The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Майн Рид

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ