“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 one would have supposed.”
“’Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd anything o’ her; then I larned that she war gone away. Nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew, ’ceptin Hick Holt hisself; an’ he ain’t the sort o’ man to tell saycrets. Lord o’ mercy! I know nowt an’ it’s worse than I expected. I’d sooner heerd she war dead.”
A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that the speaker had finished his painful recital.
I had no desire to prolong the conversation. I saw that, silence would be more agreeable to my companion; and, as if by a mutual and tacit impulse, we turned our horses’ heads to the path, and proceeded onward across the glade.
As we were about entering the timber on the other side, my guide reined up his horse; and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular spot – as if something there had attracted his attention.
What? There was no visible object – at least, none that was remarkable – on the ground, or elsewhere!
Another sigh, with the speech that followed, explained the singularity of his behaviour, “Thar!” said he, pointing to the entrance of the forest-path – “thar’s the place whar I last looked on Marian!”
Chapter Sixteen
A Predicament in Prospect
For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no word passed between us. My guide had relapsed into his attitude of melancholy – deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just received – and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over his breast. Bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was passing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the acerbity of his reflections would be idle.
There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain – when, instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice, was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed. So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the situation, that might be worth having.
I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.
“The road forks here,” said he. “The path on the left goes straight down to Holt’s Clarin’ – the other’s the way to my bit o’ a shanty.”
“I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered me, and say ‘Good-night.’”
“No – not yet. I ain’t a-goin’ to leave ye, till I’ve put you ’ithin sight o’ Holt’s cabin, tho’ I can’t go wi’ ye to the house. As I told ye, he an’ I ain’t on the best o’ tarms.”
“I cannot think of your coming out of your way – especially at this late hour. I’m some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out the path.”
“No, stranger! Thar’s places whar the trace is a’most blind, and you mout get out o’ it. Thar’ll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick timbered bottom, an’ thar’s an ugly bit o’ swamp. As for the lateness, I’m not very reg’lar in my hours; an’ thar’s a sort o’ road up the crik by which I can get home. ’Twan’t to bid you good-night, that I stopped here.”
“What, then?” thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing in his speech.
“Stranger!” continued he in an altered tone, “I hope you won’t take offence if I ask you a question?”
“Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it freely.”
“Are ye sure o’ a bed at Holt’s?”
“Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I am by no means sure of one. It don’t signify, however. I have my old cloak and my saddle; and it wouldn’t be the first time, by hundreds, I’ve slept in the open air.”
“My reezuns for askin’ you air, that if you ain’t sure o’ one, an’ don’t mind stretching’ yourself on a bar-skin, thar’s such a thing in my shanty entirely at your sarvice.”
“It is very kind of you. Perhaps I may have occasion to avail myself of your offer. In truth, I am not very confident of meeting with a friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour Holt – much less being asked to partake of his hospitality.”
“D’ye say so?”
“Indeed, yes. From what I have heard, I have reason to anticipate rather a cold welcome.”
“I’deed? But,” – My companion hesitated his his speech – as if meditating some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. “I’m a’most ashamed,” continued he, at length, “to put another question, that war on the top o’ my tongue.”
“I shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to ask me.”
“I shedn’t ask it, if it wa’n’t for what you’ve jest now said: for I heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an’ I heerd your answer to it. But I reckon ’twar the way in which it war asked that offended you; an’ on that account your answer war jest as it should a been.”
“To what question to you refer?”
“To your bisness out here wi’ Hick Holt. I don’t want to know it, out o’ any curiosity o’ my own – that’s sartin, stranger.”
“You are welcome to know all about it. Indeed, it was my intention to have told you before we parted – at the same time to ask you for some advice about the matter.”
Without further parley, I communicated the object of my visit to Mud Creek – concealing nothing that I deemed necessary for the elucidation of the subject. Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my story to the end. From the play of his features, as I revealed the more salient points, I could perceive that my chances of an amicable adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant.
“Well – do you know,” said he, when I had finished speaking, “I had