by the acci- 
 dent of conversation. 
 
 She was on her way to visit some one who 
 lived on the other side of the creek — some 
 friend of her father. Would that I could 
 have claimed to be her father's friend — his 
 relative — his son! 
 
 We reached a ford : it was the crossing- 
 place. The house, for which her visit was de- 
 signed, stood not far off, on the other side ; 
 and I must needs leave her. 
 
 Emboldened by what had passed, I caught 
 hold of that little hand. It was a rare liberty ; 
 but I was no longer master of myself. 
 There was no resistance; but I could per-
 
 A SERIES OF CONTRE-TEMPS. 199 
 
 ceive that the tiny fingers trembled at my 
 touch. 
 
 The old horse, with provoking impatience, 
 plunged into the stream ; and we were parted. 
 
 I watched her while crossing the creek. 
 The crystal drops sparkled like pearls upon 
 her naked feet. Some of them, dashed higher 
 by the hoofs of the horse, were sprinkled upon 
 her cheek, and clung to the carmined skin as 
 if kissing it ! I envied those diamond drops ! 
 
 Lingering upon the bank, I gazed upon her 
 receding form — with my eyes, followed it 
 through the forest aisle ; and then, saw it only 
 at intervals — moving like some bright meteor 
 among the trees — until, by a sudden turning in 
 the path, it w^as taken from my sight
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SWEET AND BITTER. 
 
 Slowly and reluctantly, I turned back from 
 the stream, and once more entered amid the 
 wreck of the hurricane. 
 
 Along the sunny path, the flowers appeared 
 to sparkle with a fresher brilliancy — imbuing 
 the air with sweet odours, wafted from many a 
 perfumed chalice. The birds sang with clearer 
 melody ; and the hum of the honey-bee rang 
 through the glades more harmoniously than 
 ever. The * coo-coo-oo ' of the doves blending 
 with the love-call of the squirrel, betokened 
 that both were inspired by the tenderest of 
 passions. ' Pensando de amor,' as the Spanish
 
 SWEET AXD BITTER. 201 
 
 phrase finely expresses it; for at that moment, 
 the beautiful words of the southern poet were 
 in my thoughts, and upon my lips : 
 
 Aunque las fieras 
 En sus giiaridas 
 Enternecidas 
 
 Pensan de amor ! 
 
 Even the fierce beasts in their forest lairs be- 
 come gentle under the influence of this all- 
 pervading passion ! 
 
 I rode on slowly and in silence — my whole 
 soul absorbed in the contemplation of that 
 .fair being, whose image seemed still before 
 my eyes — palpable as if presen":. My heart 
 quivered under the influence of a gentle joy. 
 The past appeared bright ; the present, happi- 
 ness itself; the future, full of hope. I had 
 found the very ' wilderness home ' of my long- 
 ings ; the fair spirit that should be my minister ! 
 No doubt rose before my mind to dim the 
 brilliant prospect before me — no shadow hung 
 over the horizon of my hopes. The prospect 
 before me appeared bright and sunny as the 
 sky above my head. Within and without the
 
 202 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 world was smiling — all nature seemed tinted 
 with the hue of the rose ! 
 
 This delightful reverie lasted for a time — 
 alas ! too short a time — only while I was tra- 
 versing the track, that, but the moment before, 
 I had passed over in such pleasant companion- 
 ship. 
 
 On arriving at the scene of my late adven- 
 ture, a turn was given to my thoughts. It 
 had been a scene of triumph, and deserved 
 commemoration. The body of the panther 
 lay across the path. His shining skin was a 
 trophy not to be despised ; and, dismounting 
 on the spot, with my hunting-knife I secured 
 it. I could point to it with pride — as the 
 first spoil obtained in my new hunting-field ; 
 but I should prize it still more, as the me- 
 mento of a far sweeter sentiment. 
 
 In a few minutes, it was folded up, and 
 strapped over the cantle of my saddle ; and, 
 with this odd addition to my equipage, I once 
 more plunged into the forest-path. 
 
 For the next mile, the trace led through 
 heavy bottom timber, such as we had tra-
 
 SWEET AND BITTER. 203 
 
 versed, after leaving the settlement of Swamp- 
 ville. The black earth, of alluvial origin, was 
 covered deeply with decayed vegetation ; and 
 the track of horses and cattle had converted 
 the path into mud. At intervals, it was inter- 
 sected by embayments of wet morass — the 
 projecting arms of a great swamp, that ap- 
 peared to run parallel with the creek. 
 Through these, my horse, unused to such 
 footing, passed with difficulty — often flounder- 
 ing up to his flanks in the mud. 
 
 Though it was but the hour of noon, it 
 more resembled night, or the late gloaming of 
 twilight — so dark were the shadows under 
 this umbrageous wood. As if to strengthen 
 the illusion, I could hear the cry of the bittern, 
 and the screech of the owl, echoing through 
 the aisles of the forest — sounds elsewhere 
 suggestive of night and darkness. 
 
 Now and then, light shone upon the path 
 — the light that indicates an opening in the 
 forest ; but it was not that of a friendly 
 clearing. Only the break caused by some 
 dismal lagoon, amidst whose dank stagnant
 
 204 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 waters even the cypress cannot grow — the 
 habitat of black water-snakes and mud-turtles 
 — of cranes, herons, and qua birds. Hundreds 
 of these I saw perched upon the rotting half- 
 submerged trunks — upon the cypress 'knees' 
 that rose like brown obelisks around the 
 edge of the water ; or winging their slow flight 
 through the murky gloom, and filling the air 
 with their deafening screams. 
 
 On both sides of the trace towered gigantic 
 trees, flanked at their bases with huge pro- 
 jections, that appeared Hke the battlements of 
 a fortress. These singular protuberances rose 
 far above the height of my horse — radiating 
 from the trunks on every side, and often caus- 
 ing the path to take a circuitous direction. 
 In the deep gloom, the track would have been 
 difficult to follow, but for an occasional blaze 
 appearing upon the smooth bark of the syca- 
 mores. 
 
 The scene was by no means suggestive of 
 pleasant reflections — the less so, since I had 
 ascertained, from my host of yesternight, that 
 the greater portion of Section No. 9 was of
 
 SWEET AXD BITTER. 205 
 
 just such a character ; and that there was 
 scarcely a spot upon it fit for a 'homestead,' 
 except the one already occupied ! 
 
 'Such an "encumbrance" on my estate,' 
 reflected I, ' is worse than the heaviest mort- 
 gage ;' and I should have been willing at 
 that moment to part with the timber at 
 a very ' low valuation.' But I well knew 
 the value of such a commodity. On the 
 Thames or Mersey, a mine of wealth — on 
 Mud Creek, it would not have been taken as 
 a gift ! 
 
 My spirits fell as I rode forward — partly 
 influenced by the sombre scenes through which 
 I was passing — partly by the natural reaction 
 which ever follows the hour of sweet enjoy- 
 ment — and partly, no doubt, from some un- 
 pleasant presentiments that were once more 
 shaping themselves in my mind. 
 
 Up to this time, I had scarcely given 
 thought to my errand, or its object. First 
 the gay hues of the morning, and then the 
 romantic incidents of the hour, had occupied 
 my thoughts, and hindered me from dwelling
 
 206 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 on future plans or purposes. Now, however, 
 that I was coming close to the clearing of the 
 squatter, I began to feel, that I was also ap- 
 proaching a crisis.
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 A RUDE RESPOXSE. 
 
 An opening of about two acres in extent, of 
 irregular semicircular shape, with the creek 
 for its chord, and a worm-fence zigzagging 
 around its arc — scarcely a clearing : since trees 
 bleached and barkless stand thickly over it ; a 
 log shanty, with clapboard roof, in the centre 
 of the concavity, flanked on one side by a 
 rude horse -shed, on the other, by a corn-crib 
 of split rails ; all three — shed, shanty, and 
 crib — like the tower of Pisa, threatening to 
 tumble down ; near the shanty, a wood-pile, 
 with an old axe lying upon the chop-block ; 
 by the shed and crib, a litter of white ' shucks ' 
 and ' cobs ;' in front, among the stumps and
 
 208 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 girdled trees, a thin straggle of withered corn- 
 stalks, shorn of their leafy tops — some stand- 
 ing, some trampled down : such was the 
 picture before my eyes, as, with my horse, 
 breast up against the fence, I looked into the 
 clearing of Squatter Holt ! 
 
 ' It must be the place — my place ? there is 
 no other clearing within a mile ? My directions 
 have been given with exact minuteness of 
 detail. I have followed them to the letter : 
 I cannot be mistaken : I have reached Holt's 
 Clearing at last.' 
 
 I had ridden quite up to the fence, but 
 could see no gate. A set of bars, however, 
 between two roughly mortised uprights, indi- 
 cated an entrance to the enclosure. 
 
 The top bar was out. Not feeling inclined 
 to dismount, I sprang my horse over the 
 others ; and then trotted forward in front of 
 the shanty. 
 
 The door stood wide open. I had hopes 
 that the sound of my horse's hoof-stroke 
 would have brought some one into it ; but no 
 one came !
 
 A RUDE RESPONSE. 209 
 
 Was there nobody within ? I waited for a 
 minute or more, listening for some sign of life 
 in the interior of the cabin. No voice reached 
 me — no sound of any one stirring ! 
 
 Perhaps the cabin was empty? Not un- 
 tenanted : since I could perceive the signs of 
 occupation, in some articles of rude furniture 
 visible inside the doorway. 
 
 Perhaps the inmates had gone out for a 
 moment, and might be in the woods, near at 
 hand ? 
 
 I looked around the clearing, and over the 
 fence into the forest beyond. No one to be 
 seen ! no one to be heard ! 
 
 Without the cabin, as within, reigned a 
 profound silence. Not a living thing in sight 
 — save the black vultures — a score of which, 
 perched on the dead-woods overhead, and 
 fetid as their food, were infecting the air with 
 their carrion odour. Although within easy 
 range of my rifle, the foul birds took no heed 
 of my movements ; but sat still, indolently 
 extending their broad wings to the sun — now 
 and then one coming, one going, in slow silent 
 
 VOL. 1. P
 
 210 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 flight — their very shadows seeming to flit 
 lazily among the withered maize-plants that 
 covered the ground. 
 
 I had no desire to appear rude. I already 
 regretted having leaped my horse over the 
 bars. Even that might be regarded as rather 
 a brusque method of approach to a private 
 dwelling ; but I was in hopes it would not be 
 noticed : since there appeared to be no one 
 who had witnessed it. 
 
 I coughed and made other noises, with 
 like unfruitful result. My demonstrations 
 were either not heard, or if heard, unheeded. 
 
 ' Certainly,' thought I, ' if there be any 
 one in the house, they must not only hear, 
 but see me :' for although there was no win- 
 dow, I could perceive that the logs were but 
 poorly ' chinked ;' and from within the house, 
 the whole clearing must have been in sight. 
 Nay, more, the interior itself was visible from 
 without — at least the greater part of it — and, 
 while making this observation, I fancied I 
 could trace the outlines of a human figure 
 through the interstices of the logs !
 
 A RUDE RESPONSE. 211 
 
 I became convinced it was a human figure ; 
 and furthermore, the figure of a man. 
 
 It was odd he had not heard me ! 
 
 Was he asleep ? 
 
 No : that could not be — from the attitude 
 in which he was. He appeared to be seated 
 in a chair, but with his body erect, and his 
 head held aloft. In such position, he could 
 scarcely be asleep ? 
 
 Afler making this reflection, I coughed 
 again — louder than before ; but to no bet- 
 ter purpose ! I thought the figure moved. 
 I was sure it moved ; but as if with no inten- 
 tion of stirring from the seat !' 
 
 ' Cool indifference !' thought I — ' what can 
 the fellow mean ?' 
 
 I grew impatient ; and, feeling a little 
 provoked by the inexplicable somnolency of 
 the owner of the cabin, I determined to try 
 whether my voice might not rouse him. 
 
 ' Ho ! house, there !' I shouted, though 
 not loudly ; ' ho ! — holloa ! — any one within ?' 
 
 Again the figure moved — but still stirred 
 not from the seat !
 
 212 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 I repeated both my summons and query — 
 this time in still a louder and more command- 
 ing tone ; and this time I obtained a response. 
 
 ' Who the h — 1 air you ?' came a voice 
 through the interstices of the logs — a voice 
 that more resembled the growl of a bear, than 
 the articulation of a human throat. 
 
 ' Who the h — 1 air you ? ' repeated the 
 voice, while, at the same time, I could per- 
 ceive the figure rising from the chair. 
 
 I made no answer to the rough query. I 
 saw that my last summons had been sufficient. 
 I could hear the hewn floor-planks cracking 
 under a heavy boot; and knew from this, 
 that my questioner was passing towards the 
 door. 
 
 In another instant he stood in the doorway 
 — his body filHng it from side to side — from 
 head to stoop. 
 
 A fearful-looking man was before me. A 
 man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching 
 to the second button of his coat ; and above it 
 a face, not to be looked upon without a sensa- 
 sation of terror : a countenance expressive of
 
 A RUDE RESPONSE. 213 
 
 determined courage, but, at the same time, of 
 ferocity, untempered by any trace of a softer 
 emotion. A shaggy sand-coloured beard, 
 slightly grizzled ; eyebrows like a chevaux-de- 
 frise of hogs' bristles ; eyes of a greenish- 
 grey, with a broad livid scar across the left 
 cheek, were component parts in producing 
 this expression ; while a red cotton kerchief, 
 wound, turban-like, around the head, and, 
 pulled low down in front, rendered it more 
 palpable and pronounced. 
 
 A loose coat of thick green blanket, some- 
 what faded and worn, added to the colossal 
 appearance of the man ; while a red flannel 
 shirt served him also for a vest. His large 
 limbs were inserted in pantaloons of blue 
 Kentucky ye^a7Z5 cloth; but these were scarcely 
 visible, hidden by the skirt of the ample 
 blanket-coat that draped down below the tops 
 of a pair of rough horseskin boots reaching 
 above the knee, and into which the trousers 
 had been tucked. 
 
 The face of the man was a singular picture ; 
 the colossal stature rendered it more striking ;
 
 214 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 the costume corresponded ; and all were in 
 keeping with the rude manner of my recep- 
 tion. 
 
 It was idle to ask the question. From the 
 description given me by the young backwoods- 
 man, I knew the man before me to be Hick- 
 man Holt the squatter.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A ROUGH RECEPTIOX. 
 
 For fashion's sake, I was about to utter the 
 usual formula : ^ Mr. Holt, I presume T but 
 the opportunity was not allowed me. No 
 sooner had the squatter appeared in his door- 
 way, than he followed up his blasphemous in- 
 terrogatory with a series of others, couched in 
 language equally rude. 
 
 ' Wha's all this muss about ? Durn yur 
 stinkin' imperence who air ye ? an' what air 
 ye arter?' 
 
 ' I wish to see Mr. Holt,' I replied, strug- 
 gling hard to keep my temper. 
 
 ' Ye wish to see Mister Holt ? Thur's no 
 Mister Holt 'bout hyur.' 
 
 'No?'
 
 216 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' No ! d — m — n, no ! Didn't ye hear me ?' 
 ' Do I understand you to say, that Hickman 
 
 Holt does not live here ?' 
 
 ' You understan me to say no sich thing. 
 
 Eft's Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur.' 
 
 * Hick Holt — yes — that is the name.' 
 ^Wal! whato' 't, eft is?' 
 
 ' I wish to see him.' 
 
 * Lookee hyur, strenger !' and the words 
 were accompanied by a significant look ; ' ef 
 yur the sharifF, Hick Holt ain't at home — ye 
 understan me ? he aint at homeJ 
 
 The last phrase was rendered more em- 
 phatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising 
 the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a 
 huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband 
 of his trousers. 
 
 I understood the hint perfectly. 
 
 'I am not the sheriff,' I answered in an 
 assuring tone. 
 
 I was in hopes of gaining favour by the de- 
 claration : for I had already fancied that my 
 bizarre reception might be owing to some error 
 of this kind.
 
 A ROUGH RECEPTION. 217 
 
 * I am not the sheriff,' I repeated, impres- 
 sively. 
 
 ' Yur not the shariff ? One o' his con- 
 stables, then, I s'pose ?' 
 
 'Neither one nor other,' I replied, pocket- 
 ing the affront. 
 
 ' An' who air ye, anyhow — wi' yur dam 
 glitterin' buttons, an' yur waist drawd in, like 
 a skewered skunk ?' 
 
 This was intolerable ; but remembering the 
 advice of my Nashville friend — with some 
 additional counsel I had received over-night — 
 I strove hard to keep down my rising choler. 
 
 ' My name,' said I 
 
 ' Durn yur name !' exclaimed the giant, in- 
 terrupting me ; ' I don't care a dog-gone for 
 yur name : tell me yur bizness — that's what I 
 wanter know.' 
 
 ' I have already told you my business : I 
 wish to see Mr. Holt — Hick Holt, if you 
 like.' 
 
 'To see Hick Holt? Wal, ef that's all 
 yur bizness, you 've seed him ; an' now ye kin 
 go.'
 
 218 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 This was rather a literal interpretation of 
 my demand ; but, without permitting myself 
 to be nonplussed by it, or paying; any heed to 
 the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half 
 interrogatively : 
 
 ' You, then, are he ? You are Hick Holt, 
 I suppose T 
 
 ' Who said I ain't — durn yur imperence ? 
 Now, then, what d'ye want wi' me ?' 
 
 The filthy language, the insulting tone in 
 which it was uttered, the bullying manner of 
 the man — evidently relying upon his giant 
 strength, and formidable aspect — were rapidly 
 producing their effect upon me ; but in a 
 manner quite contrary to that anticipated by 
 Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to 
 awe me ; but he little knew the man he had 
 to deal with. Whether it might be called 
 courage or not, I was just as reckless of life 
 as he. I had exposed my person too often, 
 both in single combat and on the battle-field, 
 to be cowed by a bully — such as I fancied 
 this fellow to be — and the spirit of resistance 
 was fast rising within me. His dictatorial
 
 A ROUGH RECEPTION. 219 
 
 style was unendurable ; and discarding all 
 further prudential considerations, I resolved 
 to submit to it no longer. 
 
 I did not give way to idle recrimination. 
 Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit 
 my purpose better ; and, in my reply, I 
 adopted it. 
 
 Before I could answer his question, how- 
 ever, he had repeated it in a still more peevish 
 and impatient manner — with an additional 
 epithet of insult. 
 
 ' Wal, Mister Jaybird,' said he, ' be quick 
 'bout it ! What d'ye want wi' me T 
 
 ' In the first place, Mr. Hickman Holt, 
 I want civil treatment from you ; and 
 secondly ' — 
 
 I was not permitted to finish my speech. 
 I was interrupted by an exclamation — a 
 horrid oath — that came fiercely hissing from 
 the lips of the squatter. 
 
 'D — m — n !' cried he; *you be d — d! 
 Civil treetmint i'deed ! You're a putty fellur 
 to talk o' civil treetmint, arter jumpin' yur 
 hoss over a man's fence, an' ridin' slap-jam
 
 220 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 inter nis door, 'ithout bein asked ! Let me 
 tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don't 'low any 
 man — white, black, or Injun — to enter my 
 clarin' 'ithout fust knowin' his reezun. Ye 
 hear that, d've ?' 
 
 ' Your clearing ! Are you sure it is yours T 
 
 The squatter turned red upon the instant. 
 Eage may have been the passion that brought 
 the colour to his cheeks ; but I could perceive 
 that my words had produced another emotion 
 in his mind, which added to the hideousness 
 of the cast at that moment given to his 
 features. 
 
 ' Not my clarin' !' he thundered, with the 
 embellishment of another imprecation — 'not 
 my clarin' ! Shew me the man, who says 
 it's not ! — shew'm to me ! By the Almighty 
 Etarnal, he won't say't twice !' 
 
 ' Have you purchased it ?' 
 
 ' Neer a mind for that, mister ; I've made 
 it : that's my style o' purchase, an', by G — • 
 it'll Stan' good, I reck'n. Consarn yur skin ! 
 what hev you got to do wi't anyhow?' 
 
 ' This,' I replied, still struggling to keep
 
 A ROUGH RECEPTION. 221 
 
 calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds 
 from my saddle-bags — * this only, Mr. Holt. 
 That your house stands upon Section No. 
 9 ; that I have bought that section from 
 the United States government; and must 
 therefore demand of you, either to use 
 your pre-emption right, or deliver the land 
 over to me. Here is the government grant 
 — you may examine it, if you feel so in- 
 clined.' 
 
 An angry oath was the response, or rather 
 a volley of oaths. 
 
 ' I thort that wur yur bizness,' continued 
 the swearer. ' I thort so ; but jest this time 
 you've kim upon a fool's errand. Durn the 
 government grant ! durn your pre-emption 
 right ! an' durn yur title-papers too ! I don't 
 valley them rnore'n them thur corn shucks — 
 / don't. I've got my pre-emption dokyment 
 inside hyur. I'll jest shew ye that, mister ; 
 an' see how ye'U like it.' 
 
 The speaker turned back into his cabin, 
 and for a moment I lost sight of him. 
 
 * Pre-emption document !' he said. Was it
 
 222 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 possible he had purchased the place, and was 
 gone to fetch his title-deeds ? If so — 
 
 My reflection was cut short. In another 
 moment he reappeared in the doorway 5 not 
 with any papers in his hand — but, instead, a 
 long rifle, that with its butt resting on the 
 door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself ! 
 
 * Now, Mister Turn-me-out!' said he, speak- 
 ing in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising 
 the piece in front of him, * thur's my title — 
 my pre-emption right's the right o' the rifle. 
 Its clur enuf: ye'll acknowledge that, 
 wont ye ?' 
 
 ' No,' I replied in a firm voice. 
 
 'Ye won't? The h — 1, ye wont? Look 
 nyur, stranger ! I'm in airnest. Look in my 
 eye, an' see if I ain't ! I gi' ye warnin' then, 
 that ef ye're not out o' this clarin' in six 
 jumps 0' a squ'll, you'll niver go out o' it a 
 livin' man. You see that ere stump ? Its 
 shadder's jest a creepin' up to the house : the 
 minnit that shadder touches the wall, I'll 
 shoot vou down, as sure's mv name's Hick 
 Holt. Mind, I've gin ye warnin' !'
 
 A ROUGH RECEPTION. 223 
 
 ' And I give you warning, Mr. Holt, that 
 I am prepared to defend myself; and if you 
 miss ' — 
 
 ' Miss !' ejaculated he, with a contemptuous 
 toss of the head — 'miss, ye fool! thur's no 
 fear o' that.' 
 
 * If you miss,' continued I, without heeding 
 the interruption, ' I shall show you no mercy. 
 If you are going to take the cowardly ad- 
 vantage of having the first shot, I have my 
 advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be 
 justified in killing you ; and if you fire at me, 
 I shall certainly do so. Be warned ! I never 
 spare a coward.' 
 
 ' Coward !' exclaimed the colossus, with an 
 imprecation that was horrible to hear. 
 
 ' An' how ef I don't miss ?' continued he, 
 apparently calming his rage, and speaking 
 with a significant sneer — intended to awe me, 
 by insinuating the certainty of his aim. * How 
 ef I don't miss. Mister Popgun ?' 
 
 ' You may, for all that. Don't be too sure 
 of hitting — I've been shot at before now.' 
 
 ' You'll niver be shot at arter now, 'ceptin'
 
 224 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ye leave this clarin'. One crack from • my 
 gun' 11 be enuf for ye, I reck'n.' 
 
 ' I'll take my chance. If it should go 
 against me, you won't gain by it. Kemember, 
 my good man, it's not a duel we're fighting ! 
 You have chosen to attack me ; and if I 
 should fall in the affair, I've faith enough in 
 the law to believe it will avenge me.' 
 
 I fancied that my speech produced some 
 effect upon the fellow ; and, seeing that he 
 remained silent, I followed it up by words of 
 similar import : 
 
 ' If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me 
 friends who will inquire into the affair of my 
 death. Trust me, they will do so ! If I Hill 
 you^ it will be but justifiable homicide, and 
 will be so adjudged ; while your killing me 
 will be regarded in a different light : it will be 
 pronounced murder V 
 
 I gave full emphasis to the last word. 
 
 On hearing it, my antagonist showed sign of 
 emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and 
 turn slightly pale ! With an unsteady voice 
 he replied :
 
 A ROUGH RECEPTION. 225 
 
 'Murder? No, no ; I've gin ye warnin' 
 to go. Ye've time enuf yet to save yerself. 
 Git out o' the clarin', an' thur'll be no harm 
 done ye !' 
 
 'I shall not go out of the clearing, until 
 youVe acknowledged my claim.' 
 
 *Then you'll niver go out o' it alive — I 
 swar by G — ! niver !' 
 
 'You are determined, then, to be my 
 murderer T 
 
 I again pronounced the word in the most 
 emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in 
 some singular way : whether through a fear of 
 consequences ; or that there still lingered in 
 his heart some spark of humanity; or, per- 
 haps—but least probable of all — he was be- 
 ginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By 
 which of these three motives, or by what other 
 inspired^ I could not guess ; but he seemed 
 to cower under the imputation. 
 
 ' Murderer !' echoed he, after a moment of 
 apparent reflection. ' No, no ; it's bad enuf 
 to hev the blame o' that, 'ithout bein' guilty 
 o't. I ain't agwine to murder ye ; but I ain't 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so 
 a minnit agone, but yeVe lost yur chance. 
 Ye've called me coward ; an by the Etarnal ! 
 no man '11 say that word o' Hick Holt, an 
 live to boast o't. No, mister ! ye 've got to 
 die ; aV ye may get yurself ready for 't, 's 
 soon 's ye like. Coward i'deed !' 
 
 ' I repeat it — your act is cowardly.' 
 
 ' What act ?' 
 
 ' Your unprovoked attack upon me —es- 
 pecially since it gives you the first shot. 
 What if I were to shoot you down now? 
 With the pistol you see in my holster here, I 
 could send six bullets through your body, 
 before you could bring your rifle to your 
 shoulder. What would you call that ? Sheer 
 cowardice, would it not be; and murder 
 too?'
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS. 
 
 While I was speaking, I saw a change pass 
 over the countenance of my gigantic an- 
 tagonist — as if some new resolve was forming 
 in his mind, that affected the programme he 
 had already traced out. Was it possible I 
 had touched him on a point of honour ? It 
 was this purpose I desired to effect; and, 
 though hopeless it might appear, I continued 
 the only kind of appeal that, with such a 
 spirit, seemed to promise any chance of 
 success. 
 
 ' You dare not play fair in this game T I 
 said, banteringiy. ' You are a coward ; and 
 would murder me. You want the first shot : 
 you know you do ?'
 
 228 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 'It's a lie !' cried the colossus, raising him- 
 self to his full height, and assuming an air of 
 chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed 
 him capable of — ' it's a lie ! I don't wish to 
 murder ye ; an' I don't want the first shot 
 neyther.' 
 
 *How?' 
 
 ' I hain't so little confidence in my shootin' 
 as to care for you an yur jim-crack gun ! Nor 
 is Hick Holt in such consate wi' his life eyther, 
 that he's afeerd to risk it. Tho' ye air a 
 stuck-up critter, I wont gi' ye the opportunity 
 to kuse me o' foul play. Thur's grit in ye, I 
 reck'n ; and seein' that's, made me change my 
 mind.' 
 
 What !' I exclaimed, taken by surprise at 
 tiie speech, and fancying it promised an end 
 to our altercation — ' you have changed your 
 mind ? you mean to act justly then ?' 
 
 ' I mean, it shall be a fair start -up fight 
 atween us.' 
 
 'Oh! a duel?' 
 
 ^ Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, 
 mister.'
 
 A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS. 229 
 
 ' I agree to that. But how about seconds ?' 
 
 ' D'ye think two men can't fight fair 'ithout 
 seconds ? Ye see yander stump standin' nigh 
 the bars ?' 
 
 ' Yes — I see it.* 
 
 * Wal, mister, thur you'll take yur stand 
 — ahine or afront o' it, whichsomever ye like 
 best. Hyur's this other un, clost by the crib 
 — thur ill be m place. Thur s twenty yurds 
 atween 'em, I reck'n. Is that yur distance ?' 
 
 ' It will do as well as any other,' I replied 
 mechanically — still under the influence of sur- 
 prise, not unmingled with a sentiment of 
 admiration. 
 
 ' Dismount, then ! Take yur pouch an 
 flask along wi' ye — ye see I've got myen? 
 One shot at ye's all Til wsmt, I reck'n. But 
 ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick 
 loadin' ! an' mind, mister ! thur's one o' us'll 
 niver leave this clarin' alive.' 
 
 ' About the first shot ? Who is to give the 
 signal ?' 
 
 ' I've thort o' that a'ready. It'll be all 
 right, I promise ye.'
 
 230 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' 111 what way can you arrange it ?' 
 
 ' This way. Thur's a hunk o' deer-meat in 
 the house: I mean to fetch that out, an' 
 chuck it over thur, into the middle o' the 
 clarin'. Ye see them buzzarts up thur on the 
 dead-woods ?' 
 
 ' I nodded in the affirmative. 
 
 ' Wal — it wont be long afore one or other 
 o' them flops down to the meat; an' thejirst 
 d 'em that touches ground, that'll he the signal. 
 That's fair enuf, I reck'n ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly fair,' I replied, still speaking 
 mechanically — for the very justness of the 
 proposal rendered my astonishment continuous. 
 
 I was something more than astonished at 
 the altered demeanour of the man. He was 
 fast disarming me. His unexpected behaviour 
 had subdued my ire ; and, all consideration of 
 consequences apart, I now felt a complete 
 disinclination for the combat ! 
 
 Was it too late to stay our idle strife ? 
 
 Such was my reflection the moment after ; 
 and, with an effort conquering my pride, I 
 gave words to the thought.
 
 A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS. 231 
 
 ' Yur too late, mister ! 'twont do now,' was 
 the reply to my pacific speech. 
 
 * And why not ?' I continued to urge ; 
 though, to my chagrin, I began to perceive 
 that it ivas an idle efibrt. 
 
 ' Yuv riz my dander ; an', by G — ! yuv 
 got to fight for it !' 
 
 * But surely ' 
 
 * Stop yur palaver ! By the tarnal airth- 
 quake, I'll gin to think you air a coward ! I 
 thort ye'd show the white feather afore 'twur 
 all over !' 
 
 ' Enough !' cried I, stung by the taunt ; ' I 
 am ready for you one way or the other. Go 
 on.' 
 
 The squatter once more entered his cabin, 
 and soon came out again, bringing forth the 
 piece of venison. 
 
 ' Now !'. cried he, ' to yur stand ! an' re- 
 member ! neyther fires till a bird lights on the 
 groun\ Arter that, ye may go it like blazes !' 
 
 * Stay !' said I ; ' there is something yet to 
 be done. You are acting honourably in this 
 affair — which I acknowledge is more than I
 
 232 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 was led to expect. You deserve one chance 
 for your life ; and if I should fall, it will be 
 in danger. You would be regarded as a 
 murderer : that must not be.' 
 
 ' What is't you mean ?' hurriedly interro- 
 gated my antagonist, evidently not compre- 
 hending my words. 
 
 Without answering to the interrogatory, I 
 drew out my pocket-book ; and, turning to a 
 blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it : 
 ' I have fallen in fair fight J 
 
 I appended the date ; signed my name ; 
 and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my 
 adversary. 
 
 He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled 
 to make out what was meant. He soon saw 
 the intention, however, as I could tell by his 
 grim smile. 
 
 ' You're right thur !' said he, in a drawling 
 tone, and after a pause. ' I hedn't thunk o' 
 that. I guess this dockyment '11 be nothin 
 the wuss o' my name too ? What's sauce for 
 the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. 
 Yur pencil, ef ye please ? I ain't much o' a
 
 A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS. 233 
 
 scholart ; but I reck'n I kin write my name- 
 Hyur goes !' 
 
 Spreading out the paper on the top of a 
 stump, he slowly scribbled his name below 
 mine ; and then, holding the leaf before my 
 eyes, pointed to the signature — but without 
 saying a word. 
 
 This done, he replaced the document on the 
 stump ; and, drawing his knife, stuck the 
 blade through the paper, and left the weapon 
 quivering in the wood ! 
 
 All these manoeuvres were gone through 
 with as cool composure, as if they were only 
 the prelude to some ordinary purpose ! 
 
 I reckn, strenger,' said he, in the same 
 imperturbable tone, ' that'll keep the wind 
 from blowin' it away, till we've settled who 
 it's to belong to. Now, to yur place ! I'm 
 agwine to throw the deer-meat !' 
 
 I had already dismounted, and stood near 
 him rifle in hand. Unresistingly, I obeyed the 
 request ; and walked off to the stump that 
 had been designated, without saying another 
 word, or even looking around. I had no ap-
 
 234 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 prehension of being shot in the back : for the 
 late behaviour of the man had completely dis- 
 armed me of all suspicion of treachery. I had 
 not the slightest fear of his proving a traitor ; 
 and no more did 1 hold him to be a 
 coward. That impression was gone long ago. 
 I confess, that never with more reluctance 
 did I enter upon the field of fight ; and at 
 that moment, had my antagonist required it, 
 I should not only have retracted the allegation 
 of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered 
 up my claim to the clearing — though I knew 
 that this could be done, only at the expense of 
 my name and honour. Were I to have done 
 so, I could never have shown my face again 
 — neither in the settlement of Swampville, nor 
 elsewhere. Even among my polished friends 
 of more fashionable circles, I should have 
 been taunted — branded as a coward and pol- 
 troon ! The rude character of my adversary 
 would have been no excuse — especially after 
 the manner in which he was acting. * Backed 
 out' would have been the universal verdict! 
 Moreover, notwithstanding the apparently
 
 A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS. 235 
 
 calm demeanour the squatter had now as- 
 sumed — courteous I might almost call it — 1 
 knew he was implacable in his determination. 
 There was no alternative — I must jiglit \ 
 
 I arrived at the stump ; and turning on my 
 heel, stood facing him. 
 
 He was already in his place — with the joint 
 of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in 
 the other. The moment was nigh, when one 
 of us should make an abrupt exit from the 
 world ! 
 
 Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I 
 saw depicted in the impassible face of my 
 adversary — as plainly as if written upon the 
 sky. 
 
 I could read there, that there was no chance 
 of escaping the combat ; and I resigned my- 
 self to meet it. 
 
 * Now, mister!' cried my antagonist in a 
 clear firm voice, ' I'm agwine to chuck the 
 meat. Remember ! neyther's to fire, till a 
 bird lights on the ground ! Arter that, ye 
 may go it like h — 1 !' 
 
 I saw him swing the joint once or twice
 
 236 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 round his head ; I saw it jerked aloft, and 
 then whirling through the air ; I saw it falling 
 — falling, till the sodden sound told that it 
 had reached the ground. 
 It was a fearful moment I
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 TTAITIXG THE WORD. 
 
 In truth was it a fearful moment — one to 
 shake the steadiest nerves, or thrill the stoutest 
 heart. To me, it was an ordeal far more ter- 
 rible than that of an ordinary duel ; for there 
 was lacking the motive — at least on my side — 
 which usually stimulates to an affair of honour. 
 Sense of wrong I felt, but too slightly for re- 
 venge — not enough to steel the heart to the 
 spilling of blood. Anger I had felt but the 
 moment before \ and then I could have fought, 
 even to the death ; but my blood, that had 
 boiled up for an instant, now ran coldly through 
 my veins. The unexpected behaviour of my 
 adversary had calmed my wrath — acting upon 
 it like oil upon troubled water.
 
 238 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 Thus to fight without seconds ; to die with- 
 out friend to speak the last word of worldly 
 adieu ; or to take the life of another, without 
 human being to attest the fairness of the act — 
 no earthly eye beholding us — no living crea- 
 ture save the black vultures — appropriate 
 instruments to give the death- signal — ominous 
 witnesses of the dark deed : such were the ap- 
 palling reflections that came before my mind, 
 as I stood facing my determined antagonist. 
 
 It would scarcely be true to say, that I felt 
 not fear ; and yet it was less cowardice, than 
 a sort of vague vexation at risking my life in 
 so causeless a conflict. There was something 
 absolutely ludicrous in standing up to be shot 
 at, merely to square with the whim of this ec- 
 centric squatter ; and to shoot at him seemed 
 equally ridiculous. Either alternative, upon 
 reflection, appeared the very essence of ab- 
 surdity ; and, having ample time to reflect, 
 while awaiting the signal, I could not help 
 thinking how farcical was the whole affair. 
 
 No doubt, I might have laughed at it, had 
 I been a mere looker on — herald or spectator ;
 
 WAITING THE WORD. 239 
 
 but, unfortunately, being a principal in this 
 deadly duello — a real wrestler in the back- 
 woods arena — the provocative to mirth was 
 given in vain ; and only served to heighten 
 the solemnity of the situation. 
 
 The circumstances might have elicited 
 laughter ; but the contingency, turn whatever 
 way it might, was too serious to admit of levity 
 on my part. Either horn of the dilemma 
 presented a sharp point. To suffer one's-self 
 to be killed, in this sans faqon^ was little else 
 than suicide — while to kill, smacked strongly 
 of murder ! 
 
 And one or the other was the probable 
 issue — nay, more than probable : for as I bent 
 my eyes on the resolute countenance of my 
 vis-a-vis, I felt certain that there was no 
 chance of escaping from the terrible alterna- 
 tive. He stood perfectly immobile — his long 
 rifle raised to the * ready,' with its muzzle 
 pointing towards me — and in his eye I could 
 not read the slightest sign that he wavered in 
 his determination ! That grey-green orb was 
 the only member that moved : his body, limbs,
 
 240 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 and features were still and rigid, as the stump 
 behind which he stood. The eye alone showed 
 signs of life. I could see its glance directed 
 towards three points — in such rapid succes- 
 sion, that it might be said to look ' three ways 
 at once' — to the decoy upon the ground, 
 to the shadowy forms upon the tree, and 
 towards myself — its chief object of sur- 
 veillance ! 
 
 ' Merciful Heavens ! is there no means to 
 avert this doom of dread ? Is it an absolute 
 necessity, that I must either kill this colossus, 
 or be myself slain? Is there no alterna- 
 tive ? Is there still no chance of an arrange- 
 ment ?' 
 
 Hopeless as it appeared, I resolved to make 
 a last effort for peace. Once more I should 
 try the force of an appeal. If he refused to 
 assent to it, my position would be no worse. 
 Better, indeed : since I stood in need of some 
 stimulus to rouse me to an attitude, even of de- 
 fence. This thought swaying me, I called out : 
 
 ' Holt ! you are a brave man. I know it. 
 Why should this go on ? It is not too late '
 
 WAITING THE WORD. 241 
 
 ' You air a coward !' cried he, interrupting 
 me, * an' I know it — a sneakin' coward, in 
 spite o' yur soger clothes ! Shet up yur 
 durned head, or ye'U scare away the birds ! 
 an', by the tarnal ! ef you do, I'll fire at ye, 
 the fust that takes wing !' 
 
 ' Let that be the signal, then !' cried I, 
 roused to an impatient indignation by this new 
 insult : ' the first that takes wing V 
 
 ' Agreed!' was the quick rejoinder, delivered 
 in a tone that bespoke determination to abide 
 by it. 
 
 My irresolution troubled me no longer. 
 Thus driven to bay, I felt that further for- 
 bearance would not only be idle, but danger- 
 ous. It was playing with my life, to leave 
 it in the hands of this unrelenting enemy. 
 Better make htm suffer for his sanguinary 
 folly, than be myself its victim. 
 
 Stirred by these thoughts, I grasped my rifle 
 — now for the first time with a determination 
 to make use of it. By the same prompting, 
 my eye became active — watching with reso- 
 lute regard the movements of the birds, and 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 242 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 measuring the ground that separated me from 
 my adversary. 
 
 Notwithstandmg the sting which his words 
 had inflicted, I was yet hampered by some 
 considerations of mercy. I had no desire to 
 Mil the man, if I could avoid it. To * cripple ' 
 him would be sufficient. 
 
 I had no fear of his having the shot before 
 me. Long practice had given me such adroit- 
 ness in the use of my weapon, that I could 
 handle it with the quickness and skill of a 
 juggler. Neither did I fear to miss my aim. 
 I had perfect reliance on the sureness of my 
 sight ; and, with such a mark as the huge 
 body of the squatter, it was impossible I could 
 miss. In this respect, the advantage was 
 mine ; and, at so short a distance, I could 
 have insured a fatal shot — had such been my 
 intention. But it was not. The very contrary 
 was my wish — to draw blood, without inflict- 
 ing a mortal wound. This would perhaps 
 satisfy the honour of my antagonist, and bring 
 our strife to an end. 
 
 Whether anv such consideration was in his
 
 WAITING THE WORD. 243 
 
 mind, I could not tell. It was not visible in 
 his eye — nor in his features that, throughout 
 the whole scene, preserved their stern statue- 
 like rigidity. 
 
 There was no help for it — no alternative 
 but to shoot at him, and shoot him down — if 
 possible, only to wing him ; but, of course, a 
 sense of my own danger rendered this last of 
 less than secondary importance. 
 
 A single exchange of shots would, no doubt, 
 decide the affair ; and the advantage would 
 fall to him who was 'quickest on the trigger.' 
 
 To obtain this advantage, then, I watched 
 with eager eye the behaviour of the birds. In 
 like manner was my antagonist occupied.
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 THE DUEL DELAYED. 
 
 Full five minutes passed, and not one of the 
 vultures showed signs of stirring — five minutes 
 of prolonged and terrible suspense. 
 
 It was odd that the birds had not at once 
 swooped down upon the piece of venison : since 
 it lay conspicuously upon the ground — almost 
 under the tree where they were perched ! A 
 score of them there were — ranged along the 
 dead limbs — each with an eye keen of sight as 
 an eagle's ! Beyond doubt, they observed the 
 object — they would have seen it a mile off, and 
 recognised it too — why, then, were they dis- 
 regarding it — a circumstance so contradictory 
 of their natural instincts and habits, that, even 
 in that dread hour, I remarked its singularity ?
 
 THE DUKL DELAYED. 245 
 
 The cause might have been simple enough : 
 perhaps the birds had already glutted them- 
 selves elsewhere ? Some wild beast of the 
 woods — more likely, some straying ox — had 
 fallen a victim to disease and the summer 
 heats ; and his carcase had furnished them 
 with their morning's meal ? 
 
 There was evidence of the truth of this, in 
 their blood-stained beaks and gorged maws, as 
 also the indolent attitudes in which they roosted 
 — many of them apparently asleep ! Others 
 at intervals stretched forth their necks, and 
 half spread their wings ; but only to yawn and 
 catch the cooling breeze. Not one of all the 
 listless flock, showed the slightest disposition 
 to take wing. 
 
 There were several already in the air, 
 wheeling high aloft; and two or three had 
 just joined their companions — increasing the 
 cluster upon the tree. These had arrived, 
 after we had taken our stand; and others 
 were constantly coming down. But the signal 
 mutually agreed to was mutually understood : 
 it was the departure of one of the birds — not
 
 246 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 its arrival — that was to give the cue of entree 
 to the tragic act — the signal for the scene of 
 death. 
 
 Those five minutes to me appeared fifty — 
 ah ! far more than that : for, brief as was the 
 actual time, a world of thoughts passed through 
 my mind during its continuance. The past 
 and future were alike considered. The me- 
 mory of home, kindred, and firiends ; the 
 probability that all such ties were to be severed 
 now and for ever; some regret that laurels 
 lately won were to be so briefly worn ; the 
 near prospect of life's termination ; of a death 
 inglorious — perhaps scarcely to be recorded ; 
 vague visions of a future world ; doubts not 
 unmingled with dread, about the life to come : 
 such were the thoughts that whirled confusedly 
 through my brain. 
 
 And the proximate past had also its share 
 in my reflections — perhaps occupying the 
 largest space of all. That thing of light and 
 gold — that but an hour ago had filled my 
 heart to overflowing — was still there, ming- 
 ling with its last emotions ! Was I never
 
 THE DUEL DELAYED. 247 
 
 more to look upon that radiant form ? never 
 more behold that face so divinely fair ? never 
 more listen to that melodious voice ? Never 
 more! 
 
 The negative answer to these mental inter- 
 rogatives — though only conjectural — was the 
 bitterest reflection of all ! 
 
 Still stir not the vultures: only to preen 
 their black plumes with fetid beak; or, ex- 
 tending their broad wings, to shadow the sun- 
 beam from their bodies. 
 
 It is the hour of noon ; and the sun, shining 
 down from the zenith, permeates the atmo- 
 sphere with his sultriest rays. The birds 
 droop under the extreme heat. It imbues 
 them with a listless torpor. Carrion itself 
 would scarce tempt them from their perch. 
 
 Five minutes have elapsed ; and not one 
 moves from the tree — neither to swoop to the 
 earth, nor soar aloft in the air ! 
 
 I no longer wish them to tarry. The sus- 
 pense is terrible to endure — the more so from 
 the ominous stillness that reigns around. 
 Since the last angry challenge, not a word
 
 248 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 has been exchanged between my adversary 
 and myseh. In sullen silence, we eye each 
 other, with scintillating glances watching for 
 the signal. * * * * 
 
 The situation was more than unpleasant. 
 I longed for the foiale. 
 
 My antagonist also showed signs of impa- 
 tience. No longer preserving his statue-like 
 pose, his body began to sway from side to 
 side; while at intervals, he stamped the 
 ground with his heavy heel. From the in- 
 creasing anger that betrayed itself in his looks, 
 I expected an explosion. 
 
 It came at length. 
 
 *Durn them buzzarts!' cried he, with a 
 hurried gesture^ 'thar agwine to keep us 
 stannin' hyur till sundown. Durn the sleepy 
 brutes ! we can't wait no longer on 'em. I 
 dare ye' 
 
 The challenge thus commenced was never 
 completed — at all events, I did not hear its 
 conclusion ; and know not to this hour what 
 he meant to have proposed. His speech was 
 interrupted, and his voice drowned, by the
 
 THE DUEL DELAYED. 249 
 
 shrill neighing of my horse — who seemed 
 startled at some sound from the forest. Al- 
 most at the same instant, I heard a responsive 
 neigh, as if it were an echo from behind me. 
 
 I heeded neither the one nor the other. I 
 saw that the birds were aroused from their 
 lethargic attitude. Some of them appeared as 
 if pressing upon their limbs to spring up- 
 ward from the tree. The deadly moment had 
 come ! 
 
 With my rifle raised almost to the level, I 
 glanced rapidly towards my antagonist. His 
 piece was also raised ; but, to my astonish- 
 ment, he appeared to be grasping it mecha- 
 nically, as if hesitating to take aim! His 
 glance^ too, showed irresolution. Instead of 
 being turned either upon myself or the vul- 
 tures, it was bent in a different direction, and 
 regarding with fixed stare some object behind 
 me ! 
 
 I was facing round to inquire the cause, 
 when I heard close at hand the trampling of 
 a horse ; and, almost at the same instant, an 
 exclamation, uttered in the silvery tones of a
 
 250 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 woman's voice. This was followed by a wild 
 scream; and, simultaneously with its utter- 
 ance, I beheld a female form springing over 
 the bars ! It was that of a young girl, whom 
 I recognised at a glance. It was she I had 
 encountered in the forest 1 
 
 I had not time to recover from my surprise 
 before the girl had glided past me ; and I fol- 
 lowed her with my eyes, as she ran rapidly 
 over the space that separated me from the 
 squatter. 
 
 Still mute with surprise, I saw her fling 
 herself on the breast of my antagonist — at the 
 same time crying out in a tone of passionate 
 entreaty : 
 
 * Father, dear father ! what has he done ? 
 Mercy ! O mercy !' 
 
 Good God ! her father ? Holt her father ! 
 
 * Away, Lil !' cried the man in a peremp- 
 tory tone, removing her arms from his neck. 
 * Away, gurl ! git ye from hyur !' 
 
 ' No, father ! dear father ! you will not ? 
 What does it mean? What has he done? 
 Why are you angry with him /'
 
 THE DUEL DELAYED. 251 
 
 ' Done ! gurl ? He's called me coicard ; 
 an' 'ud drive us out o' house an' home. Git 
 ye gone, I say ! Into the house wi' ye I — 
 away !' 
 
 ' Mercy ! O father, have mercy ! Do not 
 kill him. He is brave — he is beautiful ! If 
 you knew ' 
 
 ' Brave ? beautiful ? — gurl, yur ravin' ! 
 What do you know about him ? Ye've niver 
 seed him afore ?' 
 
 ' Yes, dear father ! only an hour ago. If 
 you but knew — it was he who saved me. But 
 
 for him Father ! he must not — he shall 
 
 not die !' 
 
 ' Saved ye ? What do ye mean, gurl ?' 
 
 ' Hilloo ! what's all this rumpus ?' 
 
 The familiar ejaculation, and its adjunct in- 
 terrogatory, admonished me that a new per- 
 sonage had appeared upon the scene. The 
 voice came from behind. 
 
 On turning, I beheld the unexpected speaker 
 — a man on horseback, who had ridden up to 
 the bars ; and having halted there was craning
 
 252 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 his neck into the enclosure — gazing upon the 
 scene that was being enacted there, with a 
 singular half-comic, half-satirical expression of 
 countenance !
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Without knowing why, I hailed the arriva 
 of this stranger as opportune. Perhaps his 
 presence, added to the entreaties of that fair 
 young creature — still urgent in my behalf — 
 might prevent the effusion of blood. 
 
 Indeed, I had already determined that none 
 should be spilled by me — let the consequences 
 be as they might ; and whatever was to be 
 the denouement of this awkward affair, I had 
 resolved that my rifle should have nought to 
 do in deciding it. The piece had fallen to 
 the ' order arms ;' the ill-omened birds had 
 forsaken their perch ; and, now soaring in the
 
 254 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 blue sky, almost beyond the reach of human 
 vision, their movements were no longer heeded 
 — neither by my adversary nor myself. 
 
 Turning away from the stranger — whom I 
 had only regarded for a second or two — I 
 faced again to the more interesting tableau in 
 front of me. 
 
 That, too, was rapidly undergoing a change. 
 The squatter no longer clung to his rifle. The 
 girl had taken it from his hands ; and was 
 hurrying with it into the door of the cabin. 
 There was no hindrance made by my antago- 
 nist ! On the contrary, he appeared to have 
 delivered it over to her — as if the affair be- 
 tween us was to have a pacific termination, or, 
 at all events, a respite. 
 
 What surprised me more than all was the 
 altered demeanour of my adversary. His 
 whole manner seemed to have undergone a 
 sudden change. Sudden it must have been : 
 since it had taken place during the second or 
 two, while my attention was occupied by the 
 newly arrived horseman. What still further 
 astonished me, was, that this transformation
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 255 
 
 was evidently produced by the presence of the 
 stranger himself! 
 
 That it was not due to the young girl's in- 
 terference, I had evidence already. That had 
 not moved him for a moment. Her earnest 
 appeal had received a repulse — energetic and 
 decisive, as it was rude ; and of itself would 
 certainly not have saved me. 
 
 Beyond doubt, then, was I indebted to the 
 stranger, for the truce so unexpectedly entered 
 upon. 
 
 The change in Holt's demeanour was not 
 more sudden than complete. At first, an air 
 of astonishment had been observable ; after 
 that, an expression of inquietude — becoming 
 each moment more marked. No longer did 
 he exhibit the yjroud aspect of a man, who felt 
 himself master of the ground ; but, on the 
 contrary, appeared cowed and quailing in the 
 presence of the new-comer — whom he had met 
 at the entrance, and at once invited into the 
 enclosure. This manner was observable in the 
 half-mechanical courtesy, with which he re- 
 moved the bars, and took hold of the stranger s
 
 256 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 horse — as also in some phrases of welcome, to 
 which he gave utterance in my hearing. 
 
 For m.yself, I was no longer regarded, any 
 more than if I had been one of the dead-woods 
 that stood around the clearing. The squat- 
 ter passed, without even looking at me — his 
 whole attention seemingly absorbed by the new 
 arrival ! 
 
 It was natural I should regard with curio- 
 sity an individual, whose presence had pro- 
 duced such a wonderful effect ; and my scru- 
 tinizing gaze may have appeared rude enough 
 to him. 
 
 I cannot say that he elicited my admira- 
 tion. On the contrary, his appearance pro- 
 duced an opposite effect. I beheld him with 
 what might be termed an instinct of repulsion : 
 since I could assign no precise reason for the 
 dislike with which he had inspired me on 
 sight. 
 
 He was a man of about thirty years of age ; 
 of a thin spare body, less than medium height ; 
 and features slightly marked with the bar 
 shiister. A face without beard — skin of cad a-
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 257 
 
 verous hue — nose sharply pointed — chin and 
 forehead both receding — eyes small, but spark- 
 ling like those of a ferret — and long lank 
 black hair, thinly shading his cheeks and 
 brows — were the promment characteristics of 
 this man's portrait. 
 
 His dress was of a clerical cut and colour — 
 though not of the finest fabric. The coat, 
 trousers, and vest were of black broad-cloth — 
 the coat and waistcoat being made with stand- 
 ing collars, similar in style to those worn by 
 Wesleyan ministers — or more commonly by 
 Catholic priests — while a white cravat, not 
 over clean, and a hat with curving boat-brim, 
 completed the saintly character of the cos- 
 tume. 
 
 Judging from • his personal appearance, I 
 concluded that I saw in the individual before 
 me the Methodist minister of Swampville. 
 If so, it would account for the obsequiousness 
 of his host, though not satisfactorily. There 
 was something more than obsequiousness in 
 Holt's manner — something altogether diiferent 
 from tliat deferential respect, with which the 
 
 vol.. I. s
 
 258 THE AVILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 gospel minister is usually received in the 
 houses of the humbler classes. Moreover, 
 the character of the squatter — such as I 
 had heard it, and such as I had myself ob- 
 served it to be — bore no correspondence with 
 the attitude of reverence he had so suddenly 
 assumed. Even under the hypothesis, that 
 the new-comer was his clergyman, I was 
 puzzled by his behaviour. 
 
 He in the ecclesiastical costume appeared 
 to be a man of few words ; and of gesture he 
 made a like limited use : having passed me, 
 without even the courtesy of a bow. On the 
 contrary, I was honoured with a glance of 
 cynical regard — so palpable in its expression 
 as to cause an itching in my fingers, notwith- 
 standing the saintly gown. I contented my- 
 self, however, with returning the glance, by 
 one I intended should bear a like contemp- 
 tuous expression ; and, with this exchange, 
 we separated from each other. 
 
 I remained by my stand, without offering 
 remark — either to the squatter or his guest. 
 The only change I effected in my position,
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 259 
 
 was to sit down upon the stump — where, with 
 my rifle between my knees, I resolved to 
 await the issue. 
 
 All idea of using the weapon was gone out 
 of my mind — at least, against Hickman Holt. 
 He was her father : I would as soon have 
 thought of turning its muzzle to my own 
 body. 
 
 I tarried, therefore, with no hostile inten- 
 tion. On the contrary, I only waited for an 
 opportunity to propose some pacific arrange- 
 ment of our difiiculty ; and my thoughts w^ere 
 now directed to this end. 
 
 I had every chance of observing the move- 
 ments of the two men : since, instead of en- 
 tering the cabin, they had stopped in front of 
 it — where they at once became engaged in 
 conversation. 
 
 I took it for granted that I was myself the 
 subject ; but, after a time, I began to fancy I 
 was mistaken. Judging from the earnest 
 manner of both — but more especially from 
 Holt's gestures and frequent ejaculations — 
 something of still greater interest ;)p})eared to
 
 260 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 be the theme of their dialogue. I saw the 
 squatter's face suddenly brighten up— as if 
 some new and joyous revelation had been 
 made to him ; while the features of his visitor 
 bore the satisfied look of one, who was urging 
 an argument with success. 
 
 They were evidently talking of some topic 
 beyond my affair, and unconnected with it; 
 but what it could be, I was unable even to 
 guess. Perhaps, had I listened more atten- 
 tively, I might have arrived at some know- 
 ledge of it — since words were occasionally 
 uttered aloud — but my eyes were busier than 
 my ears; and at that moment, neither the 
 squatter nor his guest was the subject of my 
 thoughts. 
 
 Beyond them was the attraction that fasci- 
 nated my gaze — that thing of roseate golden 
 hue, whose shining presence seemed to light 
 up the dark interior of the cabin — gleaming 
 meteor-like through the interstices of the logs 
 — now softly moving from side to side, and 
 now, thank Pleaven ! gliding towards the 
 door !
 
 THK PEACEMAKER. 261 
 
 Only for a moment stood she silently on 
 the stoop — one smiling moment, and she was 
 gone. 
 
 Her fair face -was once more hidden, behind 
 the rude jalousie of the logs; but the smile 
 remained. It was mine ; and lingered long 
 within the trembling temple of my heart.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 YES — YES ! 
 
 Towards the interior of the hut, hallowed by 
 such lovely presence, I continued to direct my 
 glances — with an occasional side-look, noting 
 the movements of the two men. 
 
 Whatever had been the exciting topic of 
 discourse, but the moment before, I saw that 
 it was now changed ; and that I was myself 
 the subject of their conversation. This I could 
 tell by their looks and gestures — evidently 
 bearing upon me and my business. 
 
 Conscious that I was observing them — and 
 as if desirous of conferring more privately — 
 they passed round to the rear of the cabin ;
 
 YES — yes! 263 
 
 where for the time they were out of my sight, 
 as well as hearing. 
 
 So far from regretting this movement, it 
 was just what I desired : it left me free to 
 continue the pleasant espionage in which I 
 had become engaged. 
 
 Now more boldly my eyes explored the 
 dark interior of the hut — more freely roamed 
 my glance along the interstices of the logs. 
 Gladly should I have gone up to the doorway 
 — fain would I have been to enter — had I not 
 been restrained ; but dehcacy, and something 
 more, stood in the way ; and I was forced to 
 keep my ground. 
 
 Again I saw the bright form flitting within. 
 Gliding gently across the floor — as if on tip- 
 toe, and by stealth — the young girl stood for 
 a while near the back-wall of the cabin. Close 
 behind this, the two men were conversing. 
 
 Did she go there to listen ? She might 
 easily hear what was said : I could myself 
 distinguish the voices, and almost the words. 
 
 She remained motionless ; and, as well asl 
 could judge, in an attitude of attention — her
 
 264 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 head lowered, and her body bent slightly for- 
 ward. 
 
 I was forming conjectures as to her motive, 
 when I saw her moving away from the spot. 
 
 In another instant, she appeared in the 
 doorway — this time evidently with some de- 
 sign, as her manner clearly betokened. 
 
 For a moment she stood upon the stoop, 
 fronting towards me — but with her face 
 averted, and her eyes by a side-glance di- 
 rected towards the rear of the hut. 
 
 She appeared to look and listen — as if 
 noting the position of the men ; and then, 
 seemingly satisfied that she was not herself 
 observed, she suddenly faced round, and came 
 running towards me ! 
 
 Taken by surprise — a surprise mingled 
 with sweet satisfaction — I rose to my feet ; 
 and stood silently but respectfully awaiting 
 her approach. 
 
 I had acted with prudence in not speak- 
 ing : for I saw by her manner that the move- 
 ment was a stolen one. Moreover, the finger, 
 raised for an instant to her lips, admonished
 
 YES — YES ! 265 
 
 me to silence. I understood the signal, so 
 piquantly given ; and obeyed it. 
 
 In another instant, she was near — near 
 enough for me to hear her words — delivered 
 in a half- whisper. She had paused before 
 me in an attitude that betokened the fear 
 of interruption ; and, before speaking, again 
 cast behind her another of those unquiet 
 looks. 
 
 'Brave stranger!' said she, in hurried 
 undertone, ' I know you are not afraid of my 
 father ; but oh, sir ! for mercy's sake, do not 
 fight with him !' 
 
 •' For your sake,' I said, interrupting her, 
 and speaking in a low but impressive tone 
 — ' for your sake, fair Lilian, I shall not fight 
 with him. Trust me, there is no fear. I 
 shall bear anything, rather than' 
 
 ' Hush !' said she, again motioning me to 
 silence, at the same time glancing furtively 
 behind her. ' You must not speak : you may 
 be heard ! Only listen to me. I know why 
 you are here. I came out to tell you some- 
 thing.'
 
 266 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' I listen.' 
 
 ' Father does not now wish to quarrel with 
 you : he has changed his mind. I have just 
 heard what they said. He intends to make 
 you a proposal. Oh, sir ! if you can, please 
 agree to it ; for then there will be no trouble. 
 I hope there will be none !' 
 
 * For you, fair Lilian, I shall agree to it — 
 whatever the conditions be. Can you tell me 
 what proposal he intends making me ?' 
 
 ' I heard him say he would sell Oh, 
 
 mercy ! they are coming — if I am seen' 
 
 The murmuring words were drowned by 
 the louder voices of the men — who were 
 now heard returning round the angle of the 
 wall. 
 
 Fortunately, before they had reached the 
 front of the cabin, the young girl had glided 
 back into the doorway ; and no suspicion 
 appeared to be entertained by either, of the 
 clandestine visit just paid me. 
 
 On rounding the corner, the stranger 
 stopped. The squatter continued to advance, 
 until within a few paces of where I stood.
 
 YES — YES ! 267 
 
 Then halting, he erected his gigantic form to 
 its full height ; and, for a moment, confronted 
 me without speaking. 
 
 I noticed that his countenance no longer 
 bore signs of angry passion ; but, on the 
 contrary, betrayed some traces of a softer 
 feeling — as of regret and contrition. 
 
 * Strenger !' said he at length, ' I've two 
 things to propose to ye ; an* ef you'll agree to 
 them, thur's no need why you an' I shed 
 quarrel — leest of all plug one another wi' 
 bullets, as we wur agwine to do the minnit 
 ago.' 
 
 * Name your conditions !' rejoined I, ' and 
 if they are not impossible for me to accept, I 
 promise you they shall be agreed to.' 
 
 With Lilian in my thoughts, they would be 
 hard indeed if I could not square with what- 
 ever terms he might propose. 
 
 ' They ain't unpossible — neyther o' 'em ; 
 thur only just an' fair.' 
 
 ' Let me hear them ; and believe me, 
 Hickman Holt, I shall judge them most libe- 
 rally.'
 
 2G8 THE WirJ) HUNTRESS. 
 
 ^ Fust, then, you called me a coward. Do 
 ye take that back ?' 
 
 'WiUmgly I do.' 
 
 ' So fur good ; an' now for the tother pro- 
 posal I hev to make. I don't acknowledge 
 yur right to this clarin'. I've made it; an' 
 call it my own, as a sovereign citizen of these 
 United States ; an' I don't care a cuss for 
 pre-emption right, since I don't believe in any 
 man's right to move me off o' the groun' I've 
 clared. But I ain't so durned pertickler 'bout 
 this hyur bit.' Another '11 answer my bizness 
 equally as well — maybe better — an' ef ye'll 
 pay me for my iinproi^ements, ye can take 
 both clarin' an' cabin, an' hev no more muss 
 about it. Them's my proposals.' 
 
 ' How much do you expect for these im- 
 provements ? At what sum do you value 
 them ?' 
 
 I trembled as I awaited the answer. My 
 poor purse felt light as it lay against my 
 bosom—far hghter than the heart within: 
 though that had been heavier but an hour 
 before. I knew that the sack contained less
 
 YES — YES ! 269 
 
 than tAvo hundred dollars, in notes of the 
 Planters' Bank ; and I feared that such a 
 sum would never satisfy the expectations of 
 the squatter. 
 
 ' Wal, strenger,' replied he, after a pause, 
 ' thur worth a good wheen o' dollars ; but I 
 shan't valley 'em myself. I'll leave that 
 part o' the bizness to a third individooal — my 
 friend as stands thur; an' who's a just man, 
 an's been some'at o' a lawyer too. He'll say 
 what's fair atween us. Won't ye, Josh ?' 
 
 I thought this rather a familiar style of 
 address, on the part of the squatter, towards 
 his clerical and saint-like friend ; but I re- 
 frained from showing my astonishment. 
 
 'Oh, yes,' replied the other, 'I'll value 
 the property with pleasure — that is, if the 
 gentleman desires me to do so.' 
 
 ' How much do you think it worth ?' I 
 inquired with nervous anxiety. 
 
 ' Well, I should say that, for the improve- 
 ments Mr. Holt has made, a hundred dollars 
 would be a fair compensation.' 
 
 ' A hundred flollars?'
 
 270 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 ' Yes — in cash, of course, I mean/ 
 
 ' Will you be satisfied with that sum ?' said 
 I, turning to Holt for the answer. 
 
 ' Parfitly satisfied — so Ion 's it's in cash.' 
 
 ' I agree to give it then.' 
 
 ' All right, strenger ! a bargain's a bargain^ 
 You kin shell out the dollars ; and I'll gie 
 ye pursession afore this gentleman — who'll 
 witness it in writin , ef you like.' 
 
 'I want no writing. I can trust to your 
 word.' 
 
 It was no flattery : I felt at the moment 
 that the squatter — rudely as he had acted — 
 was still possessed of an honourable principle ; 
 and I knew that, under the circumstances, his 
 word would be not only as good as his bond, 
 but better ! 
 
 I made no hesitation, therefore ; but, 
 counting out the money, placed it upon the 
 stump — alongside that curious document, 
 impaled there by the blade of the squatter's 
 knife. 
 
 ' When 'ud ye like to take purs.'ssioii ?' 
 asked the outgoing tenant.
 
 YES — YES ! 271 
 
 * At your convenience/ I replied, wishing 
 to behave as courteously as possible. 
 
 ' It won't take me long to move. My 
 furniter ain't very cumbersome ; an' I kud let 
 ye in to-morrow, eft wan't that I hev some 
 unexpected bizness with my friend hyur. Say 
 day arter the morrow ? Ef ye'll kum then, 
 ye'll find me ready to deliver up. Will that 
 answer for ye ?' 
 
 ^Admirably !' was my reply. 
 
 ' All right, then ! I'd ask ye in, but thur's 
 nothin' to gie you — 'ceptin' that piece o' deer- 
 meat, an' it's raw. Besides, strenger, I've 
 some partickler bizness jest now^ that I'm 
 bleeged to see to.' 
 
 ' Oh, never mind ! I shall not need any 
 refreshment till I reach Swampville.' 
 
 ' Wal, then, I'll bid you good-mornin', at 
 the same time wishin' you luck o' your bargin.' 
 
 'Thanks — good morning!' 
 
 I leaped into the saddle, and turned my 
 horse's head towards the entrance of tlie 
 enclosure. I should have given him the 
 touch to go forward with more reluctance.
 
 272 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 had I not perceived the fair Lilian gliding 
 out of the cabin, and proceeding in the. same 
 direction ! 
 
 Two or three of the bars had been replaced 
 by the clerical visitor; and she had gone, 
 apparently, to remove them. Was it simple 
 courtesy, or a pretence to speak with me ? 
 My heart heaved with a tumultuous joy, as I 
 fancied that the latter might be her motive. 
 
 When I reached the entrance, the bars 
 were down ; and the young girl stood leaning 
 against one of the uprights — her round white 
 arm embracing the post. Envied piece of 
 timber ! 
 
 ' Promise me, we shall meet again T said 
 I, bending down, and speaking in a half- 
 whisper. 
 
 She looked back towards the cabin with a 
 timid glance. 
 
 We were not observed. The two men had 
 gone into the horse-shed. 
 
 In her fingers, I noticed the flower of a 
 bignonia. She had taken it from among the 
 golden tresses of her hair. Her cheek rivalled
 
 YES — YES ! 273 
 
 the crimson of its corolla, as she flung the 
 blossopi upon the saddle-bow. 
 
 ' Promise me !' I repeated in a more earnest 
 tone. 
 
 ' Yes — yes !' she replied in a soft low voice, 
 that resembled the whisper of an angel ; and 
 then, hearing noises from the house, she passed 
 hurriedly away. 
 
 ' Yes — yes !' cried the mimic thrush, as I 
 rode on through the tall tulip-trees. ' Yes — 
 yes !' repeated a thousand rival songsters ; or 
 were the sounds I heard but the echoes of her 
 voice, still pealing through the glad chambers 
 of my heart ? 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 AN ERRAND OF LOVE. 
 
 This second purchase and payment rendered 
 necessary a communication with my Nashville 
 friend. Fortunately, Swampville had a mail ; 
 and, to avail myself of it, I rode direct for the 
 settlement. 
 
 On my return, I found the river-town, 
 figuratively speaking, on fire. Short as had 
 been the period of my absence, it had been 
 marked by an incident of no ordinary charac- 
 ter. That morning's mail had conveyed to the 
 settlement the intelligence of a rare and in- 
 teresting event — the discovery of the gold 
 placers of California. 
 
 I had heard rumours of this before — only
 
 AX ERKAXD OF LOVE. 275 
 
 half believed, and not yet reaching to Swamp- 
 ville. Returned emigrants from California 
 were now reported, as having arrived in St. 
 Louis and other frontier towns — bringing with 
 them, not only the full account of the gold 
 discovery, but its confirmation, in the shape of 
 large ' chunks ' of gold-bearing quartz, and 
 bags of the yellow dust itself. The marvel- 
 lous tale was no longer questioned, or doubted. 
 The mail had brought newspapers from New 
 Orleans and St. Louis, giving detailed accounts 
 of the digging of Sutter's mill-race by the 
 disbanded soldiers of the ' Mormon Battalion ;' 
 of the crevasse caused by the water, which had 
 laid open the wonderful auriferous deposits ; 
 and describing also the half-frantic excitement 
 which the news had produced in these popu- 
 lous cities. 
 
 In this, Swampville had not been slow to 
 imitate them. I found the little village on the 
 qui vive : not only the idlers showing an in- 
 terest in the extraordinary intelligence ; but 
 the business-men of the place being equally 
 startled out of their sobriety. A ' company '
 
 276 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 was already projected, in which many well-to- 
 do men had registered their names ; and even 
 Colonel Kipp talked of transporting his penates 
 across the great plains, and swinging the Jack- 
 son sign upon the shores of the Pacific. 
 Swampville was smitten with a golden mania, 
 that seemed to promise its speedy depopula- 
 tion. 
 
 Though many of my old camarados of the 
 Mexican campaign found fresh vent for their 
 energies in this new field of enterprise, for me 
 it had no attractions whatever. I therefore 
 resisted the solicitations of the Swampvillians 
 to ' jine thar company' — in which I was offered 
 the compliment of a command. On that day, 
 and at that hour, not for all the gold in Cali- 
 fornia would I have forsaken my new home in 
 the forest — under whose ' boundless contiguity 
 of shade ' sparkled, in my eyes, ' a metal more 
 attractive.' 
 
 Instead of longing for the far shores of the 
 Pacific, I longed only to return to the banks 
 of Mud Creek ; and chafed at the necessary 
 delay that hindered me from gratifying my
 
 AN ERRAND OF LOVE. 277 
 
 wish. Even the generous hospitality of Colonel 
 Kipp — amiable under the influence of golden 
 dreams — even the smiles of the simpering 
 Alvina, and the more hrave coquetry of Car'- 
 line — now become a decided admirer of my 
 yellow buttons — were not sufficient to preserve 
 my spirits from ennui. 
 
 Only at meals did I make my appearance 
 at the hotel — at all other times, seeking to 
 soothe the impassioned pulsations of my heart 
 in the dark depths of the forest. There I 
 would wander for hours, not listing where I 
 went ; but ever finding myself, as if by some 
 instinct^ upon the path that conducted in the 
 direction of the creek ! 
 
 It was some solace to listen to the notes of 
 the wild woods — the songs of bird and bee — 
 for these had become associated in my mind 
 with the melodious tones of Lilian's voice — 
 to look upon the forest flowers ; more espe- 
 cially on the encarmined blossom of the big- 
 noiiia — now to me a symbol of the sweetest 
 sentiment. 
 
 The one most prized of all, I had carefully
 
 278 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 preserved. In a glass I had placed it, on the 
 dressing-table of my chamber, with its peduncle 
 immersed in water. 
 
 My zealous care only procured me a chagrin. 
 On returning from one of my rambles, I found 
 the flower upon the floor, crushed by some 
 spiteful heel ! Was it thy heel, Caroline 
 Kipp? 
 
 In its place was a bunch of hideous gilly- 
 flowers and yellow daffodils, of the dimensions 
 of a drum-head cabbage — placed there either 
 to mock my regard, or elicit my admiration ! 
 
 In either case, I resolved upon a revanche. 
 By its wound the bignonia smelt sweeter than 
 ever ; and though I could not restore the 
 pretty blossom to its graceful campanulate 
 shape, from that time forward it appeared in 
 my button-hole — to the slight torture, I 
 fancied, of the backwoods coquette. 
 
 In the two days during which I was denied 
 sight of her, my love for Lilian Holt was fast 
 ripening into a passion — which absence only 
 seemed to amplify. No doubt the contrast of 
 common faces — such as those I observed in
 
 AX ERRAND OF LOYE. 279 
 
 Swampville — did something towards heighten- 
 ing my admiration. 
 
 There was another contrast that had at this 
 time an influence on my heart's inclinings. To 
 an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and con- 
 tinuously on the dark complexions of the south 
 — the olivine hue of Aztec and Iberian skins 
 — there was a relief in the radiance of this 
 carmined blonde, that, apart from her abso- 
 lute lovehness_, was piquant from the novelty 
 and rareness of the characteristic. Additional 
 elements of attraction may have been : the 
 7nise en scene that surrounded her ; the unex- 
 pected discovery of such a precious jewel in so 
 rude a casket ; the romantic incident of our 
 first encounter ; and the equally peculiar cir- 
 cumstances attending our second and last in- 
 terview. All these may have combined in 
 weaving around my spirit a spell, that now 
 embraced, and was likely to influence every 
 act of my future existence. 
 
 Therefore, on the morning of the third day, 
 as I mounted my horse, and turned his head 
 in the direction of Holt's clearing, it was not 
 with any design of dispossessing the squatter.
 
 280 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 Occupied with sweet love dreams, I had as 
 yet given no thought to the ruder realities of 
 life. I had formed no plan for colonizing — 
 neither towards entering upon possession, nor 
 extending the * improvement ' I had twice 
 purchased. 
 
 Notwithstanding both purchase and pay- 
 ment, the squatter might still continue to hold 
 his cabin and clearing — and share with me the 
 disputed land. Welcome should I make him, 
 on one condition — the condition of becoming 
 his guest — constant or occasional — in either 
 way, so long as I might have the opportunity 
 of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, 
 and to her demonstrating my heart's devotion. 
 
 Some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted 
 across my mind, as I entered upon my second 
 journey to Mud Creek. My ostensible object 
 was to take formal possession of an estate, and 
 turn out its original owner. But my heart 
 was in no unison with such an end. It re- 
 coiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its 
 purpose. Its throbbings were directed to a 
 different object : guiding me on a more joyful 
 and auspicious errand — the errand of love.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A RED-SKINNED SIBYL. 
 
 Not a sound came from the forest to disturb 
 my sweet musings. Silent was the sky of the 
 Indian summer — soft and balm-laden its 
 breeze. The trees stirred not ; the branches 
 seemed extended in the stillness of repose; 
 even the leaves of the tremuloides, hanging on 
 their compressed petioles, were scarcely seen 
 to quiver. The rustling, heard at intervals, 
 was but the fluttering of bright wings amid the 
 foliage ; or the rushing of some mountebank 
 squirrel in reckless evolution among the 
 branches — sounds harmonising with the scene. 
 Not till I had entered the glade was I 
 aroused from my reverie — at first gently, by
 
 282 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 the sudden emergence from shade into light ; 
 but afterwards in a more sensible manner on 
 sight of a human form — at a glance recognised 
 as that of the Indian maiden. 
 
 She was seated, or rather reclining, against 
 the blanched log ; her brown arm embracing 
 an outstretched limb ; half supported on one 
 leg — the other crossed carelessly over it in an 
 attitude of repose. 
 
 Beside her on the log lay a wicker pannier, 
 filled with odds and ends of Indian manufac- 
 ture. 
 
 Though I had ridden close up to the girl, 
 she vouchsafed no acknowledgment of my 
 presence. I observed no motion — not even of 
 the eyes ; which, directed downwards, seemed 
 fixed in steadfast gaze upon the ground. No- 
 thing about her appeared to move — save the 
 coruscation of metallic ornaments that glittered 
 in the sun, as though her body were enveloped 
 in scale-armour. Otherwise, she might have 
 been mistaken for a statue in bronze. 
 
 And one, too, of noble proportions. The 
 attitude was in every way graceful ; and dis-
 
 A RED-SKIXNED SIBYL. 283 
 
 played to perfection the full bold contour of 
 the maiden's form. Her well-rounded arm 
 entwining the branch, with her large body and 
 limbs outlined in alto-relievo against the en- 
 tablature of the white trunk, presented a pic- 
 ture that a sculptor would have loved to copy ; 
 and that even the inartistic eye could not look 
 upon without admiration. 
 
 Instinctively I checked my horse, and halted 
 in front of this singular apparition. 
 
 I can scarcely tell why I did so : since 
 neither by look nor gesture was I invited to 
 take such a liberty. On the contrary, I could 
 perceive that my movement was regarded 
 with displeasure. There was no change in the 
 statuesque attitude : even the eyes were not 
 raised from the earth ; but a frown was dis- 
 tinctly traceable on the features of the girl. 
 
 Thus repulsed, I should have ridden on ; 
 and would have done so, but for that sense of 
 awkwardness, which one feels in similar situa- 
 tions. By pausing in the marked manner I 
 had done, and gazing so pointedly at the girl, 
 I had committed an act of ill-breeding — of
 
 284 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 which I now felt sensible. Indian though she 
 was, she was evidently no common squaw ; 
 but gifted with certain noble traits, of which 
 many a maiden of white skin might have en- 
 vied her the possession. Beyond that, I knew 
 she was the victim of a passion — all-absorbing 
 as it was hopeless — and this in my eyes, en- 
 nobled and sanctified her. 
 
 Just then, I had myself no cause to fear an 
 unrequited love — no need to be ungenerous 
 or selfish — and could, therefore, afford to ex- 
 tend my sympathy to the sufferings of another. 
 
 It was some vague prompting of this kind, 
 that had caused me to draw up — some idea of 
 offering consolation. 
 
 The repelling reception was altogether un- 
 expected, and placed me in a predicament. 
 
 How was I to escape from it ? By holding 
 my tongue, and riding on ? 
 
 No ; this would be an acknowledgment of 
 having committed an act of gaucherie — to 
 which man's vanity rarely accedes, or only 
 with extreme reluctance. 
 
 I had rushed inconsiderately into the mire,
 
 A RED-SKINNED SIBYL. 285 
 
 and must plunge deeper to get through. 
 ' We must become worse to make our title 
 good.' 
 
 So reflecting, or rather without reflecting at 
 all, I resolved to ' become worse ' — with the 
 risk of making a worse of it. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' thought I, ^ she does not recog- 
 nise me?' 
 
 She had not looked at me as yet. 
 
 *If she would only raise her eyes, she 
 would remember me as the friend of the 
 White Eagle. That might initiate a conversa- 
 tion ; and cause her to interpret more kindly 
 my apparent rudeness. I shall speak to her 
 at all hazards. Su-wa-nee !' 
 
 The dark Indian eye was raised upon me 
 with an angry flash ; but no other reply was 
 vouchsafed. 
 
 ' Su-wa-nee !' I repeated in the most con- 
 ciliatory tone. ' Do you not remember me ? 
 I am the friend of the White Eagle.' 
 
 ' And what is that to Su-wa-nee ? She 
 has no words for you — you may go on !' 
 
 This decided repulse, instead of bettering
 
 286 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 my position, rendered it still more complicated. 
 Somewhat confusedly, I rejoined : 
 
 ' I am on the way to visit the White 
 Eagle. I thought — perhaps — you might — 
 that possibly you might have some message 
 for him ' 
 
 ' Su-wa-nee has no message for the White 
 Eagle !' replied she, interrupting me, in the 
 same indignant tone, and with a contemptuous 
 toss of her head. ' If she had, she would not 
 choose a false pale-face, like himself, to be its 
 bearer. You fancy, white man, you can 
 insult the Indian maiden at your pleasure ? 
 You dare not take such liberty with one of 
 your own colour ?' 
 
 ' I assure you I had no such intention : my 
 object was very different. I was prompted to 
 speak to you, knowing something of your affair 
 of the other night with my friend Wiiigrove — 
 which you remember I was witness of. 1 could 
 not help overhearing ' 
 
 1 was interrupted by another quick con- 
 temptuous exclamation, that accompanied a 
 glance of mingled vexation and scorn :
 
 A KED-SKINXED SIBYL. 287 
 
 ' YoQ may know too much, and too little, 
 my brave slayer of red panthers ! Su-wa-nee 
 does not thank you for interfering in her affairs. 
 She can promise you sufficient occupation 
 with your own. Go ! See to them !' 
 
 ' How ? What mean you ?' I hurriedly 
 asked, perceiving a certain significance in her 
 looks, as well as words, that produced within 
 me a sudden feeling of inquietude. ' What 
 mean you?' I repeated, too anxious to await 
 her reply ; ^ has anything happened ?' 
 
 ' Go, see for yourself ! You lose time in 
 talking to a squaw^ as you call us. Haste ! 
 or your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed, 
 like that which you wear so proudly upon 
 your breast. The wolf has slept in the lair 
 of the forest deer : the yellow fawn will be his 
 victim ! Su-wa-nee joys at it : ha, ha, ha ! 
 Hers will not be the only heart wrung by the 
 villainy of the false pale-face. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 Go, brave slayer of red panthers ! Ah ! you 
 may go, but only to grieve : you will be too 
 late — too late — too late ! ' 
 
 Finishing her speech with another peal of
 
 288 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 half-maniac laughter, she snatched her pannier 
 from the log, flung it over her shoulder, and 
 hurried away from the spot ! 
 
 Her words, though ill understood, were 
 full of fearful significance, and acted upon me 
 like a shock — for a moment paralysing my 
 powers both of speech and action. 
 
 In my anxiety to ascertain their full mean- 
 ing, I would have intercepted her retreat ; 
 but before I could recover from my un- 
 pleasant surprise, she had glided in among 
 the shrubbery, and disappeared from my 
 sight.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A STORM WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 
 
 Heading my horse to the path, I rode out 
 of the glade ; but with very different feelings 
 from those I had on entering it. The words 
 of this ill-starred maiden — attainted with that 
 sibylline cunning peculiar to her race — had 
 filled my heart with most dire forebodings. 
 
 Her speech could not be mere conjecture, 
 put forth to vex and annoy me ? She had 
 scarcely motive enough for this ; besides, her 
 display of a positive foreknowledge was proof 
 against the supposition, that she was de- 
 ceiving me ? 
 
 ' Slayer of red panthers ! You may go, 
 but only to grieve.' ' Your bell-flower will 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 be plucked and crushed like that you wear 
 so proudly upon your breast.' 
 
 These, and other like innuendoes, could not 
 be conjectural ? However obtained, they be- 
 tokened a knowledge of the past, with an 
 implied forecast of the future — probable as it 
 was painful. The ' yellow fawn,' too. The 
 reference was clear: Lilian Holt was the 
 yellow fawn. But the wolf that had ' slept in 
 its lair ? ' Who was the wolf? Who was to 
 make her a victim ? and how ? 
 
 These unpleasant interrogatives passed 
 rapidly through my mind, and without ob- 
 taining reply. I was unable to answer them, 
 even by conjecture. Enough that there was 
 a wolf; and that Lilian Holt was in danger 
 of becoming his victim ! 
 
 This brought me to the consideration of 
 the last w^ords, still ringing in my ears : ' You 
 will be too late — too late !' 
 
 Prompted by their implied meaning, I 
 drove the spurs into my horse, and galloped 
 forward — as fast as the nature of the ground 
 would permit.
 
 A STORM WITHOUT AND WITHIX. 291 
 
 My mind was in dread confusion — a chaos 
 of doubt and fear. The half-knowledge I 
 had obtained was more painful to endure than 
 a misfortune well ascertained : for I suffered 
 the associated agonies of suspense, and darkly 
 outlined suspicion. 
 
 A wolf! In what shape and guise? A 
 victim ! How, and by what means ? What 
 the nature of the predicted danger ? 
 
 The elements seemed in unison with my 
 spirit : as if they too had taken their cue 
 from the ill-omened bodings of my Indian 
 oracle ! A storm-cloud had suddenly ob- 
 scured the sun — black as the wing of the 
 buzzard- vulture. Red shafts were shooting 
 athwart the sky — threatening to scathe the 
 trees of the forest; thunder rolled continuously 
 along their tops ; and huge isolated rain-drops, 
 like gouts of blood, came pattering down upon 
 the leaves — soon to fall thick and continuous ! 
 
 I heeded not these indications. At that 
 moment^ what where the elements to me ? 
 What cared I for clouds or rain — lightning, 
 thunder, or the riven forest? There was a
 
 292 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 cloud on my own heart — an electric rush 
 through my veins — of far more potent spell 
 than the shadows of the sky, or the corus- 
 cations of the ethereal fire. 
 
 ^ The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest 
 deer ; the yellow fawn will be his victim. 
 You will be too late — too late !' 
 
 These were the clouds to be regarded — the 
 fires to be feared. No heavenly light to 
 guide me along the path, but a flame infernal 
 burning in my breast ! 
 
 The bars were down, but it mattered not : 
 I would have leaped the fence, had there 
 been no gateway; but the entrance to the 
 enclosure was free ; and, galloping through it, 
 I drew bridle in front of the hut. 
 
 The door was open — wide open, as was its 
 wont ; and I could see most of the interior. 
 No one appeared within ! no one came forth 
 to greet me ! 
 
 Inside, I observed some pieces of rude 
 furniture — several chairs and a rough table. 
 I had noticed them on my first visit. They 
 were now in the same place — ^just as 1 had
 
 A STORM AVITHOUT AXD WITHIN. 293 
 
 seen them before. One of my apprehensions 
 was allayed by the sight ; the family was still 
 there. 
 
 ' Strange that no one hears me ! that no 
 one comes out to receive me !' 
 
 I made these reflections, after having 
 waited a considerable while. 
 
 'Surely I was expected? It was the time 
 named by Holt himself? the day and hour !' 
 
 'Was I again unwelcome? and had the 
 squatter relapsed into his uncourteous mood?' 
 
 It certainly had that appearance : more 
 especially, since it was raining at the moment 
 — as if the very clouds were coming down — 
 and I stood in need of a shelter. 
 
 But that grievance was little thought of. I 
 was suffering a chagrin, far more intolerable 
 than the tempest. Where was Lilian ? 
 
 Such cool reception, on her part, I had not 
 expected. It was indeed a surprise. Had I 
 mistaken the character of this Idylian damsel ? 
 Was she, too, an arch creature — a coquette ? 
 Had she bestowed the blossom only to betray 
 me?
 
 294 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 I looked down at the crushed corolla borne 
 upon my breast. I had promised myself a 
 triumph by its presence there. I had formed 
 pleasant anticipations of its being recognised 
 — fond hopes of its creating an effect in my 
 favour. 
 
 The flower looked drenched and draggled. 
 Its carmine colour had turned to a dull dark 
 crimson : it was the colour of blood ! 
 
 I could bear the suspense no longer. I 
 would have hailed the house ; but by this 
 time I had become convinced that there was 
 no one inside. After a short survey, I had 
 remarked a change in the appearance of the 
 cabin. The interstices between the logs — 
 where they had formerly been covered with 
 skins — were now open. The draping had 
 been removed ; and a closer scrutiny enabled 
 me to perceive, that, so far as human occu- 
 pants were concerned, the house was empty ! 
 
 I rode up to the door ; and, leaning over 
 from my saddle, looked in. 
 
 My conjecture was correct. Only the 
 chairs and table, with one or two similar
 
 A STORM WITHOUT AND AVITHIN. 295 
 
 pieces of ' plenishing,' remained. Everything 
 else had been removed ; and some worthless 
 debris strewed over the floor, told that the 
 removal was to be considered complete. TJiey 
 were gone I 
 
 It was of no use harbouring a hope that 
 they might still be on the premises — outside 
 or elsewhere near. The pouring rain forbade 
 such a supposition. There was nowhere else 
 — the horse-shed excepted — where they could 
 have sheltered themselves from its torrent; 
 and they were not in the shed. Rosinante 
 was absent from his rude stall — saddle and 
 bridle had alike disappeared. I needed no 
 further assurance. They were gone. 
 
 With a heavy heart, I slid out of my 
 saddle ; led my steed under the shed ; and 
 then entered the deserted dwelling. 
 
 My footfall upon the plank-floor sounded 
 heavy and harsh, as I strode over it, making 
 a survey of the 'premises ' — my future home. 
 
 I might have observed with ludicrous sur- 
 prise the queer character of the building, and 
 how sadly it needed repair. But I was in no
 
 296 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 mood to be merry, either with the house or 
 its furniture ; and, tottering into one of the 
 odd-looking chairs, I gave way to gloomy 
 reflections. 
 
 Any one seeing me at that moment, would 
 have observed me in an attitude, more befit- 
 ting a man about to be turned out of his estate, 
 than one just entering upon possession !
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 A VIRGIN" HEART IN CIPHER. 
 
 Gone ! and whither gone ? 
 
 Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. 
 There was an echo from the empty walls, but 
 no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish 
 an answer. 
 
 The affair was altogether unexpected. 
 Not anticipating that the squatter would leave 
 his cabin before my return, I had made no 
 inquiry either about his destination or future 
 designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest 
 clue as to where he had gone. 
 
 Nor should I have had any inquietude at 
 this premature disappearance, but for the
 
 298 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere 
 disappointment of missing an interview with 
 Lilian — chagrin enough after such high-raised 
 expectation — I should not have felt either 
 uneasiness or regret. It would have been but 
 natural to believe, that they had moved to 
 some neighbour's house — perhaps to that up 
 the creek, where lived the ' friend of Lilian's 
 father ' — in all likelihood, the saint I had seen 
 — or some other within a five-mile circuit. 
 Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it 
 matter to me ? A ride of ten miles twice a 
 day would be nothing — only an airing for my 
 Arab. I should soon scent out the where- 
 abouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all 
 the forests in Tennessee could hide from me 
 my fair blooming flower. 
 
 Such would have been my reflections, no 
 doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. 
 But her words of harsh warning now guided 
 the current of my thoughts into a ruder 
 channel. 
 
 ' You may go, but only to grieve : you will 
 be too late !'
 
 A TIRGIX HEART IX CIPHER. 299 
 
 Figurative as was her speech, and undefined 
 its meaning, it produced within me a presenti- 
 ment sufficiently real : that the removal was 
 not a mere flit to some temporary shelter 
 under a neighbour's roof, but a departure for 
 a distant point. 
 
 Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief — a 
 conviction. Around me were circumstances 
 corroborative of this view. The articles of 
 furniture left behind, though rude, were still 
 of a certain value — especially to a house- 
 holder of Holt's condition ; and had the squat- 
 ter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the 
 neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken 
 them with him. Otherwise they were too 
 heavy for a distant migration. 
 
 Perhaps he intended to return for them ? 
 If so — but no : there was no probability of his 
 doing so. 
 
 1 need not have tried to comfort myself 
 with the reflection. The innuendoes of the 
 Indian had already negatived the hope. 
 
 Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I 
 cast a glance around the room — in search of
 
 300 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 some object that might guide my conjectures 
 to a more definite conclusion. 
 
 While so employed, my eyes fell upon a 
 piece of paper carelessly folded. It lay upon 
 the rough table — the only object there, with 
 the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, 
 and the debris of a tobacco-pipe. 
 
 I recognised the piece of paper. It was an 
 old acquaintance — the leaf from my memor- 
 andum-book — upon which was written that 
 laconic ' last will and testament,' jointly signed 
 by the squatter and myself. 
 
 On observing this paper upon the table, it 
 did not occur to me, that it had been left 
 there with any design. My reflection was, 
 that the squatter had taken it from the stump, 
 and carried it into the house — perhaps to 
 shew it to his clerical visitor. No doubt, they 
 had enjoyed a good laugh over it — as the sou- 
 venir of a ludicrous incident ; and for this very 
 reason I resolved upon preserving it. 
 
 I had taken the document in my hand, and 
 was about depositing it in my pocket-book, 
 when my eye was attracted by some fresh
 
 A TIRGIN HEART IN CIPHER. 301 
 
 writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of 
 the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a 
 deeper interest than I had before felt in it: 
 I saw that it was the chirography of a female 
 hand. 
 
 What other than the hand of Lilian ? 
 
 I thought of no other. Beyond doubt, her 
 fingers had guided the pencil — for it was pen- 
 cil-writing — and guided it so deftly, as to 
 impress me with surprise and admiration. 
 Astonished was I that she — the child of a 
 rude squatter — should be able to set down 
 her ideas in so fair a hand — thoughts thrill- 
 ing, though simply expressed. 
 
 Ah ! sweet simple words ! Trembled my 
 own hand as I read them — trembled as from 
 a spell of delirium — a delirium produced 
 by the antagonistic emotions of grief and 
 
 PY- 
 
 Yes ! both were present. In that simple 
 
 inscript I had found cue for both : for there 
 I learned the ecstatic truth that I was be- 
 loved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, 
 that my love was lost to me for ever !
 
 302 THE WILD HUJS^ TRESS. 
 
 Words of welcome, and words of woe ! how 
 could they be thus commingled ? 
 Read them, and learn : 
 
 'to edwaed warfield. 
 
 ' Stranger ! — It is to say farewell, but I 
 am very sad as I write these words. When you 
 asked me to promise to meet you again, I was 
 happy. I said yes. sir ! it can never be ! 
 We are going to some far place, and shall be 
 gone before you come here, and I shall never 
 see you again. It is very distant, and I do 
 not know the name of the country, for it is 
 not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, 
 but somewhere in the west, a long way be- 
 yond the Mississippi river and the great prai- 
 ries ; but it is a countrv where they dig gold 
 out of the sand — perhaps you have heard of 
 it, and might know it. I tried to know its 
 name, but father is angry with me for speak- 
 ing of you, and will not tell me ; and our 
 friend, that you saw, who is taking us 
 with him, will not tell me either. But I 
 shall find out soon, and if I thought you
 
 A VIEGIN HEART IN CIPHER. 303 
 
 might like to know where we are gone, I 
 would write to you. I am glad that mother 
 taught me to write, though I do not compose 
 very well ; but if you will allow me, I will 
 send a letter to Swampville, from the first 
 place we come to, to tell you the name of the 
 country where we are going. I know your 
 name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope 
 you will not think I have done wrong, for I 
 have written my own name beside it. O sir ! 
 I am very sad that I am not to see you any 
 more, for I am afraid father will never come 
 back. I could cry all night and all day, and 
 I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their 
 seeing me, for both father and his friend have 
 scolded me, and said a many things against 
 you. I do not like to hear them say things 
 against you, and for that reason I try not to 
 let them know how very sorry I am that I am 
 never to^meet you any more. Brave stranger ! 
 you saved my life ; but it is not that, I think, 
 that makes me so unhappy now, but some- 
 thing else. You are so different from the 
 others I have seen ; and what you said to me
 
 304 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 was not like anything I ever heard before; 
 your words sounded so sweet, and I could 
 have listened to them for ever. I remember 
 every one of them. And then I was so 
 proud when you took the flower from me, 
 and held it to your lips, for it made me think 
 that you would be my friend. I have been 
 very lonely since my sister Marian went away 
 — she went with the man you saw. I hope 
 to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out 
 in the country where we are going to, but that 
 will not make me happy, if I can never see 
 you again. 
 
 '0 sir ! forgive me for writing all that I 
 have written ; but I thought from what you 
 said to me you would not be displeased with 
 me for it, and that is why I have written it. 
 But I must write no more, for my eyes are 
 full of tears, and I cannot see the paper. I 
 hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to re- 
 member 
 
 * Lilian Holt.' 
 
 Yes, Lilian ! to the last hour of my life ! 
 Close to my bosom shall it lie — that simple
 
 A VIRGIN HEART IN CIPHER. 305 
 
 souvenir of your maiden love. Sacred page ! 
 transcript of sweet truth — hallowed by the 
 first offerings of a virgin heart ! 
 
 Over, and over, and over again, I read the 
 cipher — to me more touching than the wildest 
 tale of romance. 
 
 Alas ! it was not all joy. There was more 
 than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing 
 its measure. 
 
 In another moment, the sadness overcame 
 the joy. I tottered towards the chair, and 
 dropped into it — my spirit completely pros- 
 trated by the conflicting emotions. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 A WORD ABOUT MORMON MONSTERS. 
 
 Not long did I remain under the mental 
 paralysis. There was no time for idle 
 repining. The intelligence, derived from the 
 torn leaf; had given me a cue for action ; and 
 my spirit struggled to free itself from the 
 lethargy of grief. Hope whispered the watch- 
 word, ^ Up and be doing!' and I arose to 
 obey its mandate. 
 
 My heart was on fire — wildly, madly on 
 fire. The contents of that epistle, while it 
 imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all 
 earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest 
 of dangers — imparting to it an anguish beyond 
 expression.
 
 A WORD ABOUT MORMOX MONSTERS. 307 
 
 It told me far more than the writer herself 
 knew — both of her love and what she had 
 need to fear : for, in her guileless innocence, 
 was she alike unconscious of the passion and 
 the peril. 
 
 Not so I. She had opened her heart 
 before me. As on a printed page, I could 
 trace its tender inclinings. 
 
 Had this been all, I should have been 
 happy — supremely happy. But, alas ! that 
 writing told me more : that she who had pen- 
 cilled it was in deadly peril. 
 
 No — not deadly : it was not of life ; but of 
 something far dearer — to me a thousand times 
 more dear — her virgin honour. 
 
 Now comprehended I, in all their diabolic 
 significance, those wild weird words : ' The 
 wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer — 
 the yellow fawn will be his victim !' Now 
 knew I the wolf — a wolf disguised in the 
 clothing of the lamb ! 
 
 It needed no remarkable acumen to tell to 
 whom the figure referred. The writing itself 
 revealed him — all but the name; and that
 
 308 THE WILD HUNTKESS, 
 
 was manifest by implication. The man with 
 whom ' Marian went away ' — he whom I had 
 seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf 
 of the metaphor ; and that man was Steb- 
 bins, the Mormo?i ! 
 
 With him, too, Lilian had gone away ! 
 
 Not with words can I express the suggestive 
 hideousness of this thought. To understand 
 it in all its cruel significance, the reader should 
 be acquainted with that peculiar sect — known 
 as the ' Church of Latter-day Saints ' — should 
 have read its history and its chronicles. 
 Without this knowledge, he will be ill able 
 to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that, 
 in that hour, wrapped and wrung my 
 soul. 
 
 Accident had made me acquainted with the 
 Mormon religion ; not with its tenets — for it 
 has none — but with the moral idiosyncrasy of 
 its most eminent ' apostles/ as well as that of 
 its humbler devotees — two very different 
 classes of * Saints.' 
 
 In the animal world, we seek in vain for 
 the type of either class. The analogies of
 
 A WORD ABOUT MORMON MONSTERS. 309 
 
 wolf and lamb, hawk and pigeon, cat and 
 mouse, cannot be employed with any degree 
 of appropriateness — not one of them. In all 
 these creatures there are traits either of 
 nobility or beauty. Neither is to be found in 
 the life and character of a Mormon — whether 
 he be a sincere neophyte or a hypocritical 
 apostle. 
 
 Perhaps the nearest antagonistic forms of 
 the animal world, by which we might typify 
 the antithetic conditions of Mormon life, both 
 social and religious, are those of fox and 
 goose ; though no doubt the subtle reynard 
 would scorn the comparison. Nor, indeed, is 
 the fox a true type : for even about him there 
 are redeeming qualities — something to relieve 
 the soul from that loathing which it feels 
 in contemplating the character of a 'ruling 
 elder ' among the ^ Saints.' 
 
 It would be difficult to imagine anything 
 further removed, from what we may term the 
 ' divinity of human nature,' than one of these. 
 Vulgar and brutal, cunning and cri^el, are 
 ordinary epithets ; and altogether too weak 
 
 X 2
 
 310 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 to characterise such a creature. Some of the 
 ' twelves ' and of the ' seventies ' may lack one 
 or other of these characteristics. In most 
 cases, however, you may safely bestow them 
 all ; and if it be the chief of the sect — the 
 President himself — you may add such other 
 ugli/ appellatives as your fancy may suggest ; 
 and be sure that your portraiture will still 
 fall short of the hideousness of the ori- 
 ginal. 
 
 Perhaps the most striking characteristic of 
 these fanatics is the absolute openness of their 
 cheat. A more commonplace imposture has 
 never been offered for acceptance, even to the 
 most ignorant of mankind. It appeals neither 
 to reason nor romance. The one is insulted 
 by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while 
 its rank j^l^hhishness disgusts the other. Even 
 the nomenclature, both of its offices and office- 
 bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ig- 
 noble origin. The names 'twelves,' 'seven- 
 ties,' ' deacons,' ' wifedoms,' * Smiths' (Hyrum 
 and Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, 
 and the like — coupled as they are with an
 
 A WORD ABOUT MORMOX MOXSTERS. oil 
 
 affectation and imitation of Scripture phrase- 
 ology — form a vocabulary burlesquing even 
 the Sacred Book itself, and suggesting by 
 their sounds the true character of the Mormon 
 Church — a very essence of plebeian hypo- 
 crisy. 
 
 I have used the word 'fanatics/ but that 
 must be understood in a limited sense. It can 
 only be applied to the ' geese ' — the ignorant 
 and besotted canaille — which the *• apostolic ' 
 emissaries have collected from all parts of 
 Europe, but chiefly from England, Scotland, 
 and Wales. The Welsh, as might be ex- 
 pected, furnish a large proportion of these 
 emigrant geese; while, strange as it may 
 sound, there is but one Irish goose in the 
 wjiole Mormon flock ! There are but few of 
 these ' birds ' of native American breed. The 
 general intelligence, supplied by a proper 
 school system, prevents much proselytism in 
 that quarter ; but it does not hinder the cute 
 Yankee from playing the part of the fox : for 
 in reality this is his role in the social system 
 of Mormondora. The President or ' High
 
 312 THE WILD HUXTRESS. 
 
 Priest and Prophet ' himself, the Twelves and 
 Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dig- 
 nitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true Yankee 
 growth ; and to call these ' fanatics ' would 
 be a misapplication of the word. Term them 
 conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and im- 
 postors, if you will ; but not fanatics. The 
 Mormon fox is no fanatic : he is a professor in 
 the most emphatic sense of the Vv^ord, but 
 not a believer. His profession is absolute 
 chicanery — he has neither faith, dogma, nor 
 doctrine. 
 
 There are writers who have defended these 
 forhans of religion ; and some who have even 
 spoken well of their system. Captain Stans- 
 bury, the explorer, has a good opinion of 
 them. The captain is at best but a superficial 
 observer; and, unfortunately for his judg- 
 ment, received most courteous treatment at 
 their hands. It is not human nature ' to speak 
 ill of the bridge that has carried one over ;' 
 and Captain Stansbury has obeyed the com- 
 mon impulse. In the earlier times of the 
 Mormon Church, there were champions of the
 
 A WORD ABOUT MORMOX MOXSTERS. 313 
 
 Stansbury school to defend its members 
 against the charge of polygamy. In those 
 days, the Saints themselves attempted a sort 
 of denial of it. The subject was then too rank 
 to come forth as a revelation. But a truth 
 of this awkward kind could not long remain 
 untold ; and it became necessary to mask it 
 under the more moderate title of a spiritual 
 wifedom. It required an acute metaphysician 
 to comprehend this spiritual relationship; 
 and the moralist was puzzled to understand its 
 sanctity. 
 
 During that period, while the Saints dwelt 
 within the pale of the Gentiles' country this 
 cloak was kept on ; but after their ^ exodus ' 
 to the Salt Lake settlements, the flimsy gar- 
 ment was thrown off — being found too incon- 
 venient to be worn any longer. There the 
 motive for concealment was removed, and the 
 apology of a spiritual ivifedom ceased to exist. 
 It came out in its carnal and sensual shape. 
 Polygamy was boldly preached and pro- 
 claimed, as it had ever been practised, in its 
 most hideous shape ; and the defenders of
 
 314 THE WILD HUNTRESS. 
 
 Mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet 
 proteges, dropped their broken lances to the 
 ground. 
 
 The ' institution ' is even more odious 
 under Mormon than Mohammed. There is 
 no redeeming point — not even the ' romance 
 of the harem' — for the zenana of a Latter- 
 day Saint is a type of the most vulgar 
 materialism, where even the favourite sultana 
 is not exempted from the hard work-a-day 
 duties of a slave. 
 
 Polygamy ? No ! the word has too limited 
 a signification. To characterise the condition 
 of a Mormon wife, we must resort to the 
 phraseology of the bagnio. 
 
 In company of a Mormon had Lilian gone 
 away ! 
 
 No wonder that my heart was on fire — 
 wildly, madly on fire. 
 
 I rose from my seat, and rushed forth for 
 my horse. 
 
 The storm still raged apace. Clouds and 
 rolling thunder, lightning and rain — rain such 
 as that which ushered in the Deluge !
 
 A WORD ABOUT MORMOX MONSTERS. 315 
 
 The storm ! what cared I for its fury ? 
 Rain antediluvian would not have stayed me 
 in doors — not if it had threatened the drown- 
 ing of the world ! 
 
 EXD OF VOL. 1. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY W CLOWES AND SONS, sTAUFORD IRKET.
 
 I
 
 o 

 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 083839198