The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ – 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, СКАЧАТЬ