The Wild Huntress Part 2

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 c.o.o.n-skins, with little baskets of stained wicker--and the bead-embroidered moca.s.sins 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 pa.s.s. 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 spa.r.s.e 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sing the strap over the high c.o.o.n-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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.ses; 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 G.o.d'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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 b.u.t.t, 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 part.i.tion 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, const.i.tute 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 rac.o.o.n, 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 pa.s.sions, 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 a.s.sumed, 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 cla.s.s 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 a.s.sumption 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 b.u.t.ton 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 p.r.o.nounced.

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 embarra.s.sment, 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 f.a.ggots--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?"