The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “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: СКАЧАТЬ