The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wild Huntress, by Mayne Reid

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Title: The Wild Huntress
       Love in the Wilderness

Author: Mayne Reid

Release Date: February 9, 2009 [EBook #28033]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILD HUNTRESS ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Wild Huntress, by Captain Mayne Reid.

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

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



CHAPTER ONE.

THE SQUATTER'S CLEARING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who are these young creatures?  Sisters?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWO.

MARIAN AND LILIAN.

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

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

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

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

"There is some deer-meat inside?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must learn to shoot, Lil."

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

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

"Surely I should run away from him."

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

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

"Alone!  Perhaps I am not _always alone_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THREE.

THE LOVERS' RENDEZVOUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FIVE.

SQUATTER AND SAINT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER SIX.

AN APOSTOLIC EFFORT.

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

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

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

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

"I have," gravely responded Stebbins.

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

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

"Methody?"

"Nothing of the kind."

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

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

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

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

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

"The book of _Mormon_?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The same."

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

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

"A prophet!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"Ratiocination."

"What mout that be?"

"Reason--reason."

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

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

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

"What?"

"To make a Mormon o' me."

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

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

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

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

"They are the _Danites_."

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

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

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

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

"Who, then?"

"_Your daughter_!"



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE MORMON'S DEMAND.

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

"My daughter?" muttered Holt, half interrogatively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Myen?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" involuntarily inquired Holt.

"The gallows," laconically answered Stebbins.

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

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

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

"An' s'pose I say _no_?"

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

"What duty is't you mean?"

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A SPLENDID PENSION.

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER NINE.

FRIENDLY ADVICE.

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

"I'm rejoiced to hear it."

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

"Good!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What then?"

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

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

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

"But surely the law--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TEN.

A CLASSIC LAND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE "JACKSON HOTEL."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWELVE.

COLONEL KIPP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Business in Swampville?"

"Why, yes, Mr Kipp."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes; Holt's Clearing."

"Wal, there _air_ such a place."

"Is it distant?"

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

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

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

"His name is Holt is it not?"

"That same individooal."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Private and particular, eh?"

"Very."

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THROUGH THE FOREST.

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

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

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

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

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

"Gentleman!"

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

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

"Indeed?"

"Rayther, I shed say."

"Is he what you call a poor man?"

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

"He's only a squatter, then?"

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

"Indeed?"

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

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

"Has he any family?"

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

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

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

"And she?"

"She--she's gone away."

"Married, I suppose?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SU-WA-NEE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What of the half-blood?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The heart can _hate_ without forgetting."

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

"Not if she be false?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT.

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

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

"A Mormon?"

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

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

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

"Who then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Her name?"

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

"She has certainly not improved her name."

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

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

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

"Does the younger one resemble her?"

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

"She's more beautiful, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed."

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

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

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

"Su-wa-nee's tracks?"

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

"Did you take no steps to punish her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's true, stranger!"

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

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

"So one would have supposed."

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"D'ye say so?"

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

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

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

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

"To what question to you refer?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How does he get his living, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That would be awkward."

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

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

"This way, then, stranger!"

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



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A BACKWOODS VENUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A SERIES OF CONTRE-TEMPS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWENTY.

SWEET AND BITTER.

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

      Aunque las fieras
  En sus guaridas
      Enternecidas
          Pensan de amor!

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A RUDE RESPONSE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A ROUGH RECEPTION.

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

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

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

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

"No?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish to see him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My name," said I--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you _purchased_ it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

If so--

My reflection was cut short.  In another moment he re-appeared in the
doorway; not with any papers in his hand--but, instead, a long rifle,
that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as
himself?

"Now, Mister Turn-me-out?" said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant
tone, and raising the piece in front of him, "thur's my title--my
pre-emption right's the right o' the rifle.  _It's_ clur enuf: ye'll
acknowledge that, won't ye?"

"No," I replied in a firm voice.

"Ye won't?  The hell, ye won't?  Look hyur, stranger!  I'm in airnest.
Look in my eye, an' see if I ain't!  I gi' ye warnin' then, that ef
ye're not out o' this clarin' in six jumps o' a squ'll, you'll niver go
out o' it a livin' man.  You see that ere stump?  Its shadder's jest a
creepin' up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I'll
shoot you down, as sure's my name's Hick Holt.  Mind, I've gin ye
warnin'!"

"And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself;
and if you miss--"

"Miss!" ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head--"miss, ye
fool! thur's no fear o' that."

"If you miss," continued I, without heeding the interruption, "I shall
show you no mercy.  If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of
having the the first shot, I have my advantage too.  In self-defence, I
shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall
certainly do so.  Be warned!  I never spare a coward."

"Coward!" exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible
to hear.  "An' how ef I don't miss?" continued he, apparently calming
his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer--intended to awe me, by
insinuating the certainty of his aim.  "How ef I don't miss, Mister
Popgun?"

"You may, for all that.  Don't be too sure of hitting--I've been shot at
before now."

"You'll niver be shot at _arter_ now, 'ceptin' ye leave this clarin'.
One crack from my gun'll be enuf for ye, I reck'n."

"I'll take my chance.  If it should go against me, _you_ won't gain by
it.  Remember, my good man, it's not a duel we're fighting!  You have
chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I've faith
enough in the law to believe it will avenge me."

I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and,
seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar
import: "If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will
inquire into my death.  Trust me, they will do so!  If I kill _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_!"  I gave full emphasis to the last word.

On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion.  I fancied I saw
him tremble, and turn slightly pale!  With an unsteady voice he replied:

"Murder?  No, no; I've gin ye warnin' to go.  Ye've time enuf yet to
save yerself.  Git out o' the clarin', an' thur'll be no harm done ye!"

"I shall not go out of the clearing, until you've acknowledged my
claim."

"Then you'll niver go out o' it alive--I swar by God! niver!"

"You are determined, then, to be my _murderer_?"

I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone.  I saw that it
affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of
consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of
humanity; or, perhaps--but least possible of all he was beginning to be
ashamed of his foul play.  By which of of these three motives, or by
what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the
imputation.

"Murderer!" echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection.  "No, no;
it's bad enuf to hev the blame o' that, 'ithout bein' guilty o't.  I
ain't agwine to _murder_ ye; but I ain't agwine neyther to let ye go.  I
mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye've lost yur chance.  Ye've called
_me_ a _coward_; an' by the Etarnal! no man 'll say that word o' Hick
Holt, an' live to boast o't.  No, mister! ye've got to die; an' ye may
get yurself ready for't, 's soon's ye like.  Coward indeed!"

"I repeat it--your act is cowardly."

"What act?"

"Your unprovoked attack upon me--especially since it gives you the first
shot.  What if I were to shoot you down now?  With the pistol you see in
my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you
could bring your rifle to your shoulder.  What would you call that?
Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS.

While I was speaking, I saw a change pass over the countenance of my
gigantic antagonist--as if some new resolve was forming in his mind,
that affected the programme he had already traced out.  Was it possible
I had touched him on a point of honour?  It was this purpose I desired
to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, I continued the only
kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of
success.

"You _dare_ not play fair in this game?"  I said, banteringly.  "You
_are_ a coward; and would murder me.  You want the first shot: you know
you do?"

"It's a lie!" cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height,
and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed him
capable of--"it's a lie!  I don't wish to murder ye; an' I don't want
the the first shot neyther."

"How?"

"I hain't so little confidence in my shootin' as to care for you an' yur
jim-crack gun!  Nor is Hick Holt in such consate wi' his life eyther,
that he's afeerd to risk it.  Tho' ye air a stuck-up critter, I won't
gi' ye the opportunity to 'kuse me o' foul play.  Thur's grit in ye, I
reck'n; and seein' that's made me change my mind."

"What!"  I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it
promised an end to our altercation--"you have changed your mind? you
mean to act justly then?"

"I mean, it shall be a _fair stan'-up fight_ atween us."

"Oh! a duel?"

"Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister."

"I agree to that.  But how about seconds?"

"D'ye think two men can't fight fair 'ithout seconds?  Ye see yander
stump standin' nigh the bars?"

"Yes--I see it."

"Wal, mister, thur you'll take yur stand--ahine or afront o' it,
whichsomever ye like best.  Hyur's this other un, clost by the crib--
thur'll be my place.  Thur's twenty yurds atween 'em, I reck'n.  Is that
yur distance?"

"It will do as well as any other," I replied mechanically--still under
the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.

"Dismount, then!  Take your pouch an' flask along wi' ye--ye see I've
got myen?  One shot at ye's all _I'll_ want, I reck'n.  But ef thur shed
be a miss, look out for quick loadin'! an' mind, mister! thur's one o'
us'll niver leave this clarin' alive."

"About the first shot?  Who is to give the signal?"

"I've thort o' that a'ready.  It'll be all right, promise ye."

"In what way can you arrange it?"

"This way.  Thur's a hunk o' deer-meat in the house: I mean to fetch
that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o' the clarin'.  Ye
see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?"  I nodded in the
affirmative.  "Wal--it won't be long afore one or other o' them flops
down to the meat; an' _the first o' 'em that touches ground, that'll be
the signal_.  That's fair enuf, I reck'n?"

"Perfectly fair," I replied, still speaking mechanically--for the very
justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous.

I was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the
man.  He was fast disarming me.  His unexpected behaviour had subdued my
ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, I now felt a complete
disinclination for the combat!  Was it too late to stay our idle strife?
Such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering
my pride, I gave words to the thought.

"Yur too late, mister! 'twon't do now," was the reply to my pacific
speech.

"And why not?"  I continued to urge; though to my chagrin, I began to
perceive that it _was_ an idle effort.

"Yuv riz my dander; an', by God! yuv got to fight for it!"

"But surely--"

"Stop yur palaver!  By the tarnal airthquake, I'll 'gin to 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' remember! neyther fires _till a bird lights on the grown_!  Arter
that, ye may go it like blazes!"

"Stay!" said I; "there is something yet to be done.  You are acting
honourably in this affair--which I acknowledge is more than I was led to
expect.  You deserve one chance for your life; and if I should fall it
will be in danger.  You would be regarded as a murderer: that must not
be."

"What is't you mean?" hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently
not comprehending my words.  Without answering to the interrogatory, I
drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum,
wrote upon it: "_I have fallen in fair fight_."  I appended the date;
signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary.
He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant.
He soon saw the intention, however, as I could tell by his grim smile.

"You're right thur!" said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause.  "I
hedn't thunk o' that.  I guess this dockyment 'll be nothin' the wuss o'
my name too?  What's sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the
gander.  Yur pencil, ef ye please?  I ain't much o' a scholart; but I
reck'n I kin write my name.  Hyur goes!"  Spreading out the paper on the
top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then,
holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature--but without
saying a word.  This done, he replaced the document on the stump; and
drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the
weapon quivering in the wood!  All these manoeuvres were gone through
with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some
ordinary purpose!

"I reck'n, strenger," said he, in the same imperturbable tone, "that'll
keep the wind from blowin' it away, till we've settled who it's to
belong to.  Now, to yur place!  I'm agwine to throw the deer-meat!"

I had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand.
Unresistingly, I obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that
had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking
around.  I had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late
behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of
treachery.  I had _not_ the slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and
no more did I hold him to be a coward.  That impression was gone long
ago.

I confess, that never with more reluctance did I enter upon the field of
fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, I should not
only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have
surrendered up my claim to the clearing--though I knew that this could
be done, only at the expense of my name and honour.  Were I to have done
so, I could never have shown my face again--neither in the settlement of
Swampville, nor elsewhere.  Even among my polished friends of more
fashionable circles, I should have been taunted--branded as a coward and
poltroon!  The rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse
especially after the manner in which he was acting.  "Backed out" would
have been the universal verdict!  Moreover, notwithstanding the
apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed--courteous I
might almost call it--I knew he was implacable in his determination.
There was no alternative--_I must fight_!

I arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him.  He
was already in his place--with the joint of venison in one hand, and his
long rifle in the other.  The moment was nigh, when one of us should
make an abrupt exit from the world!

Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I saw depicted in the impassible
face of my adversary--as plainly as if written upon the sky.  I could
read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and I
resigned myself to meet it.

"Now, mister!" cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, "I'm agwine to
chuck the meat.  Remember! neyther's to fire, till a bird lights on the
ground!  Arter that, ye may go it like hell!"

I saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; I saw it jerked
aloft, and then whirling through the air; I saw it falling--falling,
till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground.  It was a
fearful moment!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

WAITING 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 terrible
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 revenge--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.

Thus to fight without seconds; to die without 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 creature save the black vultures--appropriate instruments to give
the death-signal--ominous witnesses of the dark deed: such were the
appalling 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 eccentric squatter; and to shoot at him seemed equally
ridiculous.  Either alternative, upon reflection, appeared the very
essence of absurdity: 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; but, unfortunately, being a principal in this
deadly duello--a real wrestler in the backwoods 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 facon_, 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 alternative.  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, 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 succession, 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 surveillance!

"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 alternative?  Is there still no chance of an
arrangement?"

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 arouse me to an attitude, even of defence.
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--"

"_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'll 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_!"

"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 forbearance would not only be idle, but dangerous.  It was
playing with my life, to leave it in the hands of this unrelenting
enemy.  Better make _him_ 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 resolute regard the
movements of the birds, and measuring the ground that separated me from
my adversary.

Notwithstanding the sting which his words had inflicted, I was yet
hampered by some considerations of mercy.  I had no desire to _kill_ 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 adroitness 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 inflicting a
mortal wound.  This would perhaps satisfy the honour of my antagonist,
and bring our strife to an end.

Whether any such consideration was in his 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.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

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 disregarding it--a circumstance so
contradictory of their natural instincts and habits, that, even in that
dread hour, I remarked its singularity?  The cause might have been
simple enough: perhaps the birds had already glutted themselves
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 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
memory of home, kindred, and friends; 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,
mingling with its last emotions!  Was I never 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 interrogatives--though only conjectural--was the bitterest
reflection of all!

Still stir not the vultures: only to preen their black plumes with fetid
beak; or, extending their broad wings, to shadow the sunbeam from their
bodies.  It is the hour of noon; and the sun, shining down from the
zenith, permeates the atmosphere 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
suspense is terrible to endure--the more so from the ominous stillness
that reigns around.  Since the last angry challenge, not a word has been
exchanged between my adversary and myself.  In sullen silence, we eye
each other, with scintillating glances watching for the signal.

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

The situation was more than unpleasant.  I longed for the _finale_.  My
antagonist also showed signs of impatience.  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
increasing 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
shrill neighing of my horse--who seemed startled at some sound from the
forest.  Almost 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 upwards 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 astonishment, he
appeared to be grasping it mechanically, as if hesitating to take aim!
His glance, too, showed irresolution.  Instead of being turned either
upon myself or the vultures, 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 woman's voice.  This was followed by a wild scream; and,
simultaneously with its utterance, 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!

I had not time to recover from my surprise before the girl had glided
past me; and I followed 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 peremptory 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_?"

"Done! gurl?  He's called me _coward_; an' 'ud drive us out o' house an'
home.  Git ye gone, I say!  Into the house wi' ye!--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 interrogatory, admonished me
that a new personage 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 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 TWENTY SIX.

THE PEACEMAKER.

Without knowing why, I hailed the arrival 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 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 antagonist!  On the contrary, he appeared to have delivered
it over to her--as if the affair between 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 a second or
two, while my attention was occupied by the newly arrived horseman.
What still further astonished me, was, that this transformation was
evidently produced by the presence of the stranger himself!  That it was
not due to the young girl's interference, 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 proud 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 removed the bars, and took hold
of the stranger's horse--as also in some phrases of welcome, to which he
gave utterance in my hearing.

For myself, I was no longer regarded, any more than if I had been one of
the dead-woods that stood around the clearing.  The squatter passed,
without even looking at me--his whole attention seemingly absorbed by
the new arrival!  It was natural I should regard with curiosity an
individual, whose presence had produced such a wonderful effect; and my
scrutinising gaze may have appeared rude enough to him.  I cannot say
that he elicited my admiration.  On the contrary, his appearance
produced 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 sinister_.  A face without
beard--skin of cadaverous hue--nose sharply pointed--chin and forehead
both receding--eyes small, but sparkling like those of a ferret--and
long lank black hair, thinly shading his cheeks and brows--were the
prominent 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 standing 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 costume.

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 different from that deferential respect,
with which the 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 observed 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, notwithstanding the saintly gown.  I contented myself,
however, with returning the glance, by one I intended should bear a like
contemptuous 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, 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 intention.  On the contrary, I
only waited for an opportunity to propose some pacific arrangement of
our difficulty; and my thoughts were now directed to this end.  I had
every chance of observing the movements of the two men: since, instead
of entering 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
appeared to 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 attentively, I might have arrived at some knowledge 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 fascinated 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 Heaven!
gliding towards the door!  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 TWENTY SEVEN.

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; 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.  New 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 delicacy, 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 tiptoe, 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 as I could judge, in an attitude
of attention--her head lowered, and her body bent slightly forward.  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 design, 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 directed towards the rear of the
hut.  She appeared to look and listens--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 speaking: for I saw by her manner that
the movement was a stolen one.  Moreover, the finger, raised for an
instant to her lips, admonished 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 a 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
something."

"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.  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 a 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 whatever 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
liberally."

"Fust, then, you called me a coward.  Do you take that back?"

"Willingly I do."

"So fur good; an' now for tother proposal 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 'll answer my bizness equally as well--
maybe better--an' ef ye'll pay me for my _improvements_, 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 improvements?  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 lighter than the heart within: though that had
been heavier but an hour before.  I knew that the sack contained less
than two hundred dollars, in notes of the Planters' Bank; and I feared
that such a sum would never satisfy the expectations of the squatter.

"Wal, stranger," 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 refrained
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 improvements Mr Holt has made, a
hundred dollars would be a fair compensation."

"A hundred dollars?"

"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 long'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 not only be 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 pursession?" asked the outgoing tenant.

"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, ef 't 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 the enclosure.  I should have given him the touch to go
forward with more reluctance, 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?" 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 the crimson of its
corolla, as she flung the blossom 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?



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

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 bad been the
period of my absence, it had been marked by an incident of no ordinary
character.  That morning's mail had conveyed to the settlement the
intelligence of a rare and interesting event--the discovery of the _gold
placers_ of California.  I had heard rumours of this before--only half
believed, and not yet reaching to Swampville.  Returned emigrants from
California were now reported, as having arrived in Saint 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 marvellous
tale was no longer questioned, or doubted.  The mail had brought
newspapers from New Orleans and Saint 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 these populous
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
interest in the extraordinary intelligence; but the business men of the
place being equally startled out of their sobriety.  A "company" 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 Jackson sign upon the shores of the
Pacific.  Swampville was smitten with a golden mania, that seemed to
promise its speedy depopulation.

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 California 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 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
_brave_ 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 birds 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 especially upon
the encarmined blossom of the bignonia--now to me a symbol of the
sweetest sentiment.  The one most prized of all, I had carefully
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 buttonhole--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 Swampville--did something towards heightening 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
continuously 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 absolute loveliness, was piquant
from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic.  Additional
elements of attraction may have been: the _mise en scene_ that
surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so
rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the
equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview.
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.  Occupied with sweet
love-dreams, I had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of
life.  I had formed no plan for colonising--neither towards entering
upon possession, nor extending the "improvement" I had twice purchased.

Notwithstanding both purchase and payment, 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 recoiled 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 TWENTY NINE.

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 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 manufacture.

Though I had risen 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.  Nothing 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 displayed 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 entablature of the white trunk, presented a picture 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 distinctly 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
situations.  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 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
with white skin might have envied 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, ennobled 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 extend 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 unexpected, 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, 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 recognise 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 conversation; 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 conciliatory 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 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 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 Wingrove--which you remember I was witness
of.  I could not help overhearing--"

I was interrupted by another quick contemptuous exclamation, that
accompanied a glance of mingled vexation and scorn:--"You 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 wait her reply; "has anything happened?"

"Go, see 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 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 meaning, I would have intercepted her retreat; but
before I could recover from my unpleasant surprise, she had glided in
among the shrubbery, and disappeared from my sight.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

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 deceiving
me?

"Slayer of red panthers?  You may go, but only to grieve."

"Your bell-flower will 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 betokened 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 obtaining 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 words, 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.  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 obscured 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 the clouds or rain--lightning, thunder, or the
riven forest?  There was a cloud on my own heart--an electric rush
through my veins--of far more potent spell than the shadows of the sky,
or the coruscations 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 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 I had 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 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 Idyllian
damsel?  Was she, too, an arch creature--a coquette?  Had she bestowed
the blossom only to betray me?

I had 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 occupants 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 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.  _They were gone_!

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 surprise the queer character of the building, and how sadly it
needed repair.  But I was in no 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 benefiting a man about to be
turned out of his estate, than one just entering upon possession!



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

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 whither he had gone.
Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance,
but for the 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
whereabouts 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."

Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced
within me a presentiment 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 householder of Holt's condition; and had
the squatter 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.  I 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 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 memorandum-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 souvenir 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 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 pencil-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 thrilling, 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 joy!  Yes! both were present.  In that simple
inscript I had found cue for both: for there I learnt the ecstatic truth
that I was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my
love was lost to me for ever!  Words of welcome, and words of woe! how
could they be thus commingled?  Read them, and learn:

"To Edward 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.  O 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 beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is
a country 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 speaking 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 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 something else.  You are so different from the
others I have seen; and what you said to me 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.

"O 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 remember--

"Lilian Holt."

Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life!  Close to my bosom shall it
lie--that simple 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 prostrated by the
conflicting emotions.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

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 watchword, "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.  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 pencilled it was in deadly peril.  No--not _deadly_: it
was not of life; but of something fur dearer--to me a thousand times
more dear--her virgin honour.  Now comprehended I, in all their
diabolical 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 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 Stebbins, the _Mormon!  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 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 cruel, are ordinary epithets; and altogether too
weak 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 _ugly_
appellatives as your fancy may suggest; and be sure that your
portraiture will still fall short of the hideousness of the original.
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 _plebbishness_
disgusts the other.  Even the nomenclature, both of its offices and
office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ignoble origin.  The
names "twelves," "seventies," "deacons," "wifedoms," "Smiths" (Hiram and
Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, and the like--coupled as they are
with an affectation and imitation of Scripture phraseology--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 hypocrisy.

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 expected, furnish a large proportion of these
emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one Irish
goose in the whole 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 acute Yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in
reality this is his _role_ in the social system of Mormondom.  The
President or "High Priest and Prophet" himself, the Twelves and
Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, 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 impostors, if you will, but not fanatics.  The Mormon
fox is no fanatic: he is a _professor_ in the most emphatic sense of the
word, but not a _believer_.  His profession is absolute chicanery--he
has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine.

There are writers who have defended these _forbans_ of religion; and
some who have even spoken well of their system.  Captain Stansbury, the
explorer, has a good opinion of them.  The captain is at best but a
superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, 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 common impulse.  In the earlier times of the Mormon Church,
there were champions of the 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 garment was thrown off--being found too
inconvenient to be worn any longer.  There the motive for concealment
was removed, and the apology of a _spiritual-wifedom_ ceased to exist.
It came out in its carnal and sensual shape.  Polygamy was boldly
preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most
hideous shape; and the defenders of 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!  The storm!  What cared I for its fury?  Rain antediluvian would
not have stayed me in doors--not if it had threatened the drowning of
the world!



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

ANOTHER DUEL DETERMINED ON.

Into my saddle--off out of the clearing--away through the dripping
forest--on through the sweltering swamp, I hurried.  Up the creek was my
route--my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Wingrove.  Surely, in
such weather, I should find him at home?

It was natural I should seek the young backwoodsman.  In such an
emergency, I might count with certainty on having his advice and
assistance.  True, I anticipated no great benefit from either: for what
could either avail me?  The young man was helpless as myself; and had
similarly suffered.  This would secure me his sympathy; but what more
could he give?

After all, I did not reckon it as nothing.  The condolence of a friend
or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a
solace the heart intuitively seeks.  Confidence and sympathy are
consolatory virtues--even penance has its purpose.  I longed, therefore,
for a friend--one to whom I could confide my secret, and unbosom my
sorrow; and I sought that friend in the young backwoodsman.  I had a
claim upon him: he had made me the confidant of _his_ care--the
recipient of his heart confessed.  Little dreamed I at the time, I
should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness.

Fortune so far favoured me--I found him at home.  My arrival scarcely
roused him from a dejection that, I could perceive, was habitual to him.
I knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it--lest
it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host.  It
did not.  There was something truly noble in this conquest of courtesy
over the heart heavily laden--charged and engrossed with selfish care.
Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict.  I hesitated not to
confide my secret to such a man: I felt convinced that under the
buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman.  I told him the whole story
of my love--beginning with the hour in which I had left him.

The tale aroused him from his apathy--more especially the episode, which
related to my first meeting with Lilian, and the encounter that
followed.  As a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but
it was not altogether that.

The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some
such incident had he first won the favour of Marian.  As I approached
the _finale_ of the duel scene--that point where the stranger had
appeared upon the stage--I could perceive the interest of my listener
culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had pronounced ten
words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to
his feet, exclaiming as he did so--"Josh Stebbins!"

"Yes; it was he--I know it myself."

I continued the narrative; but I saw I was no longer listened to with
attention.  Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous
irregular strides.  Every now and then, I saw him glance towards his
rifle--that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his
eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design.  As soon as I
had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed--including
my departure from Swampville--I was again interrupted by the young
hunter--this time not by his speech but by an action equally
significant.  Hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle
from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced
loading it!

It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that
arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act.
Neither for squirrel nor coon--deer, bear, nor panther--was that rifle
being loaded!

"Where are you going?"  I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his
coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn.  "Only a bit down
the crik.  You'll excuse me, stranger, for leavin' o' ye; but I'll be
back in the twinklin' o' an eye.  Thar's a bit o' dinner for ye, if you
can eat cold deer-meat; an' you'll find somethin' in the old bottle
thar.  I won't be gone more'n a hour.  I reckon I won't."

The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which I observed without
being able to interpret.  I had my conjectures however.

"Can I not go with you?"  I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his
design.  "The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to
staying here alone.  If it is not some business of a private nature--"

"Thar's nothin' particularly private about it, stranger; but it's a
bizness I don't want you to be mixed up in.  I guess ye've got yur own
troubles now; 'ithout takin' share o' myen."

"If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you're going?"

"Welcome to know it, stranger.  I'm a-goin' _to kill Josh Stebbins_!"

"Kill Josh Stebbins?"

"Eyther that, or he shall kill me."

"Oh! nonsense!"  I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention--which I
had already half divined--than at the cool determined tone in which it
was declared.

"I've said it, stranger!  I've sworn it over an' over, an' it shell be
done.  'Taint no new notion I've tuk.  I'd detarmined on makin' him
fight long ago: for I'd an old score to settle wi' him, afore that 'un
you know o'; but I niver ked got the skunk to stan' up.  He allers tuk
care to keep out o' my way.  Now I've made up my mind he don't dodge me
any longer; an', by the Etarnal! if that black-hearted snake's to be
foun' in the settlement--"

"He is not to be found in the settlement."

"Not to be foun' in the settlement!" echoed the hunter, in a tone that
betrayed both surprise and vexation--"not to be foun' in the settlement?
Surely you ain't in earnest, stranger?  You seed him the day afore
yesterday!"

"True--but I have reason to think he is gone."

"God forbid!  But you ain't sure o' it?  What makes you think he air
gone?"

"Too sure of it--it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to
your cabin."

I detailed the events of the morning, which Wingrove had not yet heard;
my brief interview with the Indian maiden--her figurative prophecy that
had proved but two truthful.  I described the deserted dwelling; and at
last read to him the letter of Lilian--read it from beginning to end.

He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay.  Once or twice
only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression--"Poor little Lil!"

"Poor little Lil!" repeated he when I had finished.  "She too gone wi'
him!--just as Marian went six months ago!

"No--no!" he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed
the agony of his thoughts.  "No! it war different--altogether different:
_Marian went willin'ly_."

"How know you that?"  I said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling
him.

"Know it?  O stranger!  I'm sure o' it; Su-wa-nee sayed so."

"That signifies nothing.  It is not the truer of her having said so.  A
jealous and spiteful rival.  Perhaps the very contrary is the truth?
Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this, man?  Her father may have
influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be
himself under some singular influence--as if in dread of his saintly
son-in-law.  I noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this
conclusion."

"Thank ye, stranger, for them words!" cried the young hunter, rushing
forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand.  "It's the first bit o'
comfort I've had since Marian war tuk away!  I've heerd myself that Holt
war afeerd o' Stebbins; an' maybe that snake in the grass had a coil
about him somehow.  I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian's takin'
it so to heart, an' all about a bit o' a kiss--which I wudn't a tuk, if
the Indian hadn't poked her lips clost up to myen.  Lord o' mercy!  I'd
gie all I've got in the world, to think it war true as you've sayed."

"I have very little doubt of its being true.  I have now seen your
rival; and I think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free
will, have preferred him to you."

"Thank ye, stranger! it's kind in you to say so.  She's now married an'
gone: but if I thort thar had been _force_ used, I'd 'a done long ago
_what I mean to do now_."

"What is that?"  I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the
last words were spoken.  "Foller _him_, if it be to the furrest eend o'
the world!  Yes, stranger!  I mean it.  I'll go arter him, an' track him
out.  I'll find him in the bottom o' a Californey gold mine, or wherever
he may try to hide hisself; an', by the etarnal!  I'll wipe out the
score--both the old un and the new un--in the skunk's blood, or I'll
never set fut agin in the state o' Tennessee.  I've made up my mind to
it."

"You are determined to follow him?"

"Firmly detarmined!"

"Enough!  Our roads lie together!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A DEPARTURE IN A "DUG-OUT."

We were in perfect accord as to our course of action, as in our
thoughts.  If our motives were not similar, our enemy was the same.
Only was there a difference in our prospective designs.  Love was the
lure that beckoned me on; Wingrove was led by revenge.  To follow _him_,
and punish guilt, was the _metier_ of my companion; to follow _her_, and
rescue innocence, was the _role_ cast for me.  Though guided by two such
different passions, both were of the strongest of our nature--either
sufficient to stimulate to the most earnest action; and without loss of
time, we entered upon it in full determination to succeed.  I had
already formed the design of pursuit; and perhaps it was with the hope
of obtaining an associate and companion, that I had sought an interview
with the hunter.  At all events, this had been my leading idea.  His
expressed determination, therefore, was but the echo of my wish.  It
only remained for us to mould our design into a proper and practicable
form.

Though not much older than my new comrade, there were some things in
which I had the advantage of him.  I was his superior in experience.  He
acknowledged it with all deference, and permitted my counsels to take
the lead.  The exercise of partisan warfare--especially that practised
on the Mexican and Indian frontiers--is a school scarcely equalled for
training the mind to coolness and self-reliance.  An experience thus
obtained, had given mine such a cast; and taught me, by many a
well-remembered lesson, the truthfulness of that wise saw; "The more
haste the less speed."  Instead, therefore of rushing at once _in medias
res_, and starting forth, without knowing whither to go, my counsel was
that we should act with caution; and adopt some definite plan of
pursuit.  It was not the suggestion of my heart, but rather of my head.
Had I obeyed the promptings of the former, I should have been in the
saddle, hours before, and galloping somewhere in a westerly direction--
perhaps to find, at the end of a long journey only disappointment, and
the infallibility of the adage.

Taking counsel from my reason, I advised a different course of action;
and my comrade--whose head for his age was a cool one--agreed to follow
my advice.  Indeed, he had far less motive for haste than I.  Revenge
would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a
quiet heart was out of the question.  She whom I loved was not only in
danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the
victim of a dastard _coquin_--diabolic as dastard!  Suffering under the
sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the
self-restraining power of which I was possessed.  Had I but known _where
to go_, I should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant.
Not knowing, I was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to
restrain myself from the idle attempt.

That Holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the Mormon, we
knew: the letter told that.  That they had left the cabin was equally
known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was
still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be
accomplished.  If still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon
any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance of
_overtaking_ them.  But what after that?  Ah! beyond that I did not
trust myself to speculate.  I dared not discuss the future.  I refrained
from casting even a glance into its horoscope--so dark did it appear.  I
had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach.  That phrase
of fatal prophecy, "You will be too late--too late!" still rang in my
ears.  It had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty
interpretation of it.  Had not it also a figurative application? and did
it not signify I should be too late _in every sense_?

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

At what time had they taken their departure?  By what route? and upon
what road?  These were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope
of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure
itself--the deserted dwelling.  Thither we hied in all haste--prepared,
if need be, for a more distant expedition.  On entering the enclosure,
we dismounted, and at once set about examining the "sign."  My companion
passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge.  I had
hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on
perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind.  Even
the hoof-prints of my own horse--made but an hour before--were washed
full of mud, and scarcely traceable.

Had they gone upon horseback?  It was not probable: the house-utensils
could hardly have been transported that way?  Nor yet could they have
removed them in a wagon?  No road for wheels ran within miles of the
clearing--that to Swampville, as already stated, being no more than a
bridle-path; while the other "traces," leading up and down the creek,
were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle.

There was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we
arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe.  It was
clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it.  Wingrove well knew
the craft.  It was known as Holt's "dug-out;" and was occasionally used
as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as
passed that way.  It was sufficiently large to carry several at once--
large enough for the purpose of a removal.  The mode of their departure
was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already
suspecting it, we had still some doubts.  Had they gone off in any other
way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them.  But a
_conge_ in a canoe was a very different affair: man's presence leaves no
token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish
from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element--an
emblem of his own vain nothingness!



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

A DANGEROUS SWEETHEART.

Our conjectures as to the mode of their departure were at an end.  On
this point, we had arrived at a definite knowledge.  It was clear they
had gone off in the canoe; and with the current, of course: since that
would carry them in the direction they intended to travel.  The settling
of this question, produced a climax--a momentary pause in our action.
We stood upon the bank of the stream, bending our eyes upon its course,
and for a time giving way to the most gloomy reflections.  Like our
thoughts were the waters troubled.  Swollen by the recent rain-storm,
the stream no longer preserved its crystal purity; but in the hue of its
waters justified the name it bore.  Brown and turbid, they rolled past--
no longer a stream, but a rushing torrent--that spumed against the
banks, as it surged impetuously onward.  Trees torn up by the roots were
carried on by the current--their huge trunks and half-riven branches
twisting and wriggling in the stream, like drowning giants in their
death-struggle.  In the "sough" of the torrent, we heard their sighs--in
its roar, the groans of their departing spirits!

The scene was in unison with our thoughts; and equally so with the
laughter that at that moment sounded in our ears--for it was laughter
wild and maniac.  It was heard in the forest behind us; ringing among
the trees, and mingling its shrill unearthly echo with the roaring of
the torrent.  Both of us were startled at the sound.  Though the voice
was a woman's, I could see that it had produced on Wingrove a certain
impression of fear.  On hearing it, he trembled and turned pale.  I
needed no explanation.  A glance towards the forest revealed the cause.
A female form moving among the trees told me whence had come that
unexpected and ill-timed cachinnation.

"Lord o' mercy!" exclaimed my companion, "that Injun again!  She's been
arter me since that night, an' threatens to have a fresh try at takin'
my life.  Look out stranger!  I know she's got pistols."

"Oh!  I fancy there's not much danger.  She appears to be in the
laughing mood."

"It's jest that ere larf I don't like: she's allers wust when she's in
that way."

By this time the Indian had reached the edge of the clearing very near
the rear of the cabin.  Without pausing she sprang up on the fence--as
if to enter the enclosure.  This, however, proved not to be her
intention; for, on climbing to the topmost rail, she stood erect upon
it, with one hand clutching the limb of a tree, to keep her in position.
As soon as she had attained the upright attitude, another peal of
laughter came ringing from her lips, as wild as that with which she had
announced her approach; but there was also in its tones a certain
modulation that betokened scorn!  Neither of us uttered a syllable; but,
observing a profound silence, stood waiting to hear what she had to say.
Another scornful laugh, and her words broke forth:

"White Eagle! and proud slayer of red panthers! your hearts are troubled
as the stream on which your eyes are gazing!  Su-wa-nee knows your
sorrows.  She comes to you with words of comfort."

"Ah! speak them then!" said I, suddenly conceiving a hope.  "Hear you
that sound in the forest?"

We heard no sound, save that of the water grumbling and surging at our
feet.  We answered in the negative.  "You hear it not?  Ha, ha, ha!
where are your ears?  It is ringing in mine.  All day I have heard it.
Listen! there it is again!"

"She's a mockin' us," muttered my companion; "thar ain't no soun' in
partickler."

"No? we cannot hear it; you are mocking us," I rejoined, addressing
myself to the brown-skinned, sibyl.  "Ha! ha! ha!  It is _it_ that is
mocking you.  It mocks you, and yet it is not the mocking-bird.  It is
not the dove cooing gently to his mate, nor the screaming of the owl.
It is the cuckoo that mocks you! ha! ha! the cuckoo!  Now, do you hear
it, White Eagle?  Do _you_ hear it, proud slayer of red panthers?  Ha!
it mocks you both!"

"Oh! bother, girl!" exclaimed.  Wingrove in a vexed tone; "ye're a
talkin' nonsense."

"Truth, White Eagle--truth! the black snake has been in your nest; and
yours too, slayer of panthers!  He has wound himself around your pretty
birds, and borne them away in his coils--away over the great desert
plains--away to the Big Lake!  Ha, ha, ha!  In the desert, he will
defile them.  In the waters of the lake, he will drown them--ha, ha,
ha!"

"Them's yur words o' comfort, air they?" cried Wingrove, exasperated to
a pitch of fury.  "Durned if I'll bar sech talk!  I won't stan' it any
longer.  Clar out now!  We want no croakin' raven hyar.  Clar out! or--"

He was not permitted to finish the threat.  I saw the girl suddenly drop
down from her position on the fence, and glide behind the trunk of a
tree.  Almost at the same instant a light gleamed along the bank--which
might have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, had it not been
followed instantaneously by a quick crack--easily recognisable as the
report of a pistol!  I waited not to witness the effect; but rushed
towards the tree--with the design of intercepting the Indian.  The blue
smoke lingering in the damp air, hindered me from seeing the movements
of the girl; but, hurrying onward, I clambered over the fence.  Once on
the other side, I was beyond the cloud, and could command a view for a
score of yards or so around me; but, in that circuit, no human form was
to be seen!  Beyond it, however, I heard the vengeful, scornful, laugh,
pealing its unearthly echoes through the columned aisles of the forest!



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE HOROLOGE OF THE DEAD HORSE.

With inquiring eye and anxious heart, I turned towards the spot where I
had left my companion.  To my joy, he was still upon his feet, and
coming towards me.  I could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a
crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the
careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at
rest.  He was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound?  It
proved so in effect.  The bullet had passed through the muscular part of
the left forearm--only tearing the flesh.  The wound did not even
require a surgeon.  The haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my
experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few
days it would be certain to heal.

Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far
less than the words that preceded it.  The allegorical allusions were
but two well understood; and though they added but little to the
knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed
acerbity of spirit.  It affected me equally with my comrade--perhaps
more.  The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker
phase on the affair.  The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country,
where gold was dug out of the sand.--California, of course.  There was
no allusion to the Salt Lake--not one word about a migration to the
metropolis of the Mormons.  Su-wa-nee's speech, on the other hand,
clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter's journey!
How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a
mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest
myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true.  The
mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and
innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon
the means by which it may have been acquired.  For this reason gave I
weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl--though uttered only
to taunt, and too late to be of service.

The incident altered our design--only so far as to urge us to its more
rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once
more to the pursuit of the fugitives.  The first point to be ascertained
was the _time_ of their departure.

"If it wan't for the rain," said the hunter, "I ked a told it by thar
tracks.  They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin' thar
things to the dug-out.  The durned rain's washed 'em out--every footmark
o' 'em."

"But the horses? what of them?  They could not have gone off in the
canoe?"

"I war just thinkin' o' them.  The one you seed with Stebbins must a
been hired, I reck'n; an' from Kipp's stables.  Belike enuf, the skunk
tuk him back the same night, and then come agin 'ithout him; or Kipp
might a sent a nigger to fetch him?"

"But Holt's own horse--the old `critter,' as you call him?"

"That _diz_ need explainin'.  He _must_ a left him ahind.  He culdn't a
tuk _him_ in the _dug-out_; besides, he wan't worth takin' along.  The
old thing war clean wore out, an' wuldn't a sold for his weight in
corn-shucks.  Now, what ked they a done wi' him?"

The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer.  "Heigh!"
he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance.
"Yonder we'll find him!  See the buzzarts!  The old hoss's past prayin'
for, I'll be boun'."

It was as the hunter had conjectured.  A little outside the enclosure,
several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest
branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground.
On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old
horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic
sycamore.  He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad
red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal's throat,
showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!

"He's killed the crittur!" musingly remarked my companion as he pointed
to the gash; "jest like what he'd do!  He might a left the old thing to
some o' his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn't a been Hick
Holt to a did it.  He wan't partickler friendly wi' any o' us, an' least
o' all wi' myself--tho' I niver knew the adzact reezun o't, 'ceptin'
that I beat him once shootin', at a _barbecue_.  He war mighty proud a'
his shootin', an' that riled him, I reck'n: he's been ugly wi' me iver
since."

I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying--my attention being
occupied with a process of analytical reasoning.  In the dead horse, I
had found a key to the time of Holt's departure.  The ground for some
distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having
been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that
extended its leafy protection over the spot.  Thus sheltered, the body
lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating
"pool," had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards--
the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of
their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal.  All these were signs,
which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to
interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also
enabled him to read.  At the first question put to him, he comprehended
my meaning.

"How long think you since he was killed?"  I asked, pointing to the dead
horse.  "Ha! ye're right, stranger!" said he, perceiving the object of
the interrogatory.  "I war slack not to think o' that.  We kin easy find
out, I reck'n."

The hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to
the red gash in the neck.  In this he placed the tips of his fingers,
and kept them there.  He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise
and steadfast, as if listening.  Only for a few seconds did he remain in
this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination,
he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect:

"Good, by thunder!  The old horse hain't been dead 'bove a kupple o'
hours.  Look thar, stranger! the blood ain't froze?  I kin a'most fancy
thar's heat in his old karkiss yet!"

"You are sure he has been killed this morning?"

"Quite sure o't; an' at most three, or may be four hour agone.  See
thar!" he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop
again; "limber as a eel!  Ef he'd a been dead last night, the leg'd been
stiff long afore this."

"Quite true," replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse
had been slaughtered that morning.

This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the
time of the departure.  It told the _day_.  The hour was of less
importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of
reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation.  Holt must
have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us
believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour.  As far
as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and
perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing.
Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the
performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell.  There
was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was,
that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the
slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt's career in his
clearing upon Mud Creek.  Only one doubt remained.  Was it he who had
killed the animal?  I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee--
but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the
act.

"No, no!" replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this
head: "'twar Holt hisself, sartin.  He culdn't take the old hoss along
wi' him, an' he didn't want anybody else to git him.  Besides, the girl
hedn't no reezun to a did it.  She'd a been more likely to a tuk the old
critter to thar camp--seein' he war left behind wi' nobody to own him.
Tho' he wan't worth more'n what the skin 'ud fetch, he'd adone for them
ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin' thar traps an' things.  No, 'twan't
her, nor anybody else 'ceptin' Holt hisself--he did it?"

"If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us.  They cannot have
more than four hours the start.  You say the creek has a winding
course?"

"Crooked as a coon's hind leg."

"And the Obion?"

"Most part the same.  It curls through the bottom like the tail o' a
cur-dog; an' nigher the Massissippy, it don't move faster than a snail
'ud crawl.  I reck'n the run o' the river 'll not help 'em much.  The'll
hev a good spell o' paddlin' afore they git down to Massissippy; an' I
hope that durned Mormon 'll blister his ugly claws at it!"

"With all my heart!"  I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant
recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried
back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace
conducting to the mouth of the Obion.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

A LOOKOUT FROM ALOFT.

It cost us a fatiguing ride of nearly twelve hours' duration--most of it
along by-roads and bridle-paths--at intervals passing through tracts of
swampy soil, where our horses sank to the saddle-girths in mud.  We rode
continuously: stopping only once to recruit our horses at one of the
"stands," or isolated log hostelries--which are found upon the old
"traces" connecting the sparse settlements of the backwoods.  It was the
only one we saw upon our route; and at it we remained no longer than was
absolutely necessary to rest our wearied steeds, and put them in a
condition for the completion of the journey.  We knew the necessity of
haste.  Our only hope lay in being able to reach the mouth of the Obion
before the canoe could pass out of it.  Otherwise, our journey would be
in vain; and we should not only have our long ride for nothing, but
would be under the necessity of doubling the distance by riding back
again.

Along the route we found time to discuss the circumstances--both those
in our favour and against us.  The water-way taken by the canoe was far
from being direct.  Both the creek and the larger stream curved
repeatedly in their courses; and in ordinary times were of sluggish
current.  The freshet, however, produced by the late rain-storm, had
rendered it swifter than common; and we knew that the canoe would be
carried down with considerable rapidity--faster than we were travelling
on horseback.  On such roads, for so great a distance, fast travelling
was impossible; and could only have been accomplished at the risk of
killing our horses.  Mounted as I was, I might have made more of the
time; but I was under the necessity of slackening pace for my
companion--whose sorry steed constantly required waiting for.  Our sole
chance lay in our route being shorter, and in the circumstance that the
fugitives had not a very long start of us; but for all this the issue
was exceedingly doubtful; and by the nicest calculations, we were
satisfied we should have but little margin to spare.

I need hardly point out the importance of our arriving in time.  Should
the canoe get beyond the mouth of the Obion--without our seeing it--we
should be left undetermined as to whether they had gone _up_ the
Mississippi or _down_; and therefore altogether without a guide as to
our future movements.  In fact, we should be unable to proceed further
in the pursuit.  So far as the mouth of the Obion, their route was
fixed; and of course ours was also determined.  But beyond, it would be
on our part mere blind guessing; and, should evil chance conduct us in
the wrong direction, the result would be ruin to our prospects.  On the
other hand, could we but arrive in time--if only to see the canoe
entering the great river--and note which turning it took--our purpose
would be accomplished.  That is, our _present_ purpose; for beyond that
of ascertaining their route of travel across the plains, and their point
of destination, I had formed no plans.  To follow them wherever they
might go--even to the distant shores of the Pacific--to seek them
wherever they might settle--to settle beside them--beside _her_--these
were the ideas I had as yet but vaguely conceived.  All ulterior designs
were contingent on the carrying out of these, and still shrouded under
the clouded drapery of the ambiguous future.

The purposes of my travelling companion differed slightly from mine, and
were, perhaps, a little more definite.  His leading idea was a
settlement of old scores with Stebbins, for wrongs done to him--which he
now more particularly detailed to me.  They were sufficiently
provocative of revenge; and, from the manner of my comrade, and the vows
he occasionally uttered, I could perceive that he would be as eager in
the pursuit as myself.  In all probability, an encounter with the
migrating party would bring about an important change in their
programme: since the young hunter was determined, as he expressed
himself, "to force the durned skunk into a fight."

Inspired by such motives, we pressed on to the end of our journey; and
reached the mouth of the Obion, after a long and wearisome ride.  It was
midnight when we arrived upon the shore of the Mississippi--at its point
of confluence with the Tennessean stream.  The land upon which we stood
was scarcely elevated above the surface of the water; and covered, every
foot of it, with a forest of the cotton-wood poplar, and other
water-loving trees.  These extending along the marshy borders of both
streams, hindered us from having a view of their channels.  To obtain
this, it was necessary to climb one of the trees; and my comrade being
disabled, the task devolved upon me.  Dismounting, I chose one that
appeared easiest of ascent; and, clambering up it as high as I could
get, I fixed myself in a fork, and commenced duty as a vidette.

My position could not have been better chosen.  It afforded me a full
view, not only of the Obion's mouth, but also of the broad channel into
which it emptied--at their confluence, forming an expanse of water that,
but for its rolling current; might have been likened to a vast lake.
There was moonlight over the whole surface; and the erratic ripples were
reflected in sparkling coruscations--scarcely to be distinguished from
the gleaming of the "lightning bugs," that hovered in myriads along the
hedges of the marsh.  Both banks of the lesser stream were draped to the
water's edge with an unbroken forest of cotton-woods--the tops of which
exhibiting their characteristic softness of outline, were unstirred by
the slightest breeze.  Between rolled the brown waters of the Obion, in
ruder, grander flow, and with channel extended by the freshet.  Every
inch of it, from side to side, was under my observation--so completely,
that I could distinguish the smallest object that might have appeared
upon its surface.  Not even the tiniest waif could have escaped me--much
less a canoe freighted with human beings; and containing that fairer
form, that would be certain to secure the keenest and most eager glances
of my eye.

I congratulated myself on reaching this perch.  I perceived that a
better post of observation could not have been chosen.  It was complete
for the purpose; and, if I could only have felt sure that we had arrived
in time, all would have been satisfactory.  Time alone would determine
the point; and, turning my eyes up stream, I entered upon my earnest
vigil.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE WHITE FOG.

Vain vigil it proved.  I shall not tire the reader with details.
Suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning's dawn; and then,
profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of
observation, where we continued our surveillance--watching and sleeping
in turn.  Throughout the following day, and into the second, was our
vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed
finally to abandon it.  But for one circumstance, we might have felt
surprise at the result.  We were both convinced that we had reached the
river's mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could
not possibly have "headed" us.  But for the same circumstance, we might
have believed, that they had not yet come down the Obion; and perhaps
would have remained at our post a day longer.

The explanation is this: On the first night of our watch, a few hours
after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen
upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both.  It was the _white
fog_--a well-known phenomenon of the Mississippi--that often extends its
dangerous drapery over the bosom of the "Father of Waters:" a thing of
dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream.  On
that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my
position near the top of the tree I was entirely clear of its vapoury
disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy cumuli floating gently
over the surface--white and luminous under the silvery moonlight.  The
moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen
as clearly as ever.  The water-surface alone was hidden from my sight--
the very thing I was most anxious to observe.  As if by some envious
demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as
the fog had fairly unfurled itself, I fancied I could hear the dipping
of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream.
Moreover, gazing intently into the mist--as yet thin and filmy--I
fancied I saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes
of human forms outlined above it--just as of a canoe _en profile_ with
passengers in it.  I even noted the number of the upright forms: three
of them--which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were
expecting.  So certain was I at the moment, of seeing all this, that I
need not have shouted to assure myself.  Excited with over-eagerness, I
did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer.  My
summons produced not the desired effect.  On the contrary, it seemed to
still the slight plashing I had heard; and, before the echoes of my
voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight--
having passed under thick masses of the floating vapour.  Over and over,
I repeated my summons--each time changing the form of speech, and each
time with like fruitless effect!  The only answer I received was from
the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the
fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree.
Whether the forms I had seen were real--or only apparitions conjured up
by my excited brain--they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the
very next moment, I inclined to the belief that my senses had been
deceiving me!

From that time, my comrade and I were uncertain; and this, uncertainty
will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and
why we waited no longer for its coming.  The most probable conjectures
were that it had passed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and
they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the Mississippi--no
longer trusting to such a frail craft, but passengers on one of the
numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite
directions, we had seen passing the mouth of the Obion.

In all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of
Tennessee; and we felt sufficiently assured of this.  But the more
important point remained undetermined--whether they had gone northward
or southward--whether by the routes of the Missouri or those of the
Arkansas?  Upon this question we were as undecided as ever.  At that
season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern
route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at
once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring.  I knew,
moreover, that the Mormons had their own "trains," and ways of
travelling; and that several new routes or "trails" had been discovered
during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for Oregon
and California, and by the Mormons themselves.  This knowledge only
complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision.
Thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further.  Our only
hope lay in returning to Swampville.  And whence this hope?  What was to
be expected in Swampville?  Who was there in that village of golden
dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love?  No one--no human
being.  The index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a
letter!  Assuredly, I had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet
sweetly expressed: "If I thought you would like to know where we are
gone, I would write to you;" and again: "If you will allow me, I will
send a letter to Swampville, _from the first place we come to_, to tell
you where we are going."  Oh! that I could have told her how much I
"would like to know," and how freely she had my permission to write!
Alas! that was impossible.  But the contingencies troubled me not much;
I was full of hope that she would waive them.  Communicating this hope
to my companion, we rode back to Swampville: with the design of laying
siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the
promised epistle.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE PROMISED EPISTLE.

Under any circumstances, a return to Swampville would have been
necessary: certain pecuniary requirements called me back to that
interesting village.  A journey, even across the desert, cannot be made
without money; and the hundred dollars I had paid to Holt, with hotel
and other incidental outlays, had left me with a very light purse.  It
would have taken three times as much as I was master of, to provide us
with the scantiest equipment required for a prairie journey; and toward
this the young hunter, willing to give his all, was able to contribute
nothing.  He would cheerfully have parted with his patrimony--as I with
my purchase--for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the
Californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and
neither his clearing nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had
the payment been required in cash.  A credit sale could not have served
us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our depreciated
property--upon which not a single cent could be borrowed.

Never stood I in more need of my Nashville friend; and my appeal,
already made, was promptly responded to--as I expected it would be.  On
the third day after my despatch, the answer arrived--with a handsome
enclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if
need be.  We were now ready for the road.  We waited only for that other
letter, that was to be the index to our destination.

How we passed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth
describing.  We enjoyed the hospitality of the Jackson hotel; and
contrived to escape the _espieglerie_ of its husband-hunting denizens,
by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest.  During the whole time,
we went not near our respective "plantations" on Mud Creek.  Wingrove
had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and I had no inclination
to trust myself to its souvenirs.  Moreover, the hours of the mail-rider
were neither fixed nor regular; and on this account I avoided a
prolonged absence from the post-office.

Six days of this expectancy I endured--six days of alternate hope and
doubt--the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement
of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts!  More than
once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to
launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean--trusting to chance to guide
us to the haven of our hopes.  On the sixth day we had determined upon
it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the
seventh.  The seventh proved the day of joy.  Our doubts were dispelled.
The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of
the expected epistle!  My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet
from the hands of the postmaster.  He must have observed my emotion--
though I did not open the letter in his presence.  The superscription
was enough to tell me from whom it came.  I had studied the fac-simile
of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and
could therefore recognise it at a glance.  I did not even break open the
envelope till we were upon the road.  The post-mark, "_Van Buren,
Arkansas_," sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and
not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were _en route_
for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal.  The address was
simply as before: "To Edward Warfield;" and so to the apostrophic
commencement: "Stranger!"  I could have wished for some less distant
word--some familiar phrase of endearment, but I was contented--for I
knew that Lilian's too recent love had lacked the opportunity of
learning its language.  Before it had time to achieve the employment of
those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted.
Thus ran the letter:

"Stranger!--I hope you got my other letter, and that you were able to
read it, for I had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better--only
a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother's, and a leaf which father
said you tore out of a book.  But I think I could have wrote it better,
only I was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and I
wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on
the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the
canoe.  I thought no one would come to the house before you, and I hoped
all the morning you might come before we were gone.  I would have given
a great deal to have been able to see you again; and I think father
would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay
longer, but hurried us away.  But I hope you got the letter, and that
you will not be offended at me for writing this one I send you, without
your leave.  I promised that if you would allow me, I would write from
some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but
I forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as you
could not see me, nor yet know where to write it to me.  I now know what
country it is, for everybody we have seen is talking about it, and
saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big
as hickory nuts; and I hear the name a many a time, over and over again.
Father calls it `Californey,' and some `California,' and this, I
suppose, is the right way of spelling it.  It is near a great sea, or
ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at
Philadelphia and New York, but far greater and bigger than the
Mississippi and the Obion, and all the rivers put together.  It must be
a very large sea to be bigger than the Mississippi!  But I am sure you
must know all about it, for I have heard them say you have travelled in
these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and
had been fighting there with the Mexicans.  I am glad you were not
killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been
killed, I should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if I am
never to see you again.  O sir!  I would write to you from that country
when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then,
and will not care to hear anything more about us.

"I shall never forget our dear Tennessee.  I am very sorry at leaving
it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold--
for what good can gold be to me?  I should so like to hear sometimes
from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the
only one we knew is gone away like ourselves.

"Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us--only a very short letter,
to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made
it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father
say you intended to do.  I shall always like to hear that you are in
good health, and that you are happy.

"I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us.  At the
mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time--for
we travelled all that night--we heard some one shouting to us, and O
Sir! it was so like your voice that I trembled when I heard it, for it
appeared as if it came down out of the clouds.  It was a thick mist, and
we could see no one; but for all that, I would have cried out, but
father would not let me speak.  It appeared to be right above our heads;
and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree.  I
suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it
had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made
me wonder all the more.

"We arrived at this place yesterday.  It is a large town on the Arkansas
river: and we came to it in a steam-boat.  From here we are to travel in
a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a `caravan,'
and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the
journey.  It is a long time to wait before I can write again, for there
are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a letter.  But
though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words
you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute.  In one of my
mother's books which I brought with me, I have read a pretty piece.  It
is in poetry; and it is so like what I have been thinking of you, that I
have learnt it off by heart.  It is so true-like and so pretty a piece
that I thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you,
I write it at the end of my letter, which I fear I have already made too
long; but I hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read
the poetry:--

  "I think of thee when Morning springs
  From sleep with plumage bathed in dew;
  And like a young bird lifts her wings
  Of gladness on the welkin blue.
  And when at noon the breath of love
  O'er flower and stream is wandering free,
  And sent in music from the grove--
  I think of thee--I think of thee!

  "I think of thee, when soft and wide
  The Evening spreads her robe of light,
  And like a young and timid bride,
  Sits blushing in the arms of Night.
  And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
  In light or heaven's deep, waveless sea,
  And stars are forth like blessed things--
  I think of thee--I think of thee!

"O sir! it is very, very true!  I do think of you, and I am sure I shall
do so as long as I live.

"Lilian Holt."

Ah, Lilian!  I too think of thee, and thy sweet song!  Simple, but
suggestive words.  Knew I but where to address thee, you should know how
responsive to them are the echoes of my heart!



CHAPTER FORTY.

THE CARAVAN.

We rode on to Memphis as rapidly as our horses could travel--far too
slow for our desires.  Thence a steam-boat carried us to Little Rock,
and another to Van Buren.  Many days had been consumed while waiting for
each boat--so many that on arriving at Van Buren, we found that the
caravan had the start of us by full two weeks!  Its probable route we
ascertained without any difficulty--up along the Arkansas to the Rocky
Mountains, through the valley of the Huerfano, and the passes Robideau
and Coochetopa--thence across the head waters of the Colorado, and by
the old Spanish trail to California.  It was principally a caravan of
gold-seekers: adventurers of all nations.  Even Indians had gone with
it--of the half-civilised tribes of the frontier--red and white equally
tempted by the yellow attractions spread out for them in California.
Though large, it was what is termed a "light train"--having more
pack-animals than waggons.  On this account, it would make way all the
faster; and unless delayed by some accident, we might be a long time in
coming up with it.  It was not without a large measure of vexation that
we learnt how far it had got the start of us.

I should have submitted with less resignation to the necessary delays,
but that my mind had been to some extent tranquillised by the contents
of Lilian's letter.  They had inclined me to the belief that the
emigrants were simply _en route_ for California--as was all the world
just then--and that the Mormon was, after all, not so strong in his new
faith as to resist the universal golden lure.  His design in taking the
squatter with him might be merely of a secular character--having for its
object the securing of a partner, in whose brawny arms the wash-pan and
rocker might be handled to advantage.  That they whom we sought were
gone with the caravan, we were soon satisfied.  Holt was too marked a
man to have escaped observation, even in a crowd of rough squatters like
himself; but more than one eye had rested upon his fair daughter that
longed to look upon her again.  _Her_ traces were easily told--as
testified by the answers to my shy inquiries.  Like some bright meteor,
whose tract across the heavens remains marked by its line of luminous
phosphorescence, her radiant beauty was remembered.  I needed not to
inquire of her.  Scarcely a coterie of which she was not the subject of
conversation--to my infinite jealousy and chagrin.  Not that aught was
said of her, that should have given rise to such feelings: they were but
the offspring of love's selfishness.

Not long had I to submit to such torture.  Our stay in Van Buren was of
the shortest.  In less than twenty hours after our arrival in the
village, we took our departure from it--turning our faces towards the
almost limitless wilderness of the west.  I had endeavoured to add to
our company but without success.  The caravan had cleared Van Buren of
its unemployed population; and not an idler remained--at least not one
who felt inclined to adventure with us.  Even the needy "loafer" could
not be induced to try the trip--deeming ours too dangerous an
expedition.  To say the least, it was reckless enough; but impelled by
motives far more powerful than the thirst of gold, my comrade and I
entered upon our journey with scarce a thought about its perils.  The
only addition to our company was a brace of stout pack-mules, that
carried our provisions and other _impedimenta_; while the old horse of
the hunter had been replaced by a more promising roadster.

It would be idle to detail the incidents of a journey across the
prairies.  Ours differed in no way from hundreds of others that have
been made, and described--except, perhaps, that after reaching the
buffalo range, we travelled more by night than by day.  We adopted this
precaution simply to save our scalps--and along with them our lives--
since the buffalo range--especially upon the Arkansas--is peculiarly the
"stamping" ground of the hostile savage.  Here may be encountered the
Pawnee and Comanche, the Kiowa and Cheyenne, the Waco and fierce
Arapaho.  Though continually engaged in internecine strife among
themselves, all six tribes are equally enemies to the pale-faced
intruders on their domain.  At this time they were said to be especially
hostile--having been irritated by some late encounters with parties, of
ill-behaved emigrants.  It was not without great peril, therefore, that
we were passing through their territory; and what we had heard, before
leaving Van Buren, had made us fully conscious of the risk we were
running.

To meet with one of the hunting or war-parties of these Indians, might
not be certain death; but certain they would be to disarm and _dismount_
us; and that, in the midst of the great prairie ocean, is a danger that
often conducts to the same _denouement_.  It was not preference, then,
but precaution, that led us to adopt the "secret system" of travelling
by night.  Our usual plan was to lie by during the day or for the
greater part of it, concealed in some selected cover--either among rocks
or copsewood.  By stealing to a conspicuous eminence, we were enabled to
view the route ahead of us, and map out our journey for the night.  Upon
this we would enter an hour or two before sundown: for then the Indian
hunter has returned to his encampment, which can be easily avoided, by
seeing its smoke from afar.  We often saw their smokes, and more than
once the Indians themselves; but were never seen by them--so cautiously
did we carry out our measures.

In this fashion we "groped" our way with considerable rapidity.  Guided
by the waggon tracks--especially when there was a moon--we could travel
almost as fast as by daylight.  Only upon dark nights was our progress
retarded; but, notwithstanding every impediment, we were enabled to
travel faster than the caravan, and we knew that we were rapidly gaining
upon it.  We could tell this by the constantly freshening trail; but we
had a more accurate criterion in _the count of the camps_.  By the
number of these, we knew to a certainty that we were approaching the
caravan.  We were in high hopes of being able to come up with it, before
it should enter the mountain-passes--more dangerous to the traveller
than even the plains themselves: because at that season more beset by
bands of marauding savages.  Under the influence of these hopes, we were
pressing forward, with all the haste it was in our power to make; when
our journey was varied by an incident of a somewhat unexpected
character.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

AN UN-PRAIRIE-LIKE APPARITION.

The incident referred to occurred high up the Arkansas, at the
celebrated grove known as the "Big Timbers."  We had started about two
hours before sundown, and were riding in a due westerly direction, over
a "rolling" prairie--the ridges of which, as ill-luck would have it, ran
transversely to our course: causing the path to be constantly going
upward or downward.  It was not this that troubled us; but the fact
that, as we crested each swell, we were freshly exposed to observation
from a distance; and this recurring so often, kept us continuously on
the alert.

Once or twice, we thought of halting again till after the sun had gone
down: for we knew that we were treading upon dangerous ground; but,
failing to perceive any fresh Indian sign, we gave way to our
irresolution, and continued on.  We proceeded with caution, however:
always ascending in stealthy silence, and peeping carefully over the
ridges before crossing them.  After reconnoitring the intervening
valleys, we would ride rapidly across, to make up the time we had lost
in our reconnoissance.  In this way we had travelled some eight or ten
miles--until the sun was so far down, that his lower limb rested on the
horizon.  We were ascending a ridge, and had got our eyes on a level
with its crest, when upon the face of another ridge--about half a mile
further on--we beheld two forms outlined against the declivity.  We saw
that they were human forms; and that they were Indians was our first
thought; but a moment's observation convinced us we were in error.  They
were afoot--Indians would have been on horseback.  There was no floating
drapery about their bodies--Indians would have had something of this
sort; besides there were other circumstances observable in their figures
and movements, that negatived the supposition of their being red-skins.
They were singularly disproportioned in size: one appearing at least a
foot the taller, while the shorter man had twice this advantage in
girth!

"What, in Old Nick's name, kin they be?" inquired my companion--though
only in soliloquy, for he saw that I was as much puzzled as himself.
"Kin ye make 'em out wi' your glass, capt'n?"  I chanced to have a small
pocket-telescope.  Adopting the suggestion, I drew it forth, and
levelled it.  In another instant, I had within its field of vision a
tableau that astonished me.

The figures composing it were but two--a very tall man, and a very short
one.  Both were dressed in round-about jackets and trousers.  One, the
shorter, had a little dark cap upon his head; while the height of the
taller man was increased full ten inches, by what appeared to be a black
silk or beaver hat.  The cut of their respective costumes was nearly the
same; but the colour was entirely different--the tall personage being
all over of a bottle-green tint, while his shorter companion shone more
conspicuously in sky-blue.  Notwithstanding their vivid colours, neither
costume had anything Indian about it: nor was it like any other sort of
"rig" that one might expect to encounter upon the prairies.  What
fashion it was, did not occur to me at the moment; for the sun, glancing
upon the object-glass of the telescope, hindered me from having a fair
view.  Moreover, my attention was less directed to the dress of the men,
than to their movements.  The backs of both were towards us; and they
were going forward in the same direction as ourselves.  The tall man was
in the lead, carrying what appeared to be two guns--one over his left
shoulder, and another in his right hand.  He was advancing in slow
irregular strides, his thin body slightly stooped forward, and his long
neck craned out in front of him as if trying to look over the ridge,
whose crest he was just approaching.  The short man was some half-dozen
paces in the rear; and moving in a fashion altogether different.  His
body was bent against the hill at an angle of less than forty-five
degrees with the horizon; and his short stout legs were playing in rapid
steps, as if keeping time to a treadmill!  He appeared to be pushing
something before him; but what it was, I could not guess: since it was
completely covered by the disc of his body spread broadly against the
hill.  It was not till he had reached the summit, and made a slight turn
along the ridge, that I saw what this object was.  The exclamation of
ludicrous surprise, that escaped my companion, told me that he had also
made it out.  "Good gosh, capt'n!" cried he, "look yander!  Consarn my
skin! ef 't ain't a _wheelberra_!"  A wheelbarrow it certainly was: for
the two men were now traversing along the top of the ridge, and their
bodies from head to foot, were conspicuously outlined against the sky.
There was no mistaking the character of the object in the hands of the
shorter individual--a barrow beyond the shadow of a doubt--trundle and
trams, box, body, and spoke-wheel complete!

The sight of this homely object, in the midst of the savage prairies,
was as ludicrous as unexpected; and we might have hailed it with roars
of laughter, had prudence permitted such an indecorous exhibition.  As
it was, my companion _chuckled_ so loudly, that I was compelled to
caution him.  Whether my caution came too late, and that the laughter
was heard, we could not tell; but at that moment the tall pedestrian
looked back, and we saw that he had discovered us.  Making a rapid sign
to his companion, he bounded off like a startled deer; and, after a
plunge or two, disappeared behind the ridge--followed in full run by the
man with the wheelbarrow!  One might have supposed that the fright would
have led to the abandonment of the barrow.  But no: it was taken along--
hurried out of our sight in an instant--and in the next, both man and
machine disappeared as suddenly as if some trap had admitted them into
the bowels of the earth!  The singular fashion of their flight--the long
strides taken by the gander-like leader, and the scrambling attempt at
escape made by the barrow-man--produced a most comic effect.  I was no
longer able to restrain myself, but joined my companion in loud and
repeated peals of laughter.

In this merry mood, and without any apprehension of danger, we advanced
towards the spot where the odd figures had been seen.  Some broken
ground delayed us; and as half a mile of it had to be passed over, we
were a considerable time in reaching the summit of the hill.  On
arriving there, and looking over the swell, behind which they had
disappeared, neither tall nor short man was to be seen.  A timbered
valley lay beyond: into this they had evidently escaped.  The track of
the wheelbarrow, where it had pressed down the grass, alone indicated
their recent presence upon the spot--as it did also the direction they
had taken.  Their retreating from us was easily accounted for: they
could have seen only the tops of our heads, and had no doubt taken us
for Indians!



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

A FOOT OF THIRTEEN INCHES.

The presence of the wheelbarrow explained a point that had been puzzling
us for some days.  We had fallen upon its track more than once, and
supposed it to have been made by the wheel of a cart; but in no instance
being able to find the corresponding one, had given it up as a hopeless
enigma.  The only explanation we had succeeded in offering ourselves
was: that some light cart had accompanied the caravan--the load of
which, being badly balanced, had thrown the weight upon one wheel,
allowing the other to pass over the ground without making an impression.
As it was only on dry grass we had traced it, this explanation had
sufficed--though far from being satisfactory.  Neither my companion nor
myself ever thought of a wheelbarrow.  Who would, in such a place?

"In the name o' Old Nick, who kin they be?" asked Wingrove, as we halted
on the ridge, where the fugitives had been last seen.  "I'm not without
my suspicions," I replied, just then thinking of a peculiarity that had
but slightly occupied my attention--the cut and colour of their dresses.
"If I am not mistaken, the two shy birds that have fled from us are a
brace of uncle Sam's eagles."

"Sojers?"

"In all probability, and `old sojers' at that."

"But what 'ud sojers be a doin' out hyar?"

"Travelling to California, like ourselves."

"Desarters, may be?"

"Just what I suspect.  No doubt the pair have slipped off from some of
the frontier posts; and having no opportunity to provide themselves with
a better means of transport, have brought the wheelbarrow with them.  It
is ludicrous enough, but by no means improbable.  There are some queer
customers in the service of Uncle Sam."

"I think there be--ha, ha, ha!  What shed we do, capt'n?  Hedn't we
better catch up to 'em?"

"That, comrade, may be easier said than done.  If they're deserters--and
they must be, if they're soldiers at all--they'll take precious good
care not to let any one come near them, if they can help it.  The escort
that accompanies the train will account for their not being along with
it.  If they've caught a glimpse of my buttons, they'll be _cached_ by
this time."

"They only seed our heads.  I reck'n they tuk us for Injuns?"

"In that case, they'll hide from us all the same--only a little more
cunningly."

"Consarn their sojer skins!  Ef they war as cunnin' as a kupple o'
possums, they can't a hide the track o' the berra; an' so long's they
keep in the timber, I kalklate I kin lift thar trail.  I reck'n I ain't
quite forgot how: though I am bamfoozled a bit by these hyar parairies--
consarn them!  Ah! them woods, capt'n! it diz one good to look at 'em!"

The eyes of the young hunter sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke.  It
was a real forest that was before us--a large tract covered with
gigantic cotton-wood trees, and the only thing deserving the name of
forest we had seen for many days.  As my companion stood gazing upon it,
I could trace upon his countenance a joyous expression, that rarely
appeared there.  The sight of the "Big Timbers" recalled to him the
forests of his own Tennessee--with happy memories of other times.  They
were not unmingled with shadows of regret: as I could tell by the change
that came stealing over his features.

"We must try to overtake them," said I, without answering to the
ebullition.  "It is important for us to come up with them.  Even if they
be deserters, they are white men; and all whites are friends here.  They
muster two guns; and if these fellows are what I take them to be, they
know how to handle them.  We must follow them: there's no time to be
lost."

"Ye're right thar, capt'n!  The night's a comin' down fast.  It's
a'ready gettin' dark; an' I'm afeerd it'll be tough trackin' under the
timber.  If we're to catch up wi' them the night, we hain't a minnit to
spare."

"Let us forward then!"

Crossing the ridge, we descended rapidly on the other side--the track of
the wheel guiding us in a direct line to the nearest point of the woods.
We could tell that the barrow had been trundled down the hill at top
speed--by the manner in which the iron tire had abraded the surface of
the slope.  We had no difficulty in following the trace as far as the
edge of the timber, and for some distance into it: but there, to our
great surprise, the wheel-track abruptly ended!  It was not that we had
lost it by its having passed over dry or rocky ground.  On the contrary,
around the spot where it so suddenly disappeared, the surface was
comparatively soft; and even an empty barrow would have made an
impression sufficiently traceable, either by my companion or myself.

After beating about for some time, and extending our circle to the
distance of a hundred yards or so, we failed to recover the sign.
Certainly the barrow had not gone farther--at all events, not upon its
trundle.  Instinctively, we turned our eyes upward--not with any
superstitious belief that the fugitives had made a sudden ascent into
the air.  But the idea had occurred to us, that they might have hidden
themselves in a tree, and drawn the barrow up into it.  A single glance
was sufficient to satisfy us that this conjecture was erroneous.  The
thin foliage of the cotton-woods offered no cover.  A squirrel could
hardly have concealed itself among their branches.

"I've got it!" exclaimed the hunter, once more seeking along the
surface.  "Hyar's thar tracks; tho' thar ain't no signs of the berra.  I
see how they've blinded us.  By gosh! thar a kupple o' cunnin' old
coons, whosomever they be."

"How have they managed it?"

"Tuk up the machine on thar shoulders, an' toted it thataway!  See!
thar's thar own tracks!  They've gone out hyar--atween these two trees."

"Right, comrade--that appears to be the way they've done it.  Sure
enough there is the direction they have taken."

"Well! ef I wan't bothered wi' these hyar animals, I ked follow them
tracks easy enough.  We'd soon kum upon the wheel agin, I reck'n: they
ain't a-goin' to travel fur, wi' a hump like thet on thar shoulders."

"No; it's not likely."

"Wal, then, capt'n, s'pose we leave our critters hyar, an' take arter
'em afut?  We kin quarter the groun' a good bit ahead; an I guess we'll
eyther kum on them or thar berra afore long."

I agreed to this proposal; and, after securing our four quadrupeds to
trees, we started off into the depth of the woods.  Only for a short
distance were we able to make out the footsteps of the men: for they had
chosen the dry sward to walk upon.  In one place, where the path was
bare of grass, their tracks were distinctly outlined; and a minute
examination of them assured me of the correctness of my conjecture--that
we were trailing a brace of runaways from a military post.  There was no
mistaking the print of the "regulation" shoe.  Its shape was impressed
upon my memory as plainly as in the earth before my eyes; and it
required no quartermaster to recognise the low, ill-rounded heel and
flat pegged soles.  I identified them at a glance; and saw, moreover,
that the feet of both the fugitives were encased in the same cheap
_chaussure_.  Only in size did the tracks differ; and in this so widely,
that the smaller was little more than two-thirds the length of the
larger one!  The latter was remarkable for size--not so much in its
breadth as length, which last was not less than thirteen standard
inches!

On noting this peculiarity, my companion uttered an exclamation of
astonishment.  "Thar's a fut, an' no mistake!" cried he.  "I reck'n
'twar Long-legs as made them tracks.  Well! ef I hedn't seed the man
hisself, I'd a swore thar war giants in these parts!"

I made no reply, though far more astonished than he.  My astonishment
sprang from a different source; and was mixed up in my mind with some
old memories.  _I remembered the foot_!



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

TRACKING THE TRUNDLE.

Yes, I had seen that foot before; or one so very like it, that the
resemblance was cheating me.  This could hardly be.  With the exception
of its fellow, the foot of which I was thinking could have no
counterpart on the prairies: it must be the same?  At first, my
recollections of it were but vague.  I remembered the foot associated
with some ludicrous incidents; but what they were, or when and where
they had occurred, I could not say.  Certainly I had seen it somewhere;
but where?  No matter: the foot recalled no unpleasant associations.  I
felt satisfied it was a _friendly_ one; and was now more anxious than
ever of overtaking its sesquipedalian owner.

After proceeding a short distance, the shoe-tracks again became too
indistinct to be followed farther.  By quartering, however, we came upon
them once more--at a place where the impressions were deep and clearly
defined.  Once more the immense foot rose upon the _retina_ of my
memory--this time more vividly--this time enabling me to _place_ it: for
I now remembered many an odd incident that had secured it a corner on
the page of my recollections.  Sticking through a stirrup with an
enormous Mexican Spur on its heel--its owner mounted on a horse thin and
rawboned as himself--I remembered the foot, as well as the limbs and
body to which it was attached.  Beyond a doubt, the tall fugitive we
were following was an old fellow campaigner--a veteran of the "Rifle
Rangers!"

The figure, as seen through the telescope, confirmed me in the belief.
The long limbs, arms, and neck--the thin, angular body--all were
characteristics of the bodily architecture of Jephthah Bigelow.  I no
longer doubted that the taller of the two men was my old follower "Jeph
Bigelow," or "Sure-shot," as his Ranger comrades had christened him; and
appropriate was the designation--for a surer shot than Jeph never looked
through the hind-sights of a rifle.  Who the little man might turn out
to be, I could not guess--though I was not without some recollections of
a figure resembling his.  I remembered a certain Patrick, who was also a
"mimber of the corpse," and whose _build_ bore a close resemblance to
that of him seen between the trams of the barrow.  My conjecture as to
who the men were, increased my desire to overtake them.  If the tall man
should turn out to be Sure-shot, a rifle would be added to our strength
worth a dozen ordinary guns; and, considering the risk we were running--
in danger of losing our scalps every hour in the day--it was of no small
importance that we should join company with the deserters.

We made every exertion, therefore, to come up with them--my comrade
employing all the lore of the backwoods, in his effort to recover their
traces.  The new footmarks we had discovered, though lost the instant
after, had served one good purpose.  They indicated the general
direction which the two men had followed; and this was an important
point to be ascertained.  We found another index in the trees.  These in
most places stood thickly together; and it was only here and there that
an object of such breadth as a wheelbarrow could pass _conveniently_
between their trunks.  Carried upon the shoulders, it would be an
awkward load with which to squeeze through any tight place; and it was
reasonable to conclude that only the more open aisles of the forest
would be followed.  This enabled us to make pretty sure of the route
taken; and, after trusting to such guidance for several hundred yards,
we had the satisfaction to light once more upon the shoe-tracks.  Again
only a short distance were we able to follow them; but they confirmed
our belief that we were still on the right trail.  My comrade had
suggested that the man who carried the barrow "wud soon tire o' totin'
it:" and this proved to be the case.  On striking into an old
buffalo-path, our eyes were once more gladdened by the sight of the
wheel-track--plainly imprinted in the mud.

"Our prospecting" was for the time at an end.  The barrow-track
continued along the buffalo-path; and we were able to follow it, almost
as fast as our legs could carry us.  Even after it had grown too dark
for us to see the track of the wheel, we were not disconcerted.  We
could follow it by the _feel_--stooping only at intervals to make sure
that it was still among our feet.  In this way we had travelled, to the
full distance of a mile from the place where our horses had been left,
when all at once the barrow-track gave out.  The buffalo-path continued
on; but no barrow had passed over it, unless carried as before.  This
was improbable, however; and we were forced to the conclusion, that the
two men had turned off, by some side-path we had not observed.

While looking for this, a sound reached our ears, that resembled the
murmur of a distant waterfall; but, listening more attentively, we could
distinguish in it a different intonation.  We at once moved in the
direction whence the noise came; and before we had advanced a hundred
yards through the thickly standing trees, we were aware that what we
heard was the sound of human voices.  Another hundred yards brought us
within hearing of words--at the same time that a luminous reflection
cast upwards upon the trees, indicated that there was a fire at no great
distance off.  The underwood hindered us from seeing the fire; but
guided by its gleam, we continued to advance.  After making another long
reach through the leafy cover, we got the fire well under our eyes, as
well as those who had kindled it.  We had no conjecture as to whether we
had been following the true track, or whether it was the two runaway
travellers we had _treed_.  The point was determined by an object seen
standing close to the fire, in the full glare of its ruddy light.  Need
I say it was the wheelbarrow?



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

A BRACE OF "OLD SOJERS."

Yes, it was the wheelbarrow; and the "U.S. Ordnance" branded upon its
side, and visible under the light of the blazing pile, told whence it
had come.  Either Fort Gibson or Fort Smith was minus a barrow, drawn
from their stores by no very formal _requisition_.  There were the
takers of it--one on each side of the fire--presenting as great a
contrast as could well be found in two human beings.  Although of the
same species, the two individuals were as unlike each other as a tall
greyhound to a turnspit.  Both were seated, though in different
attitudes.  The little man was "squatted"--that is, with legs crossed
under him, after the fashion of tailors.  The long legs of his
_vis-a-vis_ would scarcely admit of being thus disposed of; and his
weight was resting altogether upon his hips and heels.  In this posture,
the caps of his knees stood up to the level of his shoulders--so that
his body, viewed _en profile_, presented a pretty accurate imitation of
the letter N--that sort termed by engravers the "rustic letter."  The
huge black hat capped one extremity; and the long pedal-like feet that
rested horizontally on the ground terminated the other, completing the
alphabetical resemblance.

A face, with a certain mocking monkeyish expression, but without any
trait of fierceness or ill-nature--a nose slightly snub--quick
scintillating eyes--a chin, tipped with a little tuft of clay-coloured
beard--some half-dozen queue-like tangles, of bright-yellowish hair,
hanging down behind the hat--the hat itself a black "silk," badly
battered--such were the salient points of the portrait appearing above
the knee-caps of the taller man.  With the exception of the "tile," his
costume was altogether military--to me well-known.  It was the ordinary
undress of the mounted rifles: a dark-green round-about of coarse
cloth--with a row of small brass buttons from throat to waist--and
overalls of the same material.  In the particular sample before us,
_overalls_ was rather an inappropriate name.  The garment so designated
scarcely covered the calves of the wearer's legs--though of these there
was not much to cover.  The jacket appeared equally scant; and between
its bottom border and the waistband of the trousers, there was an
interval of at least six inches.  In this interval was seen a shirt of
true Isabella colour, which also appeared over the breast--the jacket
being worn unbuttoned.  The frouzy cotton was visible at other places--
peeping through various rents both in jacket and trousers.  A black
leather stock concealed the collar of the shirt--if there was any--and
though the stock itself was several inches in depth, there were other
several inches of naked neck rising above its rim.  Coarse woollen
socks, and the cheap _contract_ shoe completed the costume of
Sure-shot--for it was he.

His contrasting comrade was equally in military garb--even more so, by
the additional article of a cloth forage-cap.  His was also an undress
uniform; but, though of very similar cut to the other, and resembling it
in the quality of the material, the colour was different.  It was
sky-blue, turned whitey with wear--the buttons of the jacket being of
lead, and the facings of white worsted tape.  It was a better fit than
the green uniform; and its wearer had evidently some conceit in the
style of it--as was evidenced by the jacket being carefully buttoned
from waist to throat, and the forage-cap set jauntily on "three hairs."
The little man was an "infantry."  His horizontal diameter was twice
that of his tall companion of the rifles; and in the rounded contour of
his body, not an angle was apparent.  His garments were quite filled by
his body, arms and legs--so that there was not a wrinkle to be seen
anywhere.  It was a form usually styled "dapper."  His face was also of
the rotund shape--the features all tolerably regular, with the exception
of the nose--that, like the nasal organ of his comrade, was _nez
retrousse_--the turn-up being infinitely more pronounced.  The
expression was equally indicative of good-nature and good-fellowship--as
the apple-like bloom of his cheeks, and the ochreous tinge upon the tip
of the nose, sufficiently testified.  Cheeks, lips, and chin were
beardless--with the exception of a thick stubble that had lately sprung
up; but some well-greased rings of a darkish colour ruffing out under
the rim of the forage-cap, showed that the "infantry" was not insensible
to the pride of hair.  Neither in regard to him had I made a mistaken
conjecture.  Another old acquaintance and comrade-in-arms--the
redoubtable Patrick O'Tigg--a true son of the "Sad."

The two worthies, when first seen, were seated as described--both
engaged in a very similar occupation--cooking.  It was--by the most
simple process--that of the _roti_.  Each held in his hand a long
sapling, upon the end of which a piece of red meat was impaled; and
this, projected over the fire, was fast blackening in the blaze.  More
of the same meat--buffalo-beef, it appeared--was seen in the
wheelbarrow; its other freight being one or two greasy bags, a brace of
knapsacks, a cartouche box and belt, two ordnance spades, with the
guns--a "regulation" rifle and musket--lying across the top of the load.

It was evident from this collection that the men were deserters; that
they had armed and equipped themselves at the expense of the
quartermaster.  Perhaps the paymaster had been in arrears with them; and
they had adopted this ready and effectual method of wiping out the
score?  My only wonder was at not seeing a brace of _branded_ horses
along with them; but in all probability, on the day--or night--of their
departure, the stable sentry had been doing his duty.

On becoming assured of the identity of the two individuals, my first
impulse was to step forward to the fire, and make myself known to them.
So eagerly were both engaged in attending to their spits, that they had
neither seen nor heard us--although they themselves were now silent, and
we were within less than twenty feet of them.  The intervening bushes,
however would have sheltered us from their sight, even if they had been
a little more vigilant--as I should have expected Sure-shot to have
been.  They were trusting all to the thicket in which they had pitched
their camp; and, being hungry and wearied no doubt, were for the moment
off their guard.  Some fantasy decided me not to disturb them for a
moment--a sort of curiosity to hear what they would say, and, if
possible, discover their _whence_ and _whither_.  We were perfectly
within earshot; and could have heard even a whisper passing from their
lips--as we could also note the expression upon their faces.  A sign to
my companion was sufficient; and, crouching behind the leafy screen, we
awaited the continuation of the suspended dialogue.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

THE BARROW IN DEBATE.

Our patience was not put to a severe test.  O'Tigg was not the man to
keep his tongue in tranquillity for any extended time.  Neither was
Sure-shot an admirer of the silent system.  Both were talkers.  On this
occasion, the "infantry" was the first to make himself heard.

"Be japers! comrayde, I'm afther thinkin' fwhat purty fools us hiv bin,
to tak it afut this way, loike two thramps, whin wez moight ivery bit as
wil hav been stroidin' a pair ov good pownies.  We cowld a fitched a
pair from the Fort wid all the aize in the wurld."

"Yees, Petrick, certing ye ain't fer 'stray 'bout thet pertickler; we've
been raither ungumptious."

"Besoides, wez rooight as wil hav been hung for a shape as a lamb.
We'll be flogg'd all as wan, iv the iskhort foinds us, fur taykin' the
guns, an' the knapsacks, an' the whaleborra--bad luck to the borra!"

"No, Petrick, don't cuss the berra--it hes served us for certing.  We
kedn't a got along 'thout the machine--how ked we?  We ked niver hev
toted our doin's es we've did; an' but for the piece o' bacon an' thet
eer bag o' meal, we'd a sterved long afore this, I recking.  Don't cuss
the berra."

"Och! it's made my showlders ache, as if some skhoundrel had been batin'
them wid a sprig ov shillaylah!"

"Ne'er a mind 'bout thet! yer shoulders 'll be all right arter ye've got
a wink o' sleep.  Spank my skin! ef thet ere wan't a cute dodge--it's
throwd the Indyens off o' the scent for certain; or we'd a heerd some'ut
o' them verming afore this."

"Faith, I think we've sucksaided in bamboozling thim, shure enough."

The meat by this time showed sufficiently done; and the two men applied
themselves to eating, with an earnestness that allowed no time for
talking.  The conversation had revealed enough of their past actions,
and future designs, to confirm the conjectures I had already formed
about them.

As stated, they had both belonged to the "Rangers" of immortal memory.
After the disbandment of the corps, they had entered upon a fresh lease
of soldier-life, by enlisting into the regular army.  O'Tigg had given
preference to the sky-blue of the "line;" while the Yankee had taken to
the mounted rifles--as a capital marksman, like him, would naturally do.
Indeed, it would have been impossible to have "licked" the latter into
anything like soldierly shape; and all the drill-sergeants in creation
could not have made him stand with "toes turned in," or "eyes right."
To have "dressed" the old ranger in line would have been a physical
impossibility.  In the mounted rifles, personal appearance is of less
importance; and considering the little inclination there is to enlist in
the American army--especially in times of peace--the oddest looking
article is thankfully accepted.  In the dearth of recruits.  Sure-shot
could have had no difficulty in passing inspection.

Both had evidently become tired of their respective services.  The
routine of a frontier post is of itself sufficient to produce the
deadliest _ennui_; and the Californian attraction had "capped the
climax."  The temptation was too strong for either Yankee or Hibernian
nature to resist; and these worthy types of both had taken French-leave
of the fort.  It was thus that I epitomised the recent history of my old
_camarados_.  As they were evidently aware of the caravan being in the
advance, and had been following it, it was easily conjectured that Fort
Smith--a military post on the Arkansas opposite Van Buren--had been the
scene of their defection.  Very likely, they had kept near the train all
along the route--with a view to guidance and partial protection--as also
for a _dernier ressort_ to which they might betake themselves in case of
their stores giving out.  The escort, hinted at, would be sufficient to
account for their not being in closer communication with the caravan.

It appeared, they had been so far fortunate in escaping an encounter
with Indians; but this, as in our case, was most likely due to the
passage of the caravan.  We knew that the red-skinned robbers would be
too much occupied with the train itself and its more immediate
stragglers, to be looking out for any so far in the rear as we; and to
this circumstance, no doubt, were we indebted for the uninterrupted
travel we had achieved.  A greater proximity to the train would have
rendered our passage more perilous.  Sure-shot, though a slouch in his
dress, was no simpleton.  The trick of taking up the barrow was, no
doubt, a conception of his brain, as well as its being borne upon the
shoulders of the Irishman--who, in all likelihood, had performed the
_role_ of wheeling it from Fort Smith to the Big Timbers, and was
expected to push it before him to the edge of the Pacific Ocean!  It was
evident that Patrick was tired of his task: for they had not made much
progress in their Homeric supper, before he once more returned to the
subject.

"But shure now, comrayde! we moight manage widout the borra--seein' as
we've got into the buffalos' counthry.  Aren't them bastes as aizy to
kill as tame cows?  Shure we'd niver be widout mate as long as our
powder lasts?"

"Jess t'other way, ye fool!  We're a going _out_ o' the buffuler
country, an' into perts where theer ain't a anymal bigger than a rat.
On t'other side o' the mountings, theer ain't no beests o' any kind--
neery one; an' its jess theer we'll want that eer bag o' meel.  Ef we
don't take it along, we'll sterve for certing."

"Be me sowl!  I'd ruther carry the male on my showlders.  There's liss
of it now; an' maybe I could manage it, iv you'ld only carry the spids,
an' thim other things.  We moight lave the knapsicks an' kyarthridge-box
behind.  What use ud they be in Kalifornya?  They'll only lade to our
detiction by the throops out there."

"Don't ee be skeert 'bout thet, kimrade!  Ef theer's troops in
Californey, they'll hev theer hands full 'ithout troublin' us, I
reeking.  We ain't like to be the only two critters as hain't got a
_pass_ for the diggins.  Ne'er a bit o't.  We'll find deserters out
theer es thick as blue-bottles on a barkiss.  Certingly we shell.
Besides, Petrick, we needn't take the knepsacks all the way out theer,
nor the berra neythur, nor nuthin' else we've brought from the Fort."

"Fwhat div yez mane?" interrogated the Irishman--evidently puzzled to
interpret the other's speech.  "We kin leave all them fixing in Morming
City."

"But will the thrain be afther thravellin' that way?  Shure ye don't
know that."

"Certing it will.  A putty consid'able pert o' it air made up o'
Mormings; an' they'll be boun' to the Salt Lake.  We kin foller them an'
drop t'other.  In the Morming settlements, we kin swop our unyforms for
suthin' else, an' the berra too.  Es to the knepsacks an' cartridge-box,
I guess as how I inteend to make a spec on them ere two articles."

"Fwhat! a pair ov soger knapsacks, an' an owld kyarthridge-box!  They
wuldn't fitch the worth ov dhrinks apaice."

"Theer your mistaking, Mister Tigg.  Preehaps they'll swop better'n you
think.  How d'ye know I ain't like to git a beest apiece for 'em--eyther
a mule or a hoss?  This child ain't a going to fut it all the way to
Californey.  B'yont the Morming City, he rides a spell, I recking."

"Be japers! that's an out-an'-out good oidea.  But how dev ye mane to
carry it through? that's what bothers Patrick O'Tigg."

"We--ell, Petrick, I'll tell ee my plan.  I ain't got it straightened
out yet, but I hope to hev it all right by the time we're on t'other
side the mountings--leastwise before we reaches Morming City."

"Arrah! fwhat is it?" inquired the impatient Irishman.

The Yankee did not vouchsafe an immediate answer; but, while polishing
off the bone he held in his hand, appeared at the same time to be busy
with some mental operation--perhaps _straightening out_ the plan he had
promised to reveal.



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A TOUGH STORY.

For some seconds the two worthies observed a mutual silence--broken only
by a formidable rattle of teeth, as large "chunks" of buffalo-meat were
put through their respective masticating machines.  Curious to hear the
promised revelation, Wingrove and I checked our impatience, and clung to
our covert among the bushes.  One thing--to which their speech had
incidentally adverted--was not without much significance; and had
produced upon me a certain impression that was unpleasant.  They
appeared to know, or Sure-shot did, that at least a portion of the train
was _en route_ for the Mormon city.  It is true, I had had originally
suspicions of this; but the letter of Lilian had led me to hope it might
be otherwise.  Any destination but that.

I had commenced reflecting upon this point, when I was interrupted by
the voice of Sure-shot resuming the conversation.  Thus did he enter on
his explanation:

"Ye see, kimrade, these Mormings, es I've heern, air mighty taken up wi'
sogerin', an' thet sort o' thing.  Ye've heerd talk o' theer great
bettelion.  They'll be arter these eer treppings for certing, since they
hain't much chence o' gittin' soger fixings out theer.  We-ell, what I
mean to do is to put the knepsacks off on 'em for some new improvement
o' pattern.  I guess it air thet--I've heerd say so at the Fort--then
the Morming jineral, who air the prophet hisself, an' who's got berrls
o' dollars--he'll buy the knepsacks at any price.  Now, de ye take,
Mister Tigg?"

"Troth do I.  But dev ye think yez can fool thim so aizy?"

"Easy as eatin' punkin-pie.  Jehosophet!  I hain't been five year in the
tradin' line 'ithout lernin' the bizness, I recking."

"Be me faith! yez must have been raal cliver at it, whin ye sowld them
cypress-knees for bacon-hams to the Bawltemoreans.  You remimber that
story yez towld us down in Mixico?"

"Yees; certingly I remember it--he, he, he!  But I kim a better trick
then thet on the Orleens people 'bout five yeer ago--jest 'fore I jined
the Rangers."

"Fwhat was it, shure?"

"We--ell, ye see, I wan't allers es poor es I'm now.  I hed a
pertnership in a bit o' a schooner, es used to trade 'tween Bosting an'
Orleens, an' we used to load her wi' all sorts o' notions, to sell to
the Orleens folk.  Jehosophet an' pork-pies! they air fools, an' no
mistake--them Creole French.  We ked a sold 'em wooden nutmegs, an'
brick-dust for Cayenne pepper, an' such like; an' I 'bout guess es how
we did spekoolate a leetle in thet line o' bizness.  Wall, there kim a
time when they tuk a notion they ked make cheep _brogan_, as they call
'em, out o' allygator's leather, an' supply the hul nigger market wi'
'em.  The neels were dear, an' so they tuk to usin' boot-pegs; but not
hevin' a manafactry o' the pegs down south, they hed to git 'em from the
no'th.  Jest then, my pertner an' I thought o' makin' a spekoolashun on
the pegs; so we loaded our schooner wi' thet eer freight, chuck right up
to the hetches; an' then sot off from Bosting for Orleens.  We thort
we'd make our derned fortune out thet eer trip."

"Shure yez did, didn't ye?"

"No-o-o; neer a bit o' 't.  It keemd nigh breakin' us."

"Arrah, how?"

"We-ell! ye see, when we got roun' to Orleens, we learnt that the
boot-trade hed a'most stopped.  The allygator leather didn't turn out
jest the thing for brogans; an' besides, it got sca'ce by reezun o' the
killin' o' them verming.  In coorse, the pegs hed fell in price; they'd
kim down so low, that we ked only git twenty-five cents a bushel for
'em!"

"Mother ov Moses! only twenty-five cents a bushel!"

"Thet was all they'd fetch--offer 'em when an' wheer we would.  In
coorse, we wan't fools enough to take thet--the dernationed pegs hed
cost us more in Bosting!"

"Divil a doubt ov it?  But fwhat did yez do wid 'em, anyhow?"

"We-ell, Mister Tigg, we weer cleer beat at fust; an' didn't know what
to do--neyther me'r my pertner.  But arter takin' a good think over it,
I seed a way o' gitting out o' the scrape--leestwise 'ithout sech a loss
as sellin' the pegs at twenty-five cents the bushel.  I seed a chence o'
gitting rid o' them at fifty cents."

"Arrah, now! in fwhat way, comrade?"

"You've seed boot-pegs, I recking, Mister Tigg?"

"An' shure I hiv.  Aren't they the same that's in these suttlers'
brogues we've got on--bad luck to them?"

"Jess the same--only whitier when they air new."

"Be japers!  I think I remimber seein' a barrel full ov thim in New
Yark."

"Very certing it were them--they air usooaly packed in berr'ls.  Can you
think o' anything they looked like?"

"Wil, in troth, they looked more loike oats than anything I can
recollect.  Shure they did look moighty like oats!"

"An' don't ee kalkerlate they'd a looked more like oats, ef they'd been
pointed at both ends instead o' one!"

"In troth, would they--all that same."

"We-ell, thet's the very idee thet kem inter my mind at the time."

"Arrah now, is it?  An' fwhat did yez do wid the pegs then?"

"_Jest sharpened the other eends o' 'em, an' sold 'em for oats_!"

The puzzled, half-incredulous stare, on the countenance of the
Hibernian, was ridiculous in the extreme.  The allegation of the Yankee
had deprived him of speech; and for some moments he sat gazing at the
latter, evidently in doubt whether to give credence to the story, or
reject it as a little bit of a "sell" upon the part of his comrade--with
whose eccentricity of character he was well acquainted.  Equally
ludicrous was the look of gravity on the countenance of the other--which
he continued to preserve under the continued gaze of his comrade, with
all the solemnity of a judge upon the bench.  It was as much as my
companion and I could do to restrain our laughter; but we were desirous
of witnessing the finale of the affair, and, by an effort, succeeded in
holding in.

"Och, now, Misther Shure-shat!" gasped the Irishman at length, "an' it's
only jokin' ye are?"

"Truth I tell ye, Petrick--every word o' 't.  Ye see the oats weer jest
then sellin' at fifty cents the bushel, an' thet paid us.  We made a
lettle suthin', too, by the speekolashun."

"But how did yez get the other inds pointed at all--at all?"

"Oh! thet weer eezy enough.  I invented a machine for thet, an' run 'em
through in less'n no time.  When they kim out at t'other eend o' the
machine, _I kednt meself a told 'em from oats_!"

"Och! now I comprehend.  Arrah! an' wasn't it a quare thrick?  Be my
sowl, it bates Bannagher all to paces!  Ha, ha, haw!"

Wingrove and I could hold in no longer, but joining in the loud
cachinnation--as if we had been its echoes--sprang forward to the front.
Infantry and rifleman bounded to their feet, with a simultaneous shout
of "Indians!" and dropping their spits and half-eaten _appolas_ of meat,
dashed into the bushes like a pair of frightened rabbits!  In an
instant, both were out of sight; and their whereabouts was alone
indicated by the rattling of the branches as they passed through them.
I was apprehensive of losing them altogether; and regretted not having
used more caution in approaching them.  At that crisis, an idea came to
my aid; and giving out an old signal, well-remembered by the _ci-devant_
rangers, I had the gratification of receiving a double response.  The
utterance of the signal had brought them to an instantaneous halt; and I
could hear them exchanging surmises and exclamations of astonishment, as
they retraced their steps towards the fire.  Presently, a pair of short,
snub-nosed faces were seen peering through the leaves; while from the
lips of their owners burst simultaneously, "The cyaptin'!"  "The
capting!" with various other phrases in their respective _patois_,
expressive of surprise and recognition.

A few words sufficed to explain all.  As we had surmised, the men were
deserters.  Neither attempted to deny what, in time of peace, is not
considered a very heinous crime; and for which, just then, the
"Californian fever" was considered an ample justification.  It was no
affair of ours.  I was only too rejoiced to join company with the
runaways, of whose loyalty to myself I had proofs of old.  Their guns--
more especially the rifle of Sure-shot--would be a valuable addition to
our strength; and, instead of crawling along under the cover of night,
we might now advance with more freedom and rapidity.  It was determined,
therefore, to share our means of transport with our new comrades--an
offer by them eagerly and readily accepted.  The partial consumption of
our stores had lightened the packs upon our mules; and the contents of
the wheelbarrow, equally divided between them, would give to each only
its ordinary load.  The barrow itself was abandoned--left among the Big
Timbers--to puzzle at a future period some red-skinned archaeologist--
Cheyenne or Arapaho!



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

THE MOUNTAIN PARKS.

We now proceeded along the route with more confidence; though still
acknowledging the necessity of caution, and always reconnoitring the
ground in advance.  Although the four of us might have defended
ourselves against four times our number of Indian enemies, we were
passing through apart of the country, where, if Indians were to be met
at all, it would be in large bands or "war-parties."  The Arkansas heads
in that peculiar section of the Rocky Mountain chain known as the
"Parks"--a region of country celebrated from the earliest times of
fur-trading and trapping--the arena of a greater number of adventures--
of personal encounters and hair-breadth escapes--than perhaps any other
spot of equal extent upon the surface of the globe.  Here the great
Cordillera spread out into numerous distinct branches or "Sierras," over
which tower those noted landmarks of the prairie traveller, "Pike's" and
"Long's" Peaks, and the "Wa-to-ya" or "Cumbres Espanolas";--projected
far above their fellows, and rising thousands of feet into the region of
eternal snow.  Between their bases--embosomed amid the most rugged
surrounding of bare rocky cliffs, or dark forest-clad declivities--lie
_vallees_, smiling in the soft verdure of perpetual spring--watered by
crystal streams--sheltered from storms, and sequestered from all the
world.  The most noted of these are the Old and New "Parks," and the
"Bayou Salade"--because these are the largest; but there are hundreds of
smaller ones, not nameless, but known only to those adventurous men--the
trappers--who for half a century have dwelt in this paradise of their
perilous profession: since here is the habitat of the masonic beaver--
its favourite _building ground_.

Over these valley-plains roam "gangs" of the gigantic buffalo; while in
the openings between their copses may be descried the elk, antelope, and
black-tailed deer, browsing in countless herds.  On the cliffs that
overhang them, the noble form of the _carnero cimmaron (ovis montana_)--
or, "Bighorn" of the hunters--maybe seen, in bold outline against the
sky; and crawling through the rocky ravines is encountered the grizzly
bear--the most fierce and formidable of American _carnivora_.  The red
couguar and brown wolverene crouch along the edges of the thicket, to
contest with jackal and wolf the possession of the carcass, where some
stray quadruped has fallen a victim to the hungry troop; while black
vultures wheeling aloft, await the issue of the conflict.  Birds of
fairer fame add animation to the scene.  The magnificent _meleagris_,
shining in metallic lustre, with spread wings and tail, offers a
tempting aim to the hunter's rifle--as it promises to afford him a rich
repast; and the _coq de prairie_, and its gigantic congener the "sage
grouse," whirr up at intervals along the path.  The waters have their
denizens, in the grey Canada and white-fronted geese--ducks of numerous
species--the stupid pelican and shy loon--gulls, cormorants, and the
noble swan; while the groves of _alamo_ ring with the music of numerous
bright-winged songsters, scarcely known to the ornithologist.

But no land of peace is this fair region of the Rocky Mountains.  There
are parks, but no palaces--there are fertile fields, but none to till
them--for it is even dangerous to traverse them in the open light of
day.  The trapper skulks silently along the creek--scarcely trusting
himself to whisper to his companion--and watching warily as he renews
the bait of _castoreum_.  The hunter glides with stealthy tread from
copse to copse--dreading the echo of his own rifle.  Even the
red-skinned rover goes not here alone, but only with a large band of his
kindred--a "hunting" or "war-party."  The ground is neutral, as it is
hostile--claimed by many tribes and owned by none.  All enter it to hunt
or make war, but none to settle or colonise.  From every quarter of the
compass come the warrior and hunter; and of almost as many tribes as
there are points upon the card.  From the north, the Crow and Sioux;
from the south, the Kiowa, the Comanche, the Jicarilla-Apache--and even
at times the tame Taosa.  From the east penetrate, the Cheyenne, the
Pawnee, and Arapaho; while through the western gates of this hunters'
paradise, pour the warlike bands of the Utah and Shoshonee.  All these
tribes are in mutual enmity or amity amongst themselves, of greater or
less strength; but between some of them exists a hostility of the
deadliest character.  Such are the vendettas between Crow and Shoshonee,
Pawnee and Comanche, Utah and Arapaho.  Some of the tribe have the
repute of being friendly to the whites.  Among these may be mentioned
the Utahs and Crows; while the more dreaded names are Cheyenne, Kiowa,
and Arapaho; the last in hostility to the whites equalling the noted
Blackfeet farther north.  In all cases, however, the amity of the
prairie Indian is a friendship upon which slight faith can be placed;
and the trapper--even in Crow or Utah land--is accustomed "to sleep with
one eye open."  In past times, Utahs have been more partial to the
pale-faces than most other tribes of North Americans; and in their
territory many of the celebrated trapper-stations, or "rendezvous," are
situated.  At times, mutual provocations have led to dire encounters;
and then are the Utahs to be dreaded--more, perhaps, than any other
Indians.  In their association with their trapper allies, they have
learnt how to handle--and with skill--that most formidable of weapons,
for partisan warfare--the hunter's rifle.

At the time of which I write, the Utahs were reported to be on good
terms with the whites.  The Mormons had done everything to conciliate
them; and it was said that a single white man might traverse their
territory with perfect safety.  It was chiefly in the passes that led to
the Utahs' country, that danger from Indians was to be apprehended--in
the valleys and ravines above mentioned--where Cheyennes, Comanches,
Pawnees, and Arapahoes were more likely to be met with than the Utahs
themselves.

We were not yet certain by which pass the caravan might cross the great
Cordillera.  From beyond the Big Timbers, three routes were open to it.
First was the southern route through the Eaton mountains, which leads to
Santa Fe, in New Mexico, and is known as the "Santa Fe trail."  I did
not anticipate their taking this one.  It was not their design, on
leaving Fort Smith, to pass by Santa Fe--else would they have kept up
the Canadian, by the head of the Llano Estacado; and thence to
California by the Gila.  Another route parts from the Arkansas still
higher up--by one of its affluents, the _Fontaine que bouit_.  This is
the "Cherokee trail," which, after running north along the eastern slope
of the Rocky Mountains, crosses them by the Cheyenne Pass, and on
through Bridger's Pass into the central valley of the Great Basin.
Neither did I believe that the train would travel by this trail.  The
season of the year was against the supposition.  In all probability, the
central route of the three would be the one followed--leading from the
Arkansas up the Huerfano river, and through "Robideau's Pass," or that
of the "Sangre de Cristo."  Either of these conducts into the valley of
the Rio del Norte; thence by the famed "Coochetopa," or "gate of the
buffaloes," on the head waters of the Western Colorado.

This pass, though long known to the trappers and _ciboleros_ of New
Mexico, had only just come into notice as a road to the Pacific; but,
being one of the most central and direct, it had already been tried both
by Californian and Mormon emigrants, and found practicable for waggons.
The caravan had left Van Buren with the design of taking this road; but
I knew that the design might be altered by contingencies--hence our
uncertainty.

The Rocky Mountains could be crossed, by following up the Arkansas to
its remotest sources on the southern side of the Bayou Salade; but the
stupendous gorges through which that river runs leave no pass
practicable for wheeled vehicles.  Only by mounted men, or pack-mules,
can the Cordillera be crossed at that point; and of course it did not
occur to us that the caravan we were following would attempt it.  At
three points, then, might we expect to find its trace parting from the
Arkansas--near Bent's Old Fort, for the southern route: at the _Fontaine
que bouit_ river, for the northern; and for the central, it should
diverge up the valley of the Huerfano.  In any case, our risk would be
unquestionably great.  We should have to travel through districts of
country, where white man and red man meet only as foes; where to kill
each other at sight is the instinct and practice of both; and where,
though it may sound strange to civilised ears, to _scalp_, after killing
each other, is equally a _mutual_ custom!

Such was the character of the region through which we should have to
travel.  No wonder we were anxious to come up with the caravan, before
it should have passed through the dangerous gorges of the mountains.
Independent of other motives, our personal safety prompted us to hasten
on.  At first, our new comrades were not exactly agreeable to the design
of overtaking the train.  They had the _escort_ in their thoughts, and
along with it, the dread of the nine-tailed cat.  But a little
instruction as to the far greater danger they were in from Indians--of
which up to that hour they had been in happy ignorance--reconciled them
to our purpose; and thenceforward they picked up their feet with a
pleasing rapidity.  Both preferred risking the skin of their backs to
losing that of their heads; but of the former they had now less fear:
since I had promised to _disguise_ them, before bringing them face to
face with the troopers of the escort.

Notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much
caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion.  We made
most way under the friendly shadow of night--sometimes by the light of
the moon--and only by day, when we could discover no Indian sign in our
neighbourhood.  Only two of us could ride at a time--the other two
taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well,
as when each has a horse to himself.  Our pack-animals gave us little
trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow
in file, and without requiring to be led.  We refrained from making
fires, where the ground was unfavourable.  Only when we could choose our
camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth
of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we
extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple
_cuisine_.  These precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely
necessary in a passage across the prairies--at least by a party so small
as ours.  Perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a
misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be
told.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

THE ABANDONED BOUQUET.

Having passed Bent's Fort--of wide celebrity in trapper lore--whilom the
scene of many a wild revel of the "mountain-men," but now abandoned and
in ruins--we arrived at the confluence of the Huerfano.  As we expected,
the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream--thus deciding the
route taken by the caravan.

We rode on through a forest of grand cotton-woods and willows; and at
about seven miles distant from the mouth of the Huerfano river, reached
a point, where the caravan had crossed over to its left bank.  On the
other side, we could see the ground of their encampment of the night
before.  We could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and waggons--
debris of the morning's repast--and half-burnt faggots of the tires that
had cooked it, still sending up their clouds of oozing smoke.

The stream at this point was fordable; and crossing over, we stood upon
the deserted camp-ground.  With singular emotions, I walked amid the
smouldering fires--forming conjectures as to which of them might have
been graced by that fair presence.  Where had she passed the night, and
what had occupied her thoughts?  Were those gentle words still lingering
in her memory?  Were they upon her lips?  It was pleasant for me to
repeat them.  I did not need to draw the writing forth.  Long since were
the lines fixed in my remembrance--oft through my heart had vibrated the
burden of that sweet song:

"I think of thee--I think of thee!"

My reflections were not altogether unmingled with pain.  Love cannot
live without doubts and fears.  Jealousy is its infallible concomitant--
ever present as the thorn with the rose.  How could I hope that one hour
of my presence had been sufficient to inspire in that young bosom the
passion of a life?  It could scarcely be other than a slight
impression--a passing admiration of some speech, word, or gesture--too
transient to be true?  Perhaps I was already forgotten?  Perhaps only
remembered with a smile, instead of a sigh?  Though still but a short
time since our parting, many scenes had since transpired--many events
had occurred in the life of that young creature to give it experience.
Forms of equal--perhaps superior elegance--had come before her eye.
Might not one of these have made its image upon her heart?

The caravan was not a mere conglomeration of coarse rude adventurers.
There were men of all classes composing it--not a few of accomplished
education--not a few who, using a hackneyed phrase, were "men of the
world,"--familiar with its ways and its wiles--and who perfectly
understood all those intricate attentions and delicate lures, by which
the virgin heart is approached and captured.  There were military men
too--those ever to be dreaded rivals in love--young officers of the
escort, laced, booted, and spurred--bedecked, moreover, with that
mysterious influence which authority ever imparts to its possessor.
Could these be blind to the charms of such a travelling companion?
Impossible.  Or could she--her young bosom just expanding to receive the
god of love--fail to acknowledge the nearest form as his image?
Painfully improbable!

It was therefore with feelings of no very pleasant kind that I sought
around for some souvenir.  The remains of a fire, a little apart from
the rest, near the edge of a piece of copsewood, drew my attention.  It
looked as if it had been a spot on which some family group had encamped.
I was led to this conjecture, by observing some flowers scattered
near--for the grassy sward showed no other sign.  The flowers betokened
the presence of womankind.  Fair faces--or one at least--had beamed in
the light of that fire.  I felt morally certain of it.  I approached the
spot.  The shrubbery around was interlaced with wild roses; while blue
lupins and scarlet pelargoniums sparkled over the glade, under the
sheltering protection of the trees.  By the edge of the shrubbery lay a
bouquet, that had evidently been put together with some care!
Dismounting, I took it up.  My fingers trembled as I examined it: for
even in this slight object I read indications of design.  The flowers
were of the rarest and prettiest--of many kinds that grew not near.
They had been plucked elsewhere.  Some one had given both time and
attention to their collection and arrangement.  Who?  It would have been
idle to shape even a conjecture, but for a circumstance, that appeared
to offer a certain clue; and, not without bitter thoughts, did I try to
unwind it.  The thread which was warped around the flower-stalks was of
yellow silk.  The strands were finely twisted; and I easily recognised
the bullion from the tassel of a sash.  That thread must have been taken
from the sash of a dragoon officer!

Had the bouquet been a gift?  To whom? and by whom?  Here all conjecture
should have ended; but not without a feeling of painful suspicion did I
examine those trivial signs; and the feeling continued to annoy me, long
after I had flung the flowers at my feet.

A reflection came to my relief, which went far towards restoring my
spirits' equanimity.  If a gift, and to Lilian Holt, she had scarcely
honoured it--else how could the flowers have been there?  Had they been
forgotten, or left unregarded?  There was consolation in either
hypothesis; and, in the trust that one or the other was true, I sprang
back into my saddle, and with a more cheerful heart, rode away from the
spot.



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE.

The finding of the flowers, or rather the reflections to which they gave
rise, rendered me more anxious than ever to come up with, the caravan.
The little incident had made me aware of a new danger hitherto unthought
of.  Up to that hour, my chief anxiety with regard to Lilian Holt had
been the companionship of the Mormon.  This had been heightened by some
information incidentally imparted by the deserters--chiefly by
Sure-shot.  It related to the destination of a number of the emigrants,
who accompanied the caravan; and with whom the rifleman had held
intercourse, previous to their departure from Van Buren.  These were not
prospective gold-diggers, but persons migrating westward from motives
more spiritual: they were _Saints_ bound for the Salt Lake--there
intending to stay and settle.

There was a large party of these "Latter-day" converts under the conduct
of an apostolic agent.  This much had Sure-shot ascertained.  He had not
seen their leader, nor heard his name.  Joshua Stebbins might be the
very man?  Even as a conjecture, this was bitter enough.  Up to the time
of joining with the deserters, I had consoled myself with the belief,
that California was the destination of this saint and his squatter
protege; though at times I was troubled with the remembrance of
Su-wa-nee's words.  Their truth was almost confirmed by the report of
the ex-rifleman.  I could not now think otherwise, than that Stebbins
was bound for the Mormon city; and that he was the fox in charge of the
flock of geese that accompanied the emigrant train.  It was more than
probable.  While waiting in Swampville for the letter of Lilian, I had
learnt something of the history of the _ci-devant_ schoolmaster--not
much of the period subsequent to his departure from that place--little
more than the fact that he had joined the Mormons, and had risen to high
office in their church--in short, that he was one of their "apostles."
This fact, however, was one of primary significance.

Had the squatter also submitted to the hideous delusion?  Was he also on
his way to the shrine of the faith?  The answer to the former question
was of slight importance, so long as that to the latter might be
conceived in the affirmative.  If Holt was bound to the Salt Lake, then
was the fate of his daughter to be dreaded.  Not long there may a virgin
dwell.  The baptism of the New Jordan soon initiates its female
neophytes into the mysteries of womanhood--absolutely compelling them to
the marriage-tie--forcing them to a wedlock loveless and unholy.

Suffering under such apprehensions, I scarcely needed the additional
stimulus of jealousy to urge me onward; and yet, strange as it may
appear, the finding of the bouquet had produced this effect.  I would
have ridden on, without halt, but our animals required rest.  We had
been travelling nearly all night, and throughout the morning--under the
friendly shelter of the cotton-wood forest.  We all needed an hour or
two of repose; and, seeking a secure place near the ground of the
deserted camp, we stopped to obtain it.  The train could not be far
ahead of us.  While seated in silence around the fire we had kindled, we
could hear at intervals the reports of guns.  They came from up the
valley, and from a far distance.  The sounds reached us but faintly--now
single shots, and then two or three together, or following in quick
succession.  We were at no loss to account for the reports.  They were
caused by the hunters of the caravan, in pursuit of game.  We had now
entered that charming region where elk and antelope abounded.  On our
morning-march we had seen herds of both trooping over the sward--almost
within range of our rifles.  Even as we sat, a band of beautiful
antelopes appeared in the open ground near our bivouack fire; and, after
satisfying their curiosity by gazing at us for a moment, they trotted
off into the covert.  It was a tempting sight--too tempting for the
young backwoods hunter to resist.  Seizing his rifle, he took after
them--promising us as he went off a more savoury breakfast than the dry
buffalo-meat we were broiling.  Soon after, we heard the report of his
piece; and, presently, he re-appeared with a dead "prong-horn" upon his
shoulders.

As Wingrove came up to the fire, I noticed a singular expression upon
his countenance.  Instead of being rejoiced at his success, his looks
betrayed anxiety!  I questioned him as to the cause.  He did not answer
directly; but, drawing me to one side, inquired in a whisper, if I had
seen any one in his absence.

"No.  Why do you ask?"

"If it wan't altogether unpossible, I'd swar I seed that girl."

"What girl?"

I trembled, as I put the question: I was thinking of Lilian.

"That darnationed devil of a Chicasaw."

"What!  Su-wa-nee?"

"Yes--Su-wa-nee."

"Oh--that cannot be?  It could not be her?"

"So I'd a thort myself; but darn me, capt'n! if I kin b'lieve it wa'nt
her.  What I seed war as like her as two eggs."

"What did you see?"

"Why, jest arter I'd killed the goat, an' war heisting it on my
shoulders, I spied a Injun glidin' into the bushes.  I seed it war a
squaw; an' jest the picter o' the Chicasaw.  She 'peared as ef she hed
kim right from hyar, an' I thort you must a seed her."

"Did you get sight of her face?"

"No, her back war torst me, an' she kep on 'ithout turnin' or stoppin' a
minnit.  'Twar the very duds that girl used to wear, an' her bulk to an
inch.  It kudn't a been liker her.  Darn me, ef 'twan't eyther her or
her ghost!"

"It is very improbable that it could have been either?"

I did not for a moment entertain the idea that it was the Chicasaw he
had seen; and yet my comrade was fully impressed with the belief, and
reiterated the assertion that he had either seen Su-wa-nee or her
"shadder."  Though the thing was improbable, it was not beyond
possibility.  We knew that there were Indians travelling with the train:
we had heard so before starting out.  But what likelihood was there of
Su-wa-nee being among them?  Certainly not much.  That there were
prairie Indians around us, was probable enough.  We had already observed
their traces upon the ground of the deserted camp.  The "squaw" seen by
Wingrove might be one of these.

Whether or not, her presence proved the proximity of red-skins; and the
knowledge of having such dangerous neighbours, summoned us to a fresh
exercise of vigilance and caution.  Our fire was instantly extinguished;
and, contenting ourselves with a morsel of the half-broiled
buffalo-beef, we moved to some distance from the spot, before
proceeding, to cook the antelope.  A dark covert in the thick woods
offered us a more secure kitchen.  There we rekindled our fire--and
roasting the ribs of the prong-horn, refreshed ourselves with an ample
meal.  After an hour's repose, we resumed our journey--in confident
expectation, that before sunset we should get within sight of the
caravan.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

UP THE CANON.

We had not ridden far from our halting-place, when we arrived at the end
of the great cotton-wood forest.  Beyond that, the trace led over open
ground--here and there dotted by groves and "islands" of timber.
Through these we threaded our way--keeping as much as possible among the
trees.  Further on, we came upon a gorge--one of the noted _canons_
through which the Huerfano runs.  Here the river sweeps down a narrow
channel, with rocky banks that rise on each side into precipitous cliffs
of stupendous height.

To avoid this gorge--impassable for wheeled vehicles--the waggon-trace,
below its entrance, turns off to the right; and we perceived that the
caravan had taken that direction.  To get round the heads of the
transverse ravines, that run into the _canon_, a detour must be made of
not less than ten miles in length.  Beyond the canon--the trace once
more returns to the stream.

The notes of a military reconnoissance had forewarned me of this
deviation; and, furthermore, that the trace passes over a ridge
altogether destitute of timber.  To follow it, therefore, in the broad
light of day, would expose our little party to view.  If hostile Indians
should be hanging after the caravan, they would be sure to see us, and
equally certain to make an attack upon us; and from the traces we had
noticed at the night-camp--to say nothing of what Wingrove had seen--we
knew there were Indians in the valley.  They might not be hostile; but
the chances were ten to one that they were; and, under this supposition,
it would be imprudent in us to risk crossing the ridge before nightfall.
There were two alternatives: to remain under the timber till after
sunset, and then proceed by night; or to push on into the canon, and
endeavour to make our way along the bed of the stream.  So far as we
knew, the path was an untried one; but it might be practicable for
horses.  We were now on the most dangerous ground we had yet trodden--
the highway of several hostile tribes, and their favourite
_tenting-place_, when going to, or returning from, their forays against
the half-civilised settlements of New Mexico.

The proximity of the caravan--which we calculated to be about ten miles
ahead of us--only increased our risk.  There was but little danger of
the Indians attacking that: the train was too strong, even without the
escort.  But the probability was, that a band of Indian horse-thieves
would be skulking on its skirts--not to make an attack upon the caravan
itself but as wolves after a gang of buffalo, to sacrifice the
stragglers.  Unless when irritated by some hostile demonstration, these
robbers confine themselves to plundering: but in the case of some,
murder is the usual concomitant of plunder.

The delay of another night was disheartening to all of us--but
especially so to myself, for reasons already known.  If we should
succeed in passing through the canon, perhaps on the other side we might
come in sight of the caravan?  Cheered on by this prospect, we hesitated
no longer; but hastening forward, entered between the jaws of the
defile.  A fearful chasm it was--the rocky walls rising perpendicularly
to the height of many hundreds of feet--presenting a grim _facade_ on
each side of us.  The sky above appeared a mere strip of blue; and we
were surrounded by a gloom deeper than that of twilight.  The torrent
roared and foamed at our feet; and the trail at times traversed through
the water.

There _was_ a trail, as we soon perceived; and, what was more
significant, one that had recently been travelled!  Horses had been over
it; and in several places the rocky pebbles, that should otherwise have
been dry, were wet by the water that had dripped from their fetlocks.  A
large troop of horses must have passed just before us.  Had the dragoon
escort gone that way?  More likely a party of mounted travellers
belonging to the train?  And yet this did not strike us as being likely.
We were soon convinced that such was not the case.  On riding forward,
we came upon a mud-deposit--at the mouth of one of the transverse
ravines--over which led the trail.  The mud exhibited the _tracks_
distinctly and in a more significant light--they were _hoof-tracks_!  We
saw that more than a hundred horses had passed up the defile; and not
one _shod_ animal among them!  This fact was very significant.  They
could not have been troop-horses?  Nor yet those of white men?  If
ridden, they must have been ridden by Indians?  It did not follow that
they were ridden.  We were travelling through a region frequented by the
_mustang_.  Droves had been seen upon our route, at great distances off:
for these are the shyest and wildest of all animals.  A _caballada_ may
have passed through the gorge, on their way to the upper valley?  There
was nothing improbable in this.  Although the plains are the favourite
habitat of the horse, the _mustang_ of Spanish America is half a
mountain animal; and often penetrates the most difficult passes--
climbing the declivities with hoof as sure as that of a chamois.

Had these horses been ridden?  That was the point to be determined, and
how?  The sign was not very intelligible, but sufficiently so for our
purpose.  The little belt of mud-deposit was only disturbed by a single
line of tracts--crossing it directly from side to side.  The animals had
traversed it in single file.  Wild horses would have _crowded over it_--
some of them at least kicking out to one side or the other?  This I
myself knew.  The reasoning appeared conclusive.  We had no longer a
doubt that a large party of Indians had gone up the gorge before us, and
not very long before us.

It now became a question of advance or retreat.  To halt within the
defile--even had a halting-place offered--would have been perilous above
all things.  There was no spot, where we could conceal either ourselves
or our animals.  The mounted Indians might be returning down again; and,
finding us in such a snug trap, would have us at their mercy?  We did
not think, therefore, of staying where we were.  To go back was too
discouraging.  We were already half through the canon, and had ridden
over a most difficult path--often fording the stream at great risk, and
climbing over boulders of rock, that imperilled the necks, both of
ourselves and our animals.  We determined to keep on.

We were in hopes that the Indians had by this time passed clear through
the gorge, and ridden out into the valley above.  In that case there
would be no great risk in our proceeding to the upper end.  Our
expectations did not deceive us.  We reached the mouth of the chasm--
without having seen other signs of those who had proceeded us, than the
tracks of their horses.

We had heard sounds, however, that had given us some apprehension--the
reports of guns--not as during the early part of the day, in single
shots, but in half-dozens at a time, and once or twice in large
volleys--as if of a scattering _fusillade_!  The sounds came from the
direction of the upper valley; and were but faintly heard--so faintly
that we were in doubt, as to whether they were the reports of fire-arms.
The grumbling and rushing of the river hindered us from hearing them
more distinctly.  But for the presence of Indians in the valley--about
which we were quite certain--we should perhaps not have noticed the
sounds, or else have taken them for something else.  Perhaps we might
have conjectured, that a gang of buffaloes had passed near the train--
leading to a brisk emptying of rifles.  But the presence of the Indians
rendered this hypothesis less probable.

We still continued to observe caution.  Before emerging from the defile,
we halted near its entrance--Wingrove and myself stealing forward to
reconnoitre.  An elevated post--which we obtained upon a shelf of the
rock--gave us a commanding prospect of the upper valley.  The sight
restored our confidence: _the caravan was in view_!



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

THE ORPHAN BUTTE.

The landscape over which we were looking was one that has long been
celebrated, in the legends of trapper and _cibolero_, and certainly no
lovelier is to be met with in the midland regions of America.  Though
new to my eyes, I recognised it from the descriptions I had read and
heard of it.  There was an idiosyncrasy in its features--especially in
that lone mound rising conspicuously in its midst--which at once
proclaimed it the valley of the _Huerfano_.  There stood the "Orphan
Butte."  There was no mistaking its identity.

This valley, or, more properly, _valle_--a word of very different
signification--is in reality a level plain, flanked on each side by a
continuous line of bluffs or "benches"--themselves forming the abutments
of a still higher plain, which constitutes the general level of the
country.  The width between the bluffs is five or six miles; but, at the
distance of some ten miles from our point of view, the cliffs converge--
apparently closing in the valley in that direction.  This, however, is
only apparent.  Above the butte is another deep canon, through which the
river has cleft its way.  The intervening space is a picture fair to
behold.  The surface, level as a billiard-table, is covered with
_gramma_ grass, of a bright, almost emerald verdure.  The uniformity of
this colour is relieved by cotton-wood copses, whose foliage is but one
shade darker.  Commingling with these, and again slightly darkening the
hue of the frondage, are other trees, with a variety of shrubs or
climbing-plants--as clematis, wild roses, and willows.  Here and there,
a noble poplar stands apart--as if disdaining to associate with the more
lowly growth of the groves.

These "topes" are of varied forms: some rounded, some oval, and others
of more irregular shape.  Many of them appear as if planted by the hands
of the landscape-gardener; while the Huerfano, winding through their
midst, could not have been more gracefully guided, had it been specially
designed for an "ornamental water."

The butte itself, rising in the centre of the plain, and towering nearly
two hundred feet above the general level, has all the semblance of an
artificial work--not of human hands, but a cairn constructed by giants.
Just such does it appear--a vast pyramidal cone, composed of huge
prismatic blocks of granite, black almost as a coal--the dark colour
being occasioned by an iron admixture in the rock.  For two-thirds of
its slope, a thick growth of cedar covers the mound with a skirting of
darkest green.  Above this appear the dark naked prisms--piled one upon
the other, in a sort of irregular crystallisation, and ending in a
summit slightly truncated.  Detached boulders lie around its base, huge
pieces that having yielded to the disintegrating influences of rain and
wind, had lost their balance, and rolled down the declivity of its
sides.  No other similar elevation is near--the distant bluffs alone
equalling it in height.  But there the resemblance ends; for the latter
are a formation of stratified sandstone, while the rocks composing the
butte are purely granitic!  Even in a geological point of view, is the
Orphan Butte isolated from all the world.  In a double sense, does it
merit its distinctive title.

Singular is the picture formed by this lone mound, and the park-like
scene that surrounds it--a picture rare as fair.  Its very framing is
peculiar.  The bench of light-reddish sandstone sharply outlined on each
edge--the bright green of the sward along its base--and the dark belt of
cedars cresting its summit, form, as it were, a double moulding to the
frame.  Over this can be distinguished the severer outlines of the great
Cordilleras; above them, again, the twin cones of the Wa-to-yah; and
grandly towering over all, the sharp sky-piercing summit of Pike's Peak.
All these forms gleaming in the full light of a noonday sun, with a
heaven above them of deep ethereal blue, present a picture that for
grandeur and sublimity is not surpassed upon the earth.

A long while could we have gazed upon it; but an object, that came at
once under our eyes, turned our thoughts into a far different channel.
Away up the valley, at its furthest end, appeared a small white spot--
little bigger to our view than the disc of an archer's target.  It was
of an irregular roundish form; and on both sides of it were other,
shapes--smaller and of darker hue.  We had no difficulty in making out
what these appearances were: the white object was the tilt of a waggon:
the dark forms around it were those of men--mounted and afoot!  It must
have been the last waggon of the train: since no other could be seen;
and as it appeared at the very end of the valley--in the angle formed by
the convergence of the cliffs--we concluded that there the canon opened
into which the rest had entered.  Whether the waggon seen was moving
onward, we did not stay to determine.  The caravan was in sight; and
this, acting upon us like an electric influence, impelled us to hasten
forward.

Calling to our companions to advance, we remounted our horses, rode out
of the gorge, and kept on up the valley.  We no longer observed the
slightest caution.  The caravan was before our eyes; and there could be
no doubt that, in a couple of hours, we should be able to come up with
it.  As to danger, we no longer thought of such a thing.  Indians would
scarcely be so daring as to assail us within sight of the train?  Had it
been night, we might have reasoned differently; but, under the broad
light of day, we could not imagine there was the slightest prospect of
danger.  We resolved, therefore, to ride direct for the waggons, without
making halt.

Yes--one halt was to be made.  I had promised the _ci-devant_ soldiers
to make _civilians_ of them before bringing them face to face with the
escort; and this was to be accomplished by means of some spare wardrobe
which Wingrove and I chanced to have among our packs.  The place fixed
upon as the scene of the metamorphosis was the butte--which lay directly
on our route.  As we rode forward, I was gratified at perceiving that
the waggon still remained in sight.  If it was moving on, it had not yet
reached the head of the valley.  Perhaps it had stopped to receive some
repairs?  So much the better: we should the sooner overtake it.

On arriving at the butte, the white canvas was still visible; though
from our low position on the plain, only the top of the tilt could be
seen.  While Wingrove was unpacking our spare garments, I dismounted,
and climbed to the summit of the mound--in order to obtain a better
view.  I had no difficulty in getting up--for, strange to say, a trail
runs over the Orphan Butte, from south-east to north-west, regularly
aligned with Pike's Peak in the latter direction, and with _Spanish
Peaks_ in the former!  But this alignment was not the circumstance that
struck me as singular.  A far more curious phenomenon came under my
observation.  The path leading to the summit was entirely clear of the
granite blocks that everywhere else covered the declivities of the
mound.  Between these it passed like a narrow lane, the huge prisms
rising on each side of it, piled up in a regular trap-like formation, as
if placed there by the hand of man!  The latter hypothesis was out of
the question.  Many of the blocks were a dozen feet in diameter, and
tons in weight.  Titans alone could have lifted them!  The summit itself
was a table of some twenty by forty feet in superficial extent, and
seamed by several fissures.  Only by following the path could the summit
be reached without great difficulty.  The loose boulders rested upon one
another, in such fashion, that even the most expert climber would have
found difficulty in scaling them; and the stunted spreading cedars that
grew between their clefts, combined in forming a _chevaux de frise_
almost impenetrable.

I was not permitted to dwell long on the contemplation of this
geological phenomenon.  On reaching the summit, and directing my
telescope up the valley, I obtained a tableau in its field of vision
that almost caused me to drop the glass out of my fingers!  The whole
waggon was in view down to its wheel-tracks; and the dark forms were
still around it.  Some were afoot, others on horseback--while a few
appeared to be lying flat along the sward.  Whoever these last may have
been, I saw at the first glance what the others were.  The bronzed skins
of naked bodies--the masses of long sweeping hair--the plumed crests and
floating drapery--were perfectly apparent in the glass--and all
indicating a truth of terrible significance that the forms thus seen
were those of savage men!  Yes: both they on horseback and afoot were
Indians beyond a doubt.  And those horizontally extended?  They were
_white_ men--the owners of the waggons?  This truth flashed on me, as I
beheld a fearful object--a body lying head towards me, with its crown of
mottled red and white, gleaming significantly through the glass.  I had
no doubt as to the nature of the object: it was a scalpless skull!



CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

RAISING A RAMPART.

I kept the telescope to my eye not half so long as I have taken in
telling of it.  Quick as I saw that the men stirring around the waggon
were Indians, I thought only of screening my person from their sight.
To effect this, I dropped down from the summit of the rock--on the
opposite side from that facing toward the savages.  Showing only the top
of my head, and with the glass once more levelled up the valley, I
continued the observation.  I now became assured that the victim of the
ensanguined skull was a white man; that the other prostrate forms were
also the bodies of white men, all dead--all, no doubt, mutilated in a
similar manner?

The tableau told its own tale.  The presence of the waggon halted, and
without horses--one or two dead ones lying under the tongue--the ruck of
Indians clustering around it--the bodies stretched along the earth--
other objects, boxes, and bales, strewed over the sward--all were
significant of recent strife.  The scene explained what we had heard
while coming up the canon.  The fusillade had been no fancy, but a
fearful reality--fearful, too, in its effects, as I was now satisfied by
the testimony of my telescope.  The caravan had been attacked, or, more
likely, only a single waggon that had been straggling in the rear?  The
firing may have proceeded from the escort, or the armed emigrants?
Indians may have fallen: indeed there were some prostrate forms apart,
with groups gathered around them, and those I conjectured to be the
corpses of red men.  But it was evident the Indians had proved
victorious: since they were still upon the field--still holding the
place and the plunder.

Where were the other waggons of the train?  There were fifty of them--
only one was in sight!  It was scarcely possible that the whole caravan
had been captured.  If so, they must have succumbed within the pass?  A
fearful massacre must have been made?  This was improbable: the more so,
that the Indians around the waggon appeared to number near two hundred
men.  They must have constituted the full band: for it is rare that a
war-party is larger.  Those seen appeared to be all warriors, naked from
the breech-clout upward, their skins glaring with pigments.  Neither
woman nor child could I see among them.  Had the other waggons been
captured, there would not have been so many of the captors clustered
around this particular one.  In all likelihood, the vehicle had been
coming up behind the others?  The animals drawing it had been shot down
in the skirmish, and it had fallen into the hands of the successful
assailants?

These conjectures occupied me only a moment.  Mingled with them was one
of still more special import: to whom had belonged the abandoned waggon?
With fearful apprehension, I covered the ground with my glass--
straining my sight as I gazed through it.  I swept the whole surface of
the surrounding plain.  I looked under the waggon--on both sides of it,
and beyond.  I sought amidst the masses of dusky forms I examined the
groups and stragglers--even the corpses that strewed the plain.  Thank
Heaven! they were all black, or brown, or red!  All appeared to be
_men_--both the living and the dead--thank Heaven!  The ejaculation
ended my survey of the scene: it had scarcely occupied ten seconds of
time.

It was interrupted by a sudden movement on the part of the savages.
Those on horseback were seen separating from the rest; and, the instant
after, appeared coming on in the direction of the butte!  The movement
was easily accounted for.  My imprudence had betrayed our presence.  I
had been seen while standing on the summit of the mound!  I felt regret
for my own rashness; but there was no time to indulge in the feeling,
and I stifled it.  The moment called for action--demanding all the
firmness of nerve and coolness of head which, fortunately, I had
acquired by the experience of similar arises.  Instead of shouting to my
comrades--as yet unconscious of the approaching danger--I remained upon
the summit without uttering a word, or showing a sign that might alarm
them.  My object in so acting was to avoid the confusion, consequent
upon a sudden panic, and keep my mind free to think over some plan of
escape.  The Indians were still five miles off.  It would be some
minutes at least before they could attack us.  Two or three of these
could be spared for reflection.  After that, it would be time to call in
the counsel of my companions.

I am here describing in detail, and with the tranquillity of closet
retrospect, thoughts that follow one another with the rapidity of
lightning flashes.  To say that I reflected coolly, would not be true: I
was at that moment too much under the influence of fear for tranquil
reflection.  I perceived at once that the situation was more than
dangerous: it was desperate.  Flight was my first thought, or rather my
first instinct: for, on reflection, it failed.  The idea was to fling
off the packs, mount the two pedestrians upon the mules, and gallop back
for the canon.  The conception was good enough, if it could have been
carried out, but of this there was no hope.  The defile was too distant
to be reached in time.  The two who might ride the mules could never
make it--they must fall by the way.  Even if all four of us should
succeed in getting back to the canon, what then?  Was it likely we
should ever emerge from it?  We might for a time defend ourselves within
its narrow gorge; but to pass clear through and escape at the other end
would be impossible.  A party of our pursuers would be certain to take
over the ridge, and head us below.  To anticipate them in their arrival
there, and reach the woods beyond, would be utterly out of our power.
The trail through the canon was full of obstacles, as we had already
discovered--and these would delay us.  Without a prospect of reaching
the forest below it would be of no use attempting flight.  In the valley
around us there was no timbered tract--nothing that deserved the name of
a wood: only copses and groves, the largest of which would not have
sheltered us for an hour.

I had a reflection.  Happy am I now, and proud, that I had the virtue to
stifle it.  For myself, escape by flight might not have been so
problematical.  A steed stood near that could have carried me beyond all
danger.  It only needed to fling myself into the saddle, and ply the
spur.  Even without that impulsion, my Arab would, and could, have
carried me clear of the pursuit.  Death was preferable to the thought.
I could only indulge it as a last resort--after all else had failed and
fallen.  Three men were my companions, true and tried.  To all of them,
I owed some service--to one little less than my life--for the bullet of
the eccentric ranger had once saved me from an enemy.  It was I who had
brought on the impending attack.  It was but just I should share its
danger; and the thought of shunning it vanished on the instant of its
conception.  Escape by flight appeared hopeless.  On the shortest survey
of the circumstances I perceived that our only chance lay in defending
ourselves.  The chance was not much worth; but there was no alternative.
We must stand and tight, or fall without resisting.  From such a foe as
that coming down upon us, we need expect no grace--not a modicum of
mercy.  Where was our defence to be made?  On the summit of the butte?
There was no better place in sight--no other that could be reached,
offering so many advantages.  Had we chosen it for a point of defence,
it could not have promised better for the purpose.  As already stated,
the cone was slightly truncated--its top ending in a _mesa_.  The table
was large enough to hold four of us.  By crouching low, or lying flat
upon it, we should be screened from the arrows of the Indians, or such
other weapons as they might use.  On the other hand, the muzzles of four
guns pointed at _them_, would deter them from approaching the base of
the butte.  Scarcely a minute was I in maturing a plan; and I lost less
time in communicating it to my companions.  Returning to them, as fast
as I could make the descent, I announced the approach of the Indians.

The announcement produced a surprise sufficiently unpleasant, but no
confusion.  The old soldiers had been too often under fire to be
frightened out of their senses at the approach of an enemy; and the
young hunter was not one to give way to a panic.  All three remained
cool and collected, as they listened to my hurried detail of the plan I
had sketched out for our defence.  There was no difficulty in inducing
them to adopt it.  All agreed to it eagerly and at once: in short, all
saw that there was no alternative.  Up the mound again--this time
followed by my three comrades--each of us heavily laden.  In addition to
our guns and ammunition, we carried our saddles and mule-packs, our
blankets and buffalo-robes.  It was not their intrinsic value that
tempted us to take this trouble with our _impedimenta_: our object was
to make with them a rampart upon the rock.  We had just time for a
second trip; and, flinging our first loads up to the table, we rushed
back down the declivity.  Each seized upon such objects as offered
themselves--valises, the soldiers' knapsacks, joints of the antelope
lately killed, and the noted meal-bag--all articles likely to avail us
in building our bulwark.

The animals must be abandoned--both horses and mules.  Could we take
them up to the summit?  Yes, the thing could be accomplished, but to
what purpose?  It would be worse than useless: since it would only
render them an aim for the arrows of the enemy, and insure their being
shot down at once.  To leave them below appeared the better plan.  A
tree stood near the base of the mound.  To its branches their bridles
had been already looped.  There they would be within easy range of our
rifles.  We could shelter them so long as there was light.  To protect
them might appear of little advantage; since in the darkness they could
be easily taken from us.  But in leaving them thus, we were not without
some design.  We, too, might build a hope on the darkness.  If we could
succeed in sustaining the attack until nightfall, flight might _then_
avail us.  In truth, that seemed the only chance we should have of
ultimately escaping from our perilous situation.  We resolved,
therefore, to look well to the safety of the animals.  Though, forced to
forsake them for a time, we might still keep the enemy off, and again
recover them?  The contingency was not clear, and we were too much
hurried to dwell long upon it.  It only flitted before our minds like a
gleam of light through, the misty future.

I had just time to bid farewell to my Arab--to run my fingers along his
smooth arching neck--to press my lips to his velvet muzzle.  Brave
steed! tried and trusty friend!  I could have wept at the parting.  He
made answer to my caresses: he answered them with a low whimpering
neigh.  He knew there was something amiss--that there was danger.  Our
hurried movements had apprised him of it; but the moment after, his
altered attitude, his flashing eyes, and the loud snorting from his
spread nostrils, told that he perfectly comprehended the danger.  He
heard the distant trampling of hoofs: he knew that an enemy was
approaching.  I heard the sounds myself, and rushed back up the butte.
My companions were already upon the summit, busied in building the
rampart around the rock.  I joined them, and aided them in the work.

Our _paraphernalia_ proved excellent for the purpose--light enough to be
easily handled, and sufficiently firm to resist either bullets or
arrows.  Before the Indians had come within hailing distance, the
parapet was completed; and, crouching behind it, we awaited their
approach.



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

THE WAR-CRY.

The war-cry "How-ow-owgh-aloo-oo!" uttered loudly from a hundred
throats, comes pealing down the valley.  Its fiendish notes, coupled
with the demon-like forms that give utterance, to them, are well
calculated to quail the stoutest heart.  Ours are not without fear.
Though we know that the danger is not immediate, there is a significance
in the tones of that wild slogan.  They express more than the usual
hostility of red to white--they breathe a spirit of vengeance.  The
gestures of menace--the brandished spears, and bended bows--the
war-clubs waving in the air--are all signs of the excited anger of the
Indians.  Blood has been spilled--perhaps the blood of some of their
chosen warriors--and ours will be sought to a certainty.  We perceive no
signs of a pacific intent--no semblance that would lead us to hope for
mercy.  The foe is bent on our destruction.  He rushes forward to kill!

I have said that the danger was not immediate.  I did not conceive it
so.  My conception was based upon experience.  I had met the prairie
Indians before--in the south; but north or south, I knew that their
tactics were the same.  It is a mistake to suppose that these savages
rush recklessly upon death.  Only when their enemy is far inferior to
them in numbers--or otherwise an under-match--will they advance boldly
to the fight.  They will do this in an attack upon Mexicans, whose
prowess they despise; or sometimes in a conflict with their own kind--
when stimulated by warrior pride, and the promptings of the tribal
vendetta.  On other occasions, they are sufficiently careful of their
skins--more especially in an encounter with the white trappers, or even
travellers who tenter the prairies from the east.  Of all other weapons,
they dread the long rifle of the hunter.  It is only after stratagem has
failed--when _do or die_ becomes a necessity--that the horse-Indian can
bring himself to charge forward upon the glistening barrel.  The mere
hope of plunder will not tempt even the boldest of red-skinned robbers
within the circle of a rifle's range.  They all know from experience the
deadliness of its aim.

Most probably plunder had been their motive for attacking the train; but
their victims could only have been some straggling unfortunates, too
confident in their security.  These had not succumbed without a
struggle.  The death of all of them proved this: since not a prisoner
appeared to have been taken.  Further evidence of it was seen upon the
sward; for as the crowd scattered, I observed through, the glass several
corpses that were not those of white men.  The robbers, though
victorious, had suffered severely: hence the vengeful yells with which
they were charging down upon us.  With all their menace both of signs
and sounds, I had no fear of their charging; up the mound, nor yet to
its base.  There were fifty yards around it within range of our guns;
and the first who should venture within this circle would not be likely
to go forth from it alive.

"Not a shot is to be fired, till you are sure of hitting!  Do not one of
you pull trigger, till you have sighted your man!"  This was the order
passed around.  On the skill of my comrades I could confide--on
Sure-shot with all the certainty which his _soubriquet_ expressed; and I
had seen enough of the young hunter, to know how he handled his rifle.
About the Irishman alone was there a doubt--only of his coolness and his
aim--of his courage there was none.  In this, the infantry was perhaps
equal to any of us.

The words of caution had scarcely parted from my lips, when the enemy
came galloping up.  Their yelling grew louder as they advanced; and its
echoes, ringing from the rocks, appeared to double the number of their
wild vociferations.  We could only hear one another by calling out at
the top of our voices.  But we had little to say.  The time for talking
had expired: that of action had arrived.  On come the whooping; savages,
horrid to behold: their faces, arms, and bodies frightfully painted,
each after his own device, and all as hideous as savage conception can
suggest.  The visages of bears, wolves, and other fierce animals, are
depicted on their breasts and shields--with the still more horrid
emblems of the death's head, the cross-bones, and the red-hand.  Even
their horses are covered with similar devices--stained upon their skins
in ochre, charcoal, and vermilion!  The sight is too fearful to be
fantastic.  On they come, uttering their wild "Howgh-owgh-aloo!"
brandishing their various weapons, and making their shields of
_parfleche_ rattle by repeated strokes against their clubs and spears--
on comes the angry avalanche!

They are within a hundred yards of the butte.  For a moment we are in
doubt.  If they charge up the declivity, we are lost men.  We may shoot
down the foremost; but they are twenty to one.  In a hand-to-hand
struggle, we shall be overwhelmed--killed or captured--in less than
sixty seconds of time!

"Hold your fire!"  I cried, seeing my comrades lie with their cheeks
against their guns; "not yet! only two at a time--but not yet!  Ha! as I
expected."

And just as I had expected, the wild ruck came to a halt--those in the
lead drawing up their horses, as suddenly as if they had arrived upon
the edge of a precipice!  They had come to a stand just in the nick of
time.  Had they advanced but five paces further, at least two of their
number would have tumbled out of their saddles.  Sure-shot and I had
each selected our man, and agreed upon the signal to fire.  The others
were ready to follow.  All four barrels resting over the rampart had
caught the eyes of the Indians.  A glance at the glistening tubes was
sufficient.  True to their old tactics, it was the sight of these that
had halted them!



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

THE RED-HAND.

The whooping and screaming are for a while suspended.  Those in the rear
have ridden up; and the straggling cavalcade becomes massed upon the
plain, at less than two hundred yards' distance from the butte.  Shouts
are still heard, and talking in an unknown tongue; but not the dread
war-cry.  That has failed of its effect, and is heard no longer.  Now
and then, young warriors gallop toward the butte, vaunt their valour,
brandish their weapons, shoot off their arrows, and threaten us by word
and gesture.  All, however, keep well outside the perilous circumference
covered by our guns.

We perceive that they, too, have guns, both muskets and rifles--in all,
a dozen or more!  We can tell that they are empty.  Those who carry them
are dismounting to load.  We may expect soon to receive their fire; but,
from the clumsy manner in which they handle their pieces, that need not
terrify us--any more than their arrows, already sent, and falling far
short.

Half-a-dozen horsemen are conspicuous.  They are chiefs, as can be told
by the eagle plumes sticking in their hair, with other insignia on their
breasts and bodies.  These have ridden to the front, and are grouped
together--their horses standing head to head.  Their speeches and
gesticulations declare that they are holding council.  The movements of
menace are no longer made.  We have time to examine our enemies.  They
are so near that I need scarcely level the glass upon them; though
through it, I can note every feature with minute distinctness.

They are not Comanches.  Their bodies are too big, and their limbs too
long, for these Ishmaelites of the southern plains.  Neither are they of
the Jicarilla-Apache: they are too noble-looking to resemble these
skulking jackals.  More like are they to the Cayguas?  But no--they are
not Cayguas.  I have met these Indians, and should know them.  The
war-cry did not resemble theirs.  Theirs is the war-cry of the Comanche.
I should have known it at once.  Cheyennes they may be--since it is
their especial ground?  Or might it be that tribe of still darker,
deadlier fame--the hostile Arapaho?  If they be Arapahoes, we need look
for no mercy.

I sweep the glass over them, seeking for signs by which I may identify
our enemy.  I perceive one that is significant.  The leggings of the
chiefs and principal warriors are fringed with scalps; their shields are
encircled by similar ornaments.  Most of these appendages are of dark
hue--the locks long and black.  But not all are of this kind or colour.
One shield is conspicuously different from the rest.  A red-hand is
painted upon its black disc.  It is the _totem_ of him who carries it.
A thick fringe of hair is set around its rim.  The tufts are of
different lengths and colours.  There are tresses of brown, blonde, and
even red; hair curled and wavy; coarse hair; and some soft and silky.
Through the glass I see all this, with a clearness that leaves no doubt
as to the character of these varied _chevelures_.  They are the scalps
of whites--both of men and women!  And the red-hand upon the shield?  A
red-hand?  Ah!  I remember.  There is a noted chief of the name, famed
for his hostility to the trappers--famed for a ferocity unequalled among
his race--a savage, who is said to delight in torturing his captives--
especially if it be a pale-face who has had the misfortune to fall into
his hands.  Can it be that fiend--the Red-Hand of the Arapahoes?

The appearance of the man confirms my suspicion.  A body, tall, angular,
and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a
face seamed with the traces of evil passion; eyes deep sunken in their
sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire--an aspect more fiend-like
than human!  All this agrees with the descriptions I have had of the
Red-Hand chief.  Assuredly it is he.  Our enemies, then, are the
Arapahoes--their leader the dreaded _Red-Hand_.

"Heaven have mercy upon us!  These men will have none!"  Such was the
ejaculation that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that I
recognised, the foe that was before us.

The Red-Hand is seen to direct.  He is evidently leader of the band.
All seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at
his word or nod.  Beyond doubt, it is the Red-Hand and his followers,
who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he.  A dreaded
band, long known to the traders of Santa Fe--to the _ciboleros_ from the
Taos Valley--to the trappers of the Arkansas and Platte.  We are not the
first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it
be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims.  Many a brave
"mountain-man" has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp.
Scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been
"rubbed" out by Red-Hand and his "Rapahoes."

The council of the chiefs continues for some time.  Some _ruse_ is being
devised and debated among them.  With palpitating hearts we await the
issue.  I have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and
cautioned my comrade's to be on their guard.  I have told them that, if
my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy.  The talk is at an
end.  Red-Hand is about to address us.  Riding two lengths in front of
his followers, the savage chief makes halt.  His shield is held
conspicuously upward--its convexity towards us--not for any purpose of
security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer.
Red-Hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name.  In his other
hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget
fearful emotions.  Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high
aloft, are the scalps recently taken.  There are six of them in the
bunch--easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily
identified as those of white men.  They are the scalps of the slain
teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured
waggon.  They are all fresh and gory--hang limber along the shaft.  The
blood is not yet dry upon them--the wet surface glitters in the sun!  We
view them with singular emotions--mine perhaps more singular than any.
I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies.  I am but too
satisfied at failing.



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

AN ILL-TIMED SHOT.

"_Hablo Castellano_?" cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish.

I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie
Indian.  Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexican _patois_.
They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but
better--_from their captives_.

"_Si cavallero_!  I speak Spanish.  What wishes the warrior with the
red-hand upon his shield?"

"The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such
a question?  What wishes the Red-Hand?  Ha, ha, ha!  The scalps of the
white men--their scalps and lives--that is the will of the Arapaho
chief!"

The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a
scornful laugh.  The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty
character: he glories in the terror of his name!  With such a monster,
it seems idle to bold parley.  In the end, it will be only to fight, and
if defeated, to die.  But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from
catching even at a straw.

"Arapaho!  We are not your enemies!  Why should you desire to take our
lives?  We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and
have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers."

"Red brothers! ha, ha, ha!  Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare!
The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a
pale-face.  Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his
enemies!  Behold their scalps upon his shield!  Ugh!  See the fresh
trophies upon his spear!  Count them!  There are six!  There will be
ten.  Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking
on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!"

I could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable.
I made no reply.

"Dogs!" fiercely vociferated the savage, "come down, and deliver up your
arms!"

"An' our scalps too, I s'pose," muttered the Yankee.  "Neo, certingly
not, at your price: I don't sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes
to.  'Twouldn't pay nohow.  Lookee yeer, old red gloves!" continued he
in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart--"this heer o'
mine air vallable, do ee see?  It air a rare colour, an' a putty colour.
It 'ud look jest the thing on thet shield o' yourn; but 'tain't there
yet, not by a long chalk; an' I kalklate ef ye want the skin o' my head,
ye'll have to trot up an' take it."

"Ugh!" ejaculated the Indian with an impatient gesture.  "The yellow
squaw is not worth the words of a chief.  His scalp is not for the
shield of a warrior.  It will be given to the dogs of our tribe.  It
will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie."

"Ain't partickler abeout what 'ee do wi' 't--thet is, efter ye've got
it.  Don't ye wish 'ee may get it? eh?"

"Wagh!" exclaimed the savage, with another impatient gesticulation.
"The Red-Hand is tired talking.  One word more.  Listen to it, chief of
the pale-faces!  Come down, and deliver up your fire-weapons!  The
Red-Hand will be merciful: he will spare your lives.  If you resist, he
will torture you with fire.  The knives of his warriors will hew the
living flesh from your bones.  You shall die a hundred deaths; and the
Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!"

"And what if we do not resist?"

"Your lives shall be spared.  The Red-Hand declares it on the faith of a
warrior."

"Faith o' a warrior!--faith o' a cut-throat!  He only wants to come
round us, capting, an' git our scalps 'ithout fightin' for 'em--thet's
what the red verming wants to be at--sure as shootin'."

"Why should the Red-Hand spare our lives?"  I enquired, taken by
surprise at any offer of life coming from such a quarter.  "Has he not
just said, that all white men are his enemies?"

"True.  But white men may become his friends.  He wants white men for
his allies.  He has a purpose."

"Will the Red-Hand declare his purpose?"

"Freely.  His people have taken, many fire-weapons.  See! they are
yonder in the hands of his braves, who know not how to use them.  Our
enemies--the Utahs--have been taught by the white hunters; and the ranks
of the Arapaho warriors are thinned by their deadly bullets.  If the
pale-faced chief and his three followers will consent to dwell with the
band of Red-Hand, and teach his warriors the great medicine of the
fire-weapon, their lives shall be spared.  The Red-Hand will honour the
young soldier-chief, and the White Eagle of the forest."

"Soldier-chief.  White Eagle of the forest!  How can he have known--"

"If you resist," continued he, interrupting my reflections, "the
Red-Hand will keep his word.  You have no chance of escape.  You are but
four, and the Arapaho warriors are numerous as the trees of the Big
Timber.  If one of them fall by your fire-weapons, he shall be revenged.
The Red-Hand repeats what he has said: the knives of his braves will
hew the living flesh from your bones.  You shall die a hundred deaths,
and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!"

"Be Jaysis, cyaptin!" cried O'Tigg, who, not understanding Spanish, was
ignorant of what had been said, "that ugly owld Indyan wants a bit ov
cowld lid through him.  In troth, I b'lave the musket moight raich him.
She belonged to Sargent Johnson, an' was considhered the longest raich
gun about the Fort.  What iv I throy her carry on the ridskin?  Say the
word, yer honour, an' here goes!"

So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid
no heed to what the Irishman was saying.  I had turned towards
Wingrove--not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of
the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that
had been made to him.  I had commenced translating the speech; but,
before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket
drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering
the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another!  It needed no
explanation.  The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had
fired!  From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout:

"Hooray! he's down--be my sowl! he's down!  I knew the owld musket 'ud
raich him!  Hooray!"

The report reverberated from the rocks--mingling its echoes with the
wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain.  In an instant,
the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more
visible.  The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of
his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield.  The horse was
down--stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death!

"Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn't it a splindid shat?"

"A shot that may cost us our scalps," said I: for I saw that there was
no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement--even upon the condition
of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe.  "Ha, ha,
ha!" came the wild laugh of the Arapaho.  "Vengeance on the pale-faced
traitors! vengeance!"

And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired
among his warriors.



CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

ATTEMPT TO STAMPEDE.

We made an attempt to open the interrupted parley.  In vain.  Whatever
amicable design the Red-Hand might have conceived was now changed to a
feeling of the most deadly hostility.  There was no more "talk" to be
drawn from him--not a word.  In the midst of his warriors, he stood
scowling and silent.  Neither did any of the chiefs deign to reply.  The
common braves made answers to our overtures; but only by the insult of a
peculiar gesture.  Any hopes we might have conceived of a pacific
termination to the encounter, died within us as we noted the behaviour
of the band.  Whether the Indian was in earnest in the proposal he had
made, or whether it was a mere scheme to get our scalps without fighting
for them, we could not tell at the time.  There was an air of
probability that he was honest about the matter; but, on the other hand,
his notorious character for hostility to the white race contradicted
this probability.  I had heard, moreover, that this same chief was in
the habit of adopting such stratagems to get white men into his power.
We had no time to speculate upon the point; nor yet upon that which
puzzled us far more--how he had arrived at the knowledge of who we were!
What could he have known of the "White Eagle of the forest," or the
"young soldier-chief?"  So far as I was myself concerned, the title
might have been explained.

My uniform--I still wore it--might have been espied upon the prairies?
The Indians are quick at catching an appellation, and communicating it
to one another.  But the figurative soubriquet of the young hunter?
That was more specific.  The Red-Hand could not have used it
accidentally?  Impossible.  It bespoke a knowledge of us, and our
affairs, that appeared mysterious and inexplicable.  It did not fail to
recall to our memory the apparition that had astonished Wingrove in the
morning.  There was no opportunity to discuss the question.  We had only
time for the most vague conjectures--before the savages began to fire at
us--discharging in rapid succession the guns which they had loaded.

We soon perceived that we had little to fear from this sort of attack.
Unless by some stray bullet, there was not much danger of their hitting
us.  Their clumsy _manege_ of the fire-weapon was evident enough.  It
added to the probability, that the chief had been in earnest about our
giving instructions to his warriors.  Still was there some degree of
danger.  The guns they had got hold of were large ones--most of them old
muskets of heavy calibre--that cast their ounces of lead to a long
distance.  We heard their bullets pattering against the rocks, and one
or two of them had passed whistling over our heads.  It was just
possible to get hit; and, to avoid such an accident, we crouched behind
our parapet, as closely as if we had been screening ourselves from the
most expert marksmen.  For a long time we did not return their fire.
O'Tigg was desirous of trying another shot with his piece, but I forbade
it.  Warned by what they had witnessed, the Indians had retired beyond
even the range of the Serjeant's fusil.

Two parties of savages now separate from the main body; and, taking
opposite directions, go sweeping at full gallop round the butte.  We
divine their object.  They have discovered the position of our animals:
the intention is to _stampede_ them.  We perceive the importance of
preventing this.  If we can but keep our animals out of the hands of the
savages until darkness come down, then may there be some prospect of our
escaping by flight.  True, it is only a faint hope.  There are many
contingencies by which the design may be defeated, but there are also
circumstances to favour it; and to yield without a struggle, would only
be to deliver ourselves into the hands of an unpitying foe.  The last
words uttered by the Arapaho chief have warned us that death will be
preferable to captivity.

We are sustained by another remembrance.  We know that we are not the
first white men who have been thus surrounded, and who afterwards
contrived to escape.  Many a small band of brave trappers have sustained
the attack of a whole Indian tribe; and though half of their number may
have fallen, the others lived to relate the perilous adventure.  The
life of a determined man is difficult to take.  A desperate sortie often
proves the safest defence; and three or four resolute arms will cut a
loophole of escape through a host of enemies.  Some such thoughts,
flitting before us, hinder us from succumbing to despair.

It was of the utmost importance, to prevent our animals from being swept
off; and to this end were our energies now directed.  Three of us faced
towards them--leaving the fourth to watch the movements of the enemy on
the other side of the butte.

Once more the wild cry rings among the rocks, as the red horsemen gallop
around--rattling their shields, and waving their weapons high in the
air.  These demonstrations are made to affright our animals, and cause
them to break from their fastenings.  They have not the desired effect.
The mules prance and hinnie; the horses neigh and bound over the grass;
but the long boughs bend without breaking: and, acting as elastic
springs, give full play to the affrighted creatures.  Not a rein snaps--
not a lazo breaks--not a loop slides from its hold!  The first skurry is
over; and we are gratified to see the four quadrupeds still grouped
around the tree, and fast as ever to its branches.  The _stampede_ has
proved a failure.  Another swoop of the wild horsemen ends with like
result: and then another.  And now closer and closer they come--
galloping in all directions, crossing and meeting, and wheeling and
circling--with shrill screams and violent gesticulations.  As they pass
near, they shelter themselves behind the bodies of their horses.  An arm
over the withers, a leg above the croup, are all of the riders we can
see.  It is useless to fire at these.  The horses we might tumble over
at pleasure; but the men offer no point to aim at.  At intervals a red
face gleams through the tossing locks of the mane; but, ere we can take
sight upon it, it is jerked away.  For a considerable time this play is
kept up, the Indians all the time yelling as if engaged in some terrible
conflict.

As to ourselves, we are too wary to waste our shots upon the horses; and
we reserve them in the hope of being able to "draw a bead" on some rider
more reckless than the rest.  The opportunity soon offers.  Two of the
savages exhibit a determination to succeed in snatching away the horses.
Knife in hand, they career around, evidently with the design of cutting
the bridles and lazoes.  Cheered on by the shouts of their comrades,
they grow less careful of their skins, and at length make a dash towards
the group under the tree.  When almost within head-reach of the
fastenings by which the mules are held, one of the latter slews suddenly
round, and sends her heels in a well-directed fling against the head of
the foremost horse!  The steed instantly wheels, and the other coming
behind follows the same movement, exposing both the riders to our aim.
They make an effort to throw themselves to the other side of their
animals; but the opportunity is lost.  Our rifles are too quick for
them.  Two of us fire at the same instant; and as the smoke clears away,
the red robbers are seen sprawling upon the plain.  Our shots have
proved fatal.  Before we can reload, the struggles of the fallen
horsemen have ended; and both lie motionless upon the grass.

The lesson was sufficient for the time.  Warned by the fate of their
comrades, the Indians, although still continuing their noisy
demonstrations, now kept well out of the range of our rifles.  There
appeared to be no others in the band, desirous of achieving fame at such
a risk of life.



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

OUR WEAK POINT.

For some time the savage horsemen continued their circling gallop around
the butte--one occasionally swooping nearer; but covered by the body of
his horse in such a way that it was impossible to sight him.  These
manoeuvres were executed by the young warriors, apparently in a spirit
of bravado, and with the design of showing off their courage and
equestrian skill.  We disregarded the harmless demonstrations, watching
them only when made in the direction of our animals.  At intervals a
hideous face peeping over the withers of a horse, offered a tempting
target.  My comrades would have tried a flying shot had I not restrained
them.  A miss would have damaged our prestige in the eyes of the enemy.
It was of importance that they should continue to believe in the
infallibility of the fire-weapon.

After a time, we observed a change of tactics.  The galloping slackened,
and soon came to an end.  The horsemen threw themselves into small
groups, at nearly equal distances apart, and forming a ring round the
butte.  Most of the riders then dismounted, a few only remaining upon
their horses, and continuing to dash backward and forward, from group to
group.  These groups were beyond the range of our rifles, though not of
the sergeant's musket.  But the savages--both mounted and afoot--had
taken care to make ramparts of their steeds.  At first, this manoeuvre
of our enemies appeared to have no other object than that of placing
themselves in a position to guard against our retreat.  A moment's
reflection, however, told us that this could not be the design.  There
were but two points by which we could pass down to the plain--on
opposite sides of the butte--why then should they _surround_ it?  It
could not be for the purpose of cutting off our retreat?  That could be
done as effectually without the circular deployment.

Their design soon became apparent.  We observed that the muskets were
distributed among the groups, three or four to each.  With these they
now opened fire upon us from all sides at once, keeping it up as fast as
they could load the pieces.  The effect was to render our situation a
little more perilous.  Not having the means to make our parapet
continuous, we were at several points exposed.  Had we had good marksmen
to deal with, we should have been in danger.  As it was, we drew well
back towards the centre of the platform; and were screened by its outer
angles.  Now and then a shot struck the rock, sending the splinters in
our faces; but all four of us escaped being hit by the bullets.

We had made an observation that rendered us uneasy: we had observed a
weak point in our defence.  We wondered that our assailants had not also
noticed it.  Around the butte, and close up to its base, lay many
boulders of rock.  They were prisms of granite, that had become detached
from the cairn itself, and rolled down its declivity.  They rested upon
the plain, forming a ring concentric with the circular base of the
mound.  Many of these boulders had a diameter of six feet, and would
have sheltered the body of a man from our shots.  Others, again, rested
along the sloping sides of the butte--also of prismatic shapes, with
sides overhanging.  These might form ramparts for our assailants should
they attempt to storm our position.  Even the spreading cedars would
have hidden them from our sight.  They were the trailing juniper of the
western wilds--very different from the Virginian cedar.  They were of
broad bushy forms, with stunted stems, and tortuous branches, densely
set with a dark acetalous foliage.  They covered the sides of the butte,
from base to middle height, with a draping perfectly impenetrable to the
eye.  Though there was no path save that already mentioned, assailants,
active as ours, might unseen have scaled the declivity.  Should the
Indians make a bold, dash up to the base of the butte, leave their
horses, and take to the rocks, they might advance upon us without risk.
While working their way up the slope, they would be safe from our shots,
sheltered by the projecting prisms, and screened by the trees.  We
should not dare to expose ourselves over the edge of the platform: since
the others, remaining behind the boulders below, would cover us with
their aim; and the shower of arrows would insure our destruction.  Those
who might scale the mound, would have us at their mercy.  Assailing us
simultaneously from all sides, and springing suddenly upon the platform,
ten to one against us, they could soon overpower us.

These were the observations we had made, and the reflections that
resulted from them.  We only wondered that our enemies had not yet
perceived the advantage of this plan of attack; and, since they had
neglected it so long, we were in hopes that the idea would not occur to
them at all.  It was not long before we perceived our error; and that we
had miscalculated the cunning of our dusky foes.  We saw the Indians
once more taking to their horses.  Some order had reached them from the
Red-Hand, who stood conspicuous in the midst of the largest group of his
warriors.  The movement that resulted from this order was similar to
that already practised in the endeavour to stampede our animals: only
that all the band took part in it--even the chiefs mounting and riding
among the rest.  The marksmen _alone_ remained afoot, and continued to
fire from behind their horses.

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

Once more the mounted warriors commence galloping in circles round the
butte.  We perceive that at each wheel they are coming nearer, and can
divine their intent.  It is the very plan of attack we have been
apprehending!  We can tell by their gestures that they are about to
charge forward to the rocks.

Regardless of the fire from the plain, we creep back to the edge of the
parapet, and point our pieces towards the circling horsemen.  We are
excited with, new apprehensions; but the caution to keep cool is once
more passed around; and each resolves not to fire without being certain
of his aim.  On our first shots will depend the success or failure of
the attack.  As before, we arrange that two only shall fire at a time.
If the shots prove true, and two of our foes fall to them, it may check
the charge, perhaps repulse it altogether?  Such often happens with an
onset of Indians--on whom the dread of the fire-weapon acts with a
mysterious effect.  On the other hand, if we miss, our fate is sealed
and certain.  We shall not even have the choice of that last desperate
resort, on which we have built a hope.  We shall be cut off from all
escape: for our animals will be gone before we can reach them.  On foot,
it will be idle to attempt flight.  Even could we run the gauntlet
through their line, we know they could overtake us upon the plain!

We feel like men about to throw dice for our lives, and dice too that
are loaded against us!  Nearer and nearer they come, until they are
coursing within fifty yards of the butte, and scarcely twice that
distance from our guns.  Were their bodies uncovered, we could reach
them; but we see only their hands, feet, and faces--the latter only at
intervals.  They draw nearer and nearer, till at length they are riding
within the circle of danger.  Our superior elevation gives us the
advantage.  We begin to see their bodies over the backs of their horses.
A little nearer yet, and some of these horses will go riderless over
the plain!  Ha! they have perceived their danger--one and all of them.
Notwithstanding their cries of bravado, and mutual encouragement, they
dread to make the final rush.  Each fears that himself may be the
victim!

Our heads were growing dizzy with watching them, and we were still
expecting to see some of them turn their horses, and dash inward to the
butte; when we heard a signal-cry circulating through their ranks.  All
at once the foremost of them was seen swerving off, followed by the
whole troop!  Before we could recover from our surprise, they had
galloped far beyond the range of our guns, and once more stood halted
upon the plain!



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

A RAMPART ON WHEELS.

For a time, our hearts throbbed more lightly; the pressure of
apprehension was removed.  We fancied the savages had either not yet
become fully aware of the advantage of storming our position, or that
the certainty of losing some of their number had intimidated them from
making the attempt.  They had abandoned their design, whatever it was;
and intended waiting for night--the favourite fighting-time of the
Indian.  This was just what we desired; and we were congratulating
ourselves that the prospect had changed in our favour.  Our joy was
short-lived: the enemy showed no signs of repose.  Clustered upon the
plain, they still kept to their horses.  By this, we knew that some
other movement was intended.  The chiefs were again in the centre of the
crowd, the Red-Hand conspicuous.  He was heard haranguing his warriors,
though we could not guess the purport of his speech.  His gestures told
of fierce rage--his glances, now and then directed towards us, betokened
a spirit of implacable vengeance.  At the conclusion of his speech, he
waved his hand in the direction of the waggon.  The gesture appeared to
be the accompaniment of a command.  It was promptly and instantly
obeyed.  A dozen horsemen dashed out from the group, and galloped off.
Their course was straight up the valley--towards the scene of their late
strife.  Those who had remained upon the ground dismounted, and were
seen giving their horses to the grass.  This might have led us to
anticipate a suspension of hostilities; but it did not.  The attitude of
our enemies was not that of purposed repose.  On the contrary, they came
together afoot; and engaged in what appeared to be an eager
consultation.  The chiefs spoke in turn.  Some new scheme was being
discussed.  We watched the party who had ridden off.  As anticipated,
the waggon proved to be the _butt_ of their excursion.  Having reached
it, they halt; and, dismounting, become grouped around it.  It is
impossible for some time to tell what they are doing.  Even the glass
does not reveal the nature of their movements.  There are others besides
those who rode up; and the white tilt appears in the midst of is dark
cluster of men and horses.  Their errand at length becomes obvious.  The
crowd is seen to scatter.  Horses appear harnessed to the tongue--the
wheels are in motion--the vehicle is turning round upon the plain.  We
see that some half-dozen horses are hitched on, with men seated upon
their backs as teamsters!  They make a wheel, and head down the valley
in the direction of the butte.  They are seen urging the animals into a
rapid pace.  The waggon, no longer loaded, leaps lightly over the smooth
sward.  The horses are spurred into a gallop; and amidst the shouts of
the savage drivers, drag the huge vehicle after them with the rough
rapidity of a mountain howitzer.  In a few minutes, it advances to the
ground occupied by the dismounted band, who surround it upon its
arrival.

We upon the summit have a full view of all.  We recognise the well-known
Troy waggon--with its red wheels, blue body, and ample canvas roof.  The
lettering, "Troy, New York," is legible on the tilt--a strange sight in
the midst of its present possessors!  What can be their object with the
waggon?  Their actions leave us not long in doubt.  The horses are
unharnessed and led aside.  Half-a-dozen savages are seen crouching
under the axles, and laying hold of the spokes.  As many more stand
behind--screened from our sight by the tilt-cloth, the body, and boxing.
The pole projects in the direction of the mound!

Their object is now too painfully apparent.  Without thinking of the
analogy of the Trojan horse, we see that this monster of a modern Troy
is about to be employed for a similar purpose.  Yes--shielded by the
thick planking of its bed--by its head and hind boards--by its canvas
covering, and other cloths which they have cunningly spread along its
sides, the savages may approach the mound in perfect safety.  Such is
their design.  With dismay, we perceive it.  We can do nought either to
retard or hinder its execution.  Those under the vehicle can "spoke" the
wheels forward, without in the least exposing their bodies to our aim.
Even their hands and arms are not visible: buffalo-robes and blankets
hang over, draping the wheels from our view.  Those behind are equally
well screened; and can propel the huge machine, without risk of danger.
We note all these circumstances with feelings of keen apprehension.  We
adopt no means to hinder the movement: we can think of none, since none
is possible.  We are paralysed by a sense of our utter helplessness.

We are allowed but little time to reflect upon it.  Amidst the shouts of
the savages, we hear the creaking of the wheels; we behold the mass in
motion!  Onward it comes toward the mound--advancing with apparently
spontaneous motion, as if it were some living monster--some horrid
mammoth--approaching to destroy and devour us!

Had it been such a monster, its proximity could scarce have inspired us
with a greater dread.  We felt that our destruction was equally certain.
The savages would now surround us--advance up the rocks--spring upon us
from all sides at once; and, although we might fight to the death--which
we had determined to do--still must we die.  The knowledge that we
should die fighting, and with arms in our hands--that we should fall
upon the corpses of our enemies, avenging death before parting with
life--this knowledge was but a feeble ray to support and cheer us.
Though no cowards--not one of us--we could not look forward to our fate,
without a feeling of dread.  The certainty of that fate we could no
longer question.  Even the time seemed to be fixed.  In a few minutes,
the assailants would be upon us; and we should be engaged in the last
struggle of our lives--without the slightest probability of being able
to save them!



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

THE ASSAULT.

With the prospect of such fatal issue--so proximate as to seem already
present--no wonder that our hearts were dismayed at sight of the waggon
moving towards us.  As the inhabitants of a leaguered city behold with
fear the advance of the screened catapult or mighty "ram," so regarded
we the approach of that familiar vehicle--now a very monster in our
eyes.  We were not permitted to view the spectacle in perfect security.
As the waggon moved forward, those who carried the muskets drew still
nearer under cover of their horses, and once more played upon us their
uncertain but dangerous shower.  With the bullets hissing above and
around us, we were forced to lie low--only at intervals raising our
heads to note the progress of the party proceeding to storm.

Slowly but surely the machine moved on--its wheels turning under the
impulse of brawny arms--and impelled forward by pressure from behind.
To fire upon it would have been of no avail: our bullets would have been
thrown away.  As easily might they have pierced through a stockade of
tree-trunks.  Oh! for a howitzer! but one discharge of iron grape to
have crashed through those planks of oak and ash--to have scattered in
death, that human machinery that was giving them motion!  Slowly and
steadily it moved on--stopping only as some large pebble opposed itself
to the wheel--then on again as the obstacle was surmounted--on till the
intervening space was passed over, and the triumphant cheer of our
savage foemen announced the attainment of their object.

Risking the straggling shots, we looked over.  The waggon had reached
the base of the butte; its tongue was forced up among the trees--its
body stood side by side with the granite prisms.  The storming party no
longer required it as a shield: they would be sufficiently sheltered by
the great boulders; and to these they now betook themselves--passing
from one to the other, until they had completely surrounded the butte.
We observed this movement, but could not prevent it.  We saw the Indians
flitting from rock to rock, like red spectres, and with the rapidity of
lightning flashes!  In vain we attempted to take aim; before a barrel
could be brought to bear upon them, they were gone out of sight.  We
ourselves, galled by the leaden hail, were forced to withdraw behind our
ramparts.

A moment of suspense followed.  We knew not how to act: we were puzzled
by their movements, as well as by the silence in which they were making
them.  Did they intend to climb up the butte, and openly attack us?
What else should be their design?  What other object could they have in
surrounding it?  Only about a dozen had approached under cover of the
waggon.  Was it likely that so few of them would assail us boldly and
openly?  No.  Beyond a doubt, they had some other design!  Ha! what
means that blue column slowly curling upward?  It is smoke!  See!
Another and another--a dozen of them!  From all sides they shoot upward,
encircling the mound!  Hark to those sounds! the "swish" of burning
grass--the crackle of kindling sticks?  They are making fires around us!
The columns are at first filmy, but soon grow thicker and more dense.
They spread out and join each other--they become attracted towards the
rocky mass--they fall against its sides, and wreathing upward, wrap its
summit in their ramifications.  The platform is enveloped in the cloud!
We see the savages upon the plain--dimly, as if through a crape.  Those
with the guns in their hands still continue to fire; the others are
dismounting.  The latter abandon their horses, and appear to be
advancing on foot.  Their forms through the magnifying mist loom
spectral and gigantic!  They are visible only for a moment.  The smoke
rolls its thick volume around the summit, and shrouds them from our
sight.  We no longer see our enemy or the earth.  The sky is obscured--
even the rock on which we stand is no longer visible, nor one of us to
the other!

Throughout all continues the firing from the plain; the bullets hurtle
around our heads, and the clamour of our foemen reaches our ears with
fierce thrilling import.  We hear the crackling of faggots, and the
spurting hissing noise of many fires; but perceive no blaze--only the
thick smoke rising in continuous waves, and every moment growing denser
around us.  We can bear it no longer; we are half-suffocated.  Any form
of death before this!  Is it too late to reach our horses?  Doubtless,
they are already snatched away?  No matter: we cannot remain where we
are.  In five minutes, we must yield to the fearful asphyxia.

"No! never! let us die as we had determined, with arms in our hands!"
Voices husky and hoarse make answer in the affirmative.

We spring to our feet, and come together--so that we can touch each
other.  We grasp our guns, and get ready our knives and pistols.  We
make to the edge of the rock, and, sliding down, assure ourselves of the
path.  We grope our way downward, guided by the granite walls on each
side.  We go not with caution, but in the very recklessness of a
desperate need.  We are met by the masses of smoke still rolling
upwards.  Further down, we feel the hot caloric as we come nearer to the
crackling fires.  We heed them not, but rush madly forward--till we have
cleared both the cloud and the flames, and stand upon the level plain!

It is but escaping from the fires of hell to rush into the midst of its
demons.  On all sides they surround us with poised spears and brandished
clubs.  Amidst their wild yells, we scarcely hear the cracking of our
guns and pistols; and those who fall to our shots are soon lost to our
sight, behind the bodies of others who crowd forward to encompass us.
For a short while we keep together, and fight, back to back, facing our
foes.  But we are soon separated; and each struggles with a dozen
assailants around him!

The struggle was not protracted.  So far as I was concerned, it ended,
almost on the instant of my being separated from my comrades.  A blow
from behind, as of a club striking me upon the skull, deprived me of
consciousness: leaving me only the one last thought--_that it was
death_!



CHAPTER SIXTY.

A CAPTIVE ON A CRUCIFIX.

Am I dead?  Surely it _was_ death, or an oblivion that equalled it?  But
no--I live!  I am conscious that I live.  Light is falling upon my
eyes--thought is returning to my soul!  Am I upon earth? or is it
another world in which I awake?  It is a bright world--with a sky of
blue, and a sun of gold; but are they the sky and sun of the earth?
Both may belong to a future world?  I can see no earth--neither fields,
nor trees, nor rocks, nor water--nought but the blue canopy and the
golden orb.  Where is the earth?  It should be under and around me, but
I cannot see it.  Neither around nor beneath can I look--only upward and
forward--only upon the sun and the sky!  What hinders me from turning?
Is it that I sleep, and dream?  Is the incubus of a horrid nightmare
upon me?  Am I, like Prometheus, chained to a rock face upward?  No--not
thus; I feel that I am standing--erect as if nailed against a wall!  If
I am not dreaming, I am certainly in an upright attitude.  I feel my
limbs beneath me; while my arms appear to be stretched out to their full
extent, and held as in the grasp of some invisible hand!  My head, too,
is fixed: I can neither turn nor move it.  A cord traverses across my
cheeks.  There is something between my teeth.  A piece of wood it
appears to be?  It gags me, and half stifles my breathing!  Am I in
human hands? or are they fiends who are thus clutching me?

Anon my senses grow stronger, but wild fancies still mock me: I am yet
uncertain if it be life!  What are those dark objects passing before my
eyes?  They are birds upon the wing--large birds of sable plumage.  I
know them.  They are vultures.  They are of the earth.  Such could not
exist in a region of spirits?  Ah! those sounds! they are weird enough
to be deemed unearthly--wild enough to be mistaken for the voices of
demons.  From far beneath, they appear to rise--as if from the bowels of
the earth, sinking and swelling in prolonged chorus.  I know and
recognise the voices: they are human.  I know the chaunted measure: it
is the death-song of the Indian!  The sounds are suggestive.  I am not
dreaming--I am not dead.  I am awake, and on the earth.

Memory comes to my aid.  By little and little, I begin to realise my
situation.  I remember the siege--the smoke--the confused conflict--all
that preceded it, but nothing after.  I thought I had been killed.  But
no--I live--I am a captive.  My comrades--are _they_ alive?  Not likely.
Better for them, if they be not.  The consciousness of life need be no
comfort to me.  In that wild chaunt there is breathing a keen spirit of
vengeance.  Oh! that I had not survived to hear it!  Too surely do I
know what will follow that dirge of death.  It might as well be my own!

I am in pain.  My position pains me--and the hot sun glaring upon my
cheek.  My arms and limbs smart under thongs that bind too tightly.  One
crosses my throat that almost chokes me, and the stick between my teeth
renders breathing difficult.  There is a pain upon the crown of my head,
and my skull feels as if scalded.  Oh Heavens! _have they scalped me_?
With the thought, I endeavour to raise my hand.  In vain: I cannot budge
either hand or arm.  Not a finger can I move; and I am forced to remain
in horrid doubt as to whether the _hair_ be still upon my head--with
more than a probability that it is gone!  But how am I confined? and
where?  I am fast bound to something: every joint in my body is fixed
and immobile, as if turned to stone!  I can feel thongs cutting sharply
into my skin; and my back and shoulders press against some supporting
substance, that seems as hard as rock.  I cannot tell what it is.  I
cannot even see my own person--neither breast nor body--neither arms nor
legs--not an inch of myself.  The fastening over my face holds it
upturned to the sky; and my head feels firmly set--as if the vertebral
column of my neck had become ossified into a solid mass!

And where am I in this stringent attitude?  I am conscious that I am a
captive and bound--a captive to Indians--to Arapahoes.  Memory helps me
to this knowledge; and furthermore, that I should be, if I have not been
carried elsewhere, in the valley of the Huerfano--by the Orphan Butte.
Ha! why should I not be _upon_ the butte--on its summit?  I remember
going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth.
For all that, I may have been brought up again.  The savages may have
borne me back to satisfy some whim?  They often act in such strange
fashion with, their vanquished victims.  I must be on some eminence:
since I cannot see the earth before me?  In all likelihood, I am on the
top of the mound.  This will account for my not having a view of the
ground.  It will also explain the direction in which the voices are
reaching me.  Those who utter them are below upon the plain?

The death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my
ears.  I hear shouts that appear to be signals--words of command in the
fierce guttural of the Arapaho.  Other sounds seem nearer.  I
distinguish the voices of two men in conversation.  They are Indian
voices.  As I listen they grow more distinct.  The speakers are
approaching me--the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground
beneath my feet!  They draw nigher and nigher.  They are close to where
I stand--so close that I can feel them breathing upon my body--but still
I see them not.  Their heads are below the line of my vision.  I feel a
hand--knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is
laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes.  I shudder
with a horrid thought.  I mistake the purpose.  I hear the "wheek" that
announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord.  The thong slackens, and
drops off from my cheeks.  My head is free: but the piece of wood
between my teeth--it remains still gagging me firmly.  I cannot get rid
of that.

I can now look below, and around me.  I perceive the correctness of my
conjecture.  I am on the butte--upon its summit.  I am close to the edge
of the platform, and command a full view of the valley below.  A painted
Arapaho is standing on each side of me.  One is a common warrior, with
nought to distinguish him from his fellows.  The other is a chief.  Even
without the insignia of his rank, the tall gaunt form and lupine visage
are easily identified.  They are those of Red-Hand the truculent
chieftain of the Arapahoes.

Now for the first time do I perceive that I am naked.  From the waist
upward, there is not a rag upon me--arms, breast, and body all bare!
This does not surprise me.  It is natural that the robbers should have
stripped me--that they should at least have taken my coat, whose yellow
buttons are bright gold in the eyes of the Indian.  But I am now to
learn that for another, and very different, purpose have they thus
bereft me of my garments.  Now also do I perceive the _fashion_ in which
I am confined.  I am erect upon my feet, with arms stretched out to
their full fathom.  My limbs are lashed to an upright post; and, with
the same thong, are my arms tied to a transverse beam.  _I am bound upon
a cross_!



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

THE MYSTERIOUS CIRCLE.

In an exulting tone, the savage chief broke silence.  "_Bueno_!" cried
he, as soon as he saw that my eyes were upon him--"_bueno, bueno_!  The
pale-face still lives! the heart of the Red-Hand is glad of it--ha, ha,
ha!  Give him to drink of the fire-water of Taos!  Let him be strong!
Fill him with life, that death may be all the more bitter to him!"

These orders were delivered to his follower, who, in obedience to them,
removed the gag; and, holding to my lips a calabash filled with Taos
whiskey, poured a quantity of the liquor down my throat.  The beverage
produced the effect which the savage chief appeared to desire.  Scarcely
had I swallowed the fiery spirit when my strength and senses were
restored to their full vigour--but only to make me feel more keenly the
situation in which I stood--to comprehend more acutely the appalling
prospect that was before me.  This was the design in resuscitating me.
No other purpose had the cruel savage.  Had I entertained any doubt as
to the motive, his preliminary speech would have enlightened me; but it
was made still clearer by that which followed.

"Dog of a pale-face!" cried he, brandishing a long Spanish knife before
my eyes; "you shall see how the Red-Hand can revenge himself upon the
enemies of his race.  The slayer of Panthers, and the White Eagle, shall
die a hundred deaths.  They have mocked the forest maiden, who has
followed them from afar.  Her vengeance shall be satisfied; and the
Red-Hand will have his joy--ha, ha, ha!"

Uttering a peal of demoniac laughter, the Indian held the point of the
knife close to my forehead--as if about to drive the blade into my eyes!
It was but a feint to produce terror--a spectacle which this monster
was said to enjoy.

Wingrove was still alive: the wretch Su-wa-nee must be near?

"_Carajo_!" again yelled the savage.  "What promised you the Red-Hand?
To cut the living flesh from your bones?  But _no_--that would be
merciful.  The Arapahoes have contrived a sweeter vengeance--one that
will appease the spirits of our slain warriors.  We shall combine sport
with the sacrifice of the pale-faced dogs--ha, ha, ha!"

After another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his
words of menace, the monster continued:

"Dog! you refused to instruct the Arapaho in the skill of the
fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before
you die--ha, ha!  You shall soon experience the pleasant death we have
prepared for you!  Ugh!"

"Haste!" he continued, addressing himself to his follower; "prepare him
for the sacrifice!  Our warriors are impatient for the sport.  The blood
of our brothers is calling for vengeance.  This in white, with a red
spot in the centre--the rest of his body in black."

These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture.
With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my
breast--just as if he had been _scribing_ it on the bark of a tree.  The
scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood.  At the words
"red spot in the centre," as if to make the direction more emphatic, he
punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely.  Had he
driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed
firmly as the post to which they had bound me.  I could not speak a
word--either to question his intent, or reply to his menace.  The gag
was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent.  It mattered
little about my remaining silent.  Had my tongue been free, it would
have been idle to use it.  In the wolf's visage, there was no one trait
of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty.
I knew that he would only have mocked any appeal I might have made.  It
was just as well that I had no opportunity of making it.  After giving
some further directions to his follower--and once more repeating his
savage menace, in the same exulting tone--he passed behind me; and I
lost sight of him.  But I could tell by the noise that reached me at
intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his
warriors upon the plain.

It was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that
I had a thought of looking in that direction.  During all the while that
the Red-Hand stood by me, I had been in constant dread of instant
death--or of some equally fearful issue.  The gleaming blade had never
been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations
that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part,
and I knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put
an end to my life.  Now that he was gone, and I found a respite from his
torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain.  I there
beheld a spectacle, that under other circumstances might have filled me
with horror.  Not so then.  The agony of my thoughts was already too
keen to be further quickened.  Even the gory skull of one of my
comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion.  It
was a sight I had anticipated.  They could not all be alive.



CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

A SAVAGE ARTIST.

The ensanguined skull was the first object that caught my eye.  The dead
man was easily identified.  The body--short, plump, and rotund--could be
no other than that of the unfortunate Irishman.  His jacket had been
stripped off; but some tattered remnants of sky-blue, still clinging to
his legs, aided me in identifying him.  Poor fellow!  The lure of
Californian metal had proved an ill star for him.  His golden dream was
at an end.  He was lying along the sward, upon his side, half doubled
up.  I could not see his face.  His hands were over it, with palms
spread out--as if shading his eyes from the sun!  It was a position of
ordinary repose; and one might have fancied him asleep.  But the gory
crown, and red mottling upon the shirt--seemingly still wet--forbade the
supposition.  He slept; but it was the sleep of death!

My eyes wandered in search of the others.  There were fires burning.
They were out upon the plain, some three hundred yards from the base of
the butte.  They had been lately kindled: for their smoke was rising in
thick columns, part of it falling again to the earth.  Around the fires,
and through the smoke, flitted the forms of the Indians.  They appeared
to be cooking and feasting.  Some of them staggering over the ground,
kept up an incessant babble--at intervals varying their talk with savage
whoops.  Others danced around accompanying their leaps with the
monotonous "hi-hi-hi-ya."  All appeared to have partaken freely of the
fire-water of Taos.  A few more seriously disposed were grouped around
four or five prostrate forms--evidently the bodies of their slain.  The
two we had shot from their horses must have been amongst these: since
they were no longer to be seen where they had fallen.  Those around the
bodies stood hand in hand chanting the dismal death-song.

Not far from the fires, a group fixed my attention.  It consisted of
three figures--all in attitudes as different as it was possible to place
them in.  He who lay along the ground, upon his back, was the young
hunter Wingrove.  He still wore his fringed buckskin shirt and leggings;
and by these I recognised him.  He was at too great a distance for his
features to be distinguished.  He appeared to be bound hand and foot--
with his ankles lashed together, and his wrists tied behind his back.
He was thus lying upon his arms, in an irksome position; but the
attitude showed that he was alive.  I knew it already.

Some half-dozen paces from him was a second form, difficult to be
recognised as that of a human being--though it was one.  It was the body
of Jephthah Bigelow.  Its very oddness of shape enabled me to identify
it--odder from the attitude in which I now beheld it.  It was lying flat
along the grass, face downward, the long ape-like legs and arms
stretched out to their full extent--both as to length and width--and
radiating from the thin trunk, like spokes from the nave of a wheel!
Viewing it from my elevated position, this attitude appeared all the
more ludicrous; though it was easy to perceive that it was not
voluntary.  The numerous pegs standing up from the sward, and the cords
attached to them, and leading to the arms and limbs, showed that the
_spread-eagle_ position was a constrained one.  That it was Sure-shot, I
had no doubt.  The spare locks of clay-coloured hair were playing about
in the breeze; and some remnants of bottle-green still clung around his
limbs.  But without these, the spider-like frame was too characteristic
to be mistaken.  I was glad to see those yellowish tufts.  They told
that the wearer still lived--as was also made manifest by the fact of
his being bound.  A dead body would not have merited such particular
treatment.

It was the third figure of this group that most strongly claimed my
attention.  I saw that it was not that of a warrior; though quite as
tall as many upon the plain.  But the contour of the form was
different--as also the fashion of the garments that draped it.  It was
the figure of a woman!  Had I not been guided in my conjectures--by a
certain foreknowledge--by the allusions that had occurred in the
speeches of Red-Hand--I should never have dreamt of identifying that
form.  Forewarned by these, the apparition was not unexpected.  The
woman was Su-wa-nee!  She was standing erect by the prostrate form of
the young hunter--her head slightly bent, and her face turned towards
him.  An occasional motion of her arm showed that she was speaking to
him.  The gesture seemed to indicate a threat!  Was it possible that in
that dread hour she was reviling him?  I was at too great a distance,
either to hear her words, or note the expression upon her face.  Only by
the dumb show of her gesticulations, could I tell that a scene was
passing between them.

A glance around the plain enabled me to note some other changes that had
recently taken place.  The horses of the Indians were now picketed upon
the grass, and browsing peacefully--as if the clangour of strife had
never sounded in their ears.  I could see my own Arab a little apart,
with Wingrove's horse and the mules--all in the charge of a horse-guard,
who stood sentry near them.  The waggon was still by the base of the
mound.  The cedars along its sides were yet unburnt!  I thought that the
flames had consumed them, but no.  The object of their fires had been to
blind us with their smoke--thus to drive us from our position, and
facilitate our capture.

I was not permitted to make these observations without interruption.
The savage--who had stood by me had a duty to perform; and during all
this time he was busied in its performance.  A singular and inexplicable
operation it at first appeared to me.  His initiatory act was to blacken
my body from the waist upward, including my face, throat, and arms.  The
substance used appeared to be a paste of charcoal, which he rubbed
rudely over my skin.  A circle upon my breast--that traced out by the
blade of the chief--was left clear; but as soon as the black ground had
been laid on, a new substance was exhibited, of snow-white colour,
resembling chalk or gypsum.  With this--after the blood had been
carefully dried off--the circular space was thickly coated over, until a
white disc, about as large as a dining-plate shewed conspicuously on my
breast!  A red spot in the centre of this was necessary to complete the
_escutcheon_; but the painter appeared at a loss for the colour, and
paused to reflect.  Only a moment did he remain at fault.  He was an
ingenious artist; and his ingenuity soon furnished him with an idea.
Drawing his knife, and sticking the point of it some half inch deep into
the fleshy part of my thigh, he obtained the required "carmine"; and,
after dipping his finger in the blood, and giving it a dab in the centre
of the white circle, he stood for a short time contemplating his work.
A grim smile announced that he was satisfied with it; and, uttering a
final grunt, the swarthy Apelles leaped down from the platform, and
disappeared from my sight.  A horrid suspicion had already taken
possession of my soul; but I was not left long to speculate upon the
purpose for which I had been thus bedaubed: the suspicion gave place to
certainty.

Upon the plain directly in front of me, and at less than a hundred
yards' distance from the butte, the warriors were collecting in groups.
The Red-Hand with his under-chiefs had already arrived there; and the
other Indians were forsaking the fires, and hurrying up to the spot.
They had left their lances apart, standing upright on the plain, with
their shields, bows, and quivers leaning against them, or suspended from
their shafts.  The only weapons taken along with them to the common
rendezvous were the muskets.  With these they were now occupying
themselves--apparently preparing them for use.  I saw them mark out a
line upon the grass, by stretching a lazo between two upright pegs.  I
saw them wiping, loading, and priming their pieces--in short, going
through all the preliminary manoeuvres, observed by marksmen preparing
for a trial of skill.  Then burst on me in all its broad reality the
dread horror for which I was reserved--then did I comprehend the design
of that white circle with its centre of red: the savages were about to
hold a shooting-match--_my own bosom was to be their target_!



CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

A PITILESS PASTIME.

Yes--to hold a shooting-match was undoubtedly the design of my captors;
and equally clear was it that my breast was to be their mark.  This
explained my position upon the summit of the mound, as well as my
attitude upon the cross.  I was bound to the latter, in order that my
person might be held erect, spread, and conspicuous.  I could not
comfort, myself with any doubt as to their intention.  Every movement I
saw confirmed it; and the question was finally set at rest by Red-Hand
possessing himself of one of the loaded muskets, and making ready to
fire.  Stepping a pace or two in front of the line of his warriors, he
raised the piece to his shoulder, and pointed it towards me.  It is vain
to attempt describing the horror I endured at that moment.  Utterly
unable to move, I gazed upon the glistening barrel, with its dark tube,
that threatened to send forth the leaden messenger of death.  I have
stood before the pistol of the duellist.  It is not a pleasant position
to be in, under any conditions of quarrel.  Still it is perfect
happiness compared with that I then held.  In the former case, there are
certain circumstances that favour the chances of safety.  You know that
you are _en profile_ to your antagonist--thus lessening the danger of
being hit.  Judging by yourself, you feel assured that the aim taken
will be quick and unsteady, and the shot a random one.  You are
conscious of possessing the capability of motion--that whether you may
feel inclined to give way to it or not, you still have a certain
discretion of avoiding the deadly missile--that by superior skill or
quickness, you may anticipate your antagonist and hinder his bullet from
being sent.  There are other circumstances of a moral nature to sustain
you in a trial of this kind--pride, angry passion, the fear of social
contempt; and, stronger than all--perhaps most frequent of all--the
jealousy of rival love.  From none of all these could I derive support,
as I stood before the raised musket of the Arapaho.  There was no
advantage--either moral or physical--in my favour.  I was broad front to
the danger, without the slightest capacity of "dodging" it; whilst there
was nothing to excite the nerves of the marksman, or render his aim
unsteady.  On the contrary, he was sighting me as coolly, as if about to
fire at a piece of painted plank.

It may have been but a minute, that the savage occupied himself in
adjusting his aim; but to me it appeared ten.  In such a situation, I
may have believed the seconds to be minutes: they seemed so.  In
reality, the time must have been considerable.  The drops of sweat that
had started from my brow were chasing each other over my cheeks, and
trickling down upon my breast.  So prolonged was the suspense, I began
to fancy that the Arapaho was designedly dallying with his aim, for the
purpose of sporting with my fears.  He may have had such motive for
procrastination.  I could have believed it.  Distant though he was, I
could mark his fiendish smile, as he repeatedly dropped the piece from
his shoulder, and then returned it to the level.  That he meant more
than mere menace, however, was proved in the end.  Having satisfied
himself with several idle feints, I saw him make demonstration, as if
setting himself more determinedly to the work.  This time he was
certainly in earnest.  His cheek lay steadily along the stock--his arms
appeared more rigid--his finger was pressing on the trigger--the moment
had come!

The flash from the pan--the red stream poured forth from the muzzle--the
hist of the bullet, were all simultaneous.  The report came afterwards;
but, before it had reached my ears, I knew that I was untouched.  The
lead had already whizzed past, at a distance--as I could judge by the
sound--of several feet from my body.  I heard a scratching behind me;
and the instant after, a swarthy face was thrust before my eyes.  It was
that of the artist, who had painted me for the part I was playing.  I
had been under the impression that he had gone down to the plain, but I
now perceived my error.  He had remained near me, concealing his body
behind the rock.  I saw that he was now enacting a different _role_--
that of marker for the marksmen.  Running his eye over my body, and
perceiving that I was nowhere hit, he telegraphed the intelligence to
his comrades upon the plain; and then glided back to his covert.

I was relieved from the terrible anxiety; but only for a short moment--a
mere interval of about a dozen seconds' duration.  The Red-Hand, after
firing, had resigned his place; but this was instantly occupied by one
of his sub-chiefs, who, armed with another musket, in turn stepped up to
the line.  Again I saw the gleaming barrel brought to the level, with
its dark tube pointed upon my body.  This marksman was more expeditious;
but for all that, it was to me a time of racking torture.  Again did the
drops bead out upon my brow, and chase one another down my cheeks.
Again had I to undergo all the agony of death itself and, as before,
without dying, or even losing a drop of my blood!  As before, I beheld
the puff of smoke, the flash, the blaze of fire projected from the
muzzle: but ere the crack reached me, I heard the "thud" of the bullet,
as it flattened against the granite on which I stood.  This time the
marker did not mount up to the platform.  He had seen the splinters
shivered from the rock; and without further inquiry, for the second
time, telegraphed a miss.

A third candidate appeared upon the stand; and my fears returned--as
acute as ever.  This fellow caused me to suffer nearly a dozen deaths.
Either was his gun without a flint, or his powder damp: since after
snapping nearly a dozen times, the piece still refused to go off.  Had
it been designed to give me a new horror, the thing could not have been
better planned: for each time that the savage essayed to fire, I had to
undergo the agony of a fresh apprehension.  The scene ended by another
gun being placed in his hands, that _did_ go off; but with no advantage
to the clumsy marksman: for his bullet, like that of the Red-Hand,
whistled past, far wide of the mark.

A fourth now took the ground.  This was a tall, swarthy warrior, one of
the tallest of the tribe; and without the insignia of a chief.  The cool
and deliberate manner in which he went about his work, caused me to
anticipate in him a better shot; and my apprehensions were heightened to
a degree of painful intensity.  I felt my whole frame shiver as his gun
blazed forth; and for a time I believed myself hit.  The cheer of his
companions upon the plain announced the belief in the success of the
shot; but he upon the summit soon undeceived them--just as I became
myself reassured.  The bullet had struck the wood-work of my crucifix--
one of the crosspieces to which my arms were attached.  It was the shock
of the timber that had deceived me into the belief that I had been
struck.

A fifth marksman followed; and then another and another--until more than
a dozen had tried their hands.  The guns were now all emptied; but this
caused only a temporary cessation in the cruel sport.  They were soon
reloaded; and new candidates stepped forward to make trial of their
skill.

I had by this time discovered that they were not practising for mere
sport.  It was a _game_, and bets were laid, upon it.  Apart upon the
plain, the stakes were placed, consisting of saddles, robes, weapons,
and the plunder of the emigrant waggon.  Horses also were picketed
near--surplus animals--that were betted against one another: whether in
many separate wagers, or all forming a grand "pool," I could not
determine.  My own scalp--I was uncertain whether I still wore it--was
no doubt the chief object of the contest.  It was the "cup," to be given
to him who should place his bullet in that white circle upon my breast,
and nearest the red spot in the centre!

The guns being once more reloaded, the firing recommenced, I saw that
only one shot was allowed to each; and this only to those who had
entered a stake.  The condition gave me an opportunity of experiencing
my apprehensions in different degrees: since, according to the apparent
adroitness or clumsiness of the marksman, my fears of being hit were
greater or less.  Strange to say, before a dozen shots had been fired,
_I no longer wished them to miss_!  The dread ordeal, so oft repeated,
was too terrible to be borne.  I was sustained by no hope of ultimate
escape.  I knew that the fiends would continue firing, till some one of
them should finish me by a fatal shot; and I cared not how soon it
should be sent.  Nay, I even desired that it should come quickly.  Death
was preferable to the agony I was enduring.



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

A HUNDRED DEATHS.

For a full hour was the pitiless pastime continued--during which at
least fifty shots had been fired at my person.  The truculent chieftain
had threatened me with a hundred deaths.  He was fulfilling his threat
to the letter; for, notwithstanding the unskilful practice, I felt, on
the eve of each discharge, a certain creeping of the flesh, and curdling
of the blood, as if that moment was to be my last.  If I had not yet
died a hundred times, for at least so many had I felt all the sensations
that should precede actual death.  In truth over a hundred times: for
although but fifty shots had been fired, twice as often had the old guns
snapped or flashed in the pan; and each of these was preceded by its
especial pang.  I had not escaped altogether unscathed: I had been hit
in two or three places--in my arms and limbs.  Blood was running down my
legs, and creeping over my feet.  I could feel it warm and wet, as it
trickled between my toes.  In a little hollow of the rock, directly in
front of me, a crimson pool was collecting.  The wounds could not be
severe: since I scarcely felt them.  Perhaps only the crease of a
bullet?  A scratch would be sufficient to cause the effusion of the
blood--copious though it appeared to be; and I felt certain that no bone
had yet been broken--that no vital part of my body had been touched.

After about an hour had been spent by the savages in their fiendish
sport, the firing became suddenly suspended.  I could not tell why; and
sought for an explanation by watching the movements of the marksmen.
Had they exhausted their ammunition?  This was the idea that came
uppermost.  The chiefs had turned face to face, and were again engaged
in some earnest deliberation.  The subject of their talk was made known
by their gesticulations.  They were pointing towards Sure-shot, who
still lay, as I have described, flat upon his face.

Wingrove was no longer there; nor yet Su-wa-nee!  Where could they have
gone?  I had seen both but the moment before!  Had she unbound, and
rescued him?  Was it about them that the savages were in consultation?
No; the result proved not.  It was the deserter who was the object of
their attention--as was soon made manifest by their movements.

Half a dozen warriors were seen separating from the group and running up
to the spot where Sure-shot lay.  Stooping around him, they undid his
fastenings; and then, having, raised him to his feet, commenced dragging
him towards the crowd of marksmen.  The terrified man made no
resistance.  It would have been idle.  There was a brawny savage on each
side, grasping him by the wrist; and three or four behind push