The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Майн Рид

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ