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, I replied, half interrogatively: “You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?”
“Who said I ain’t – durn your imperence? Now, then, what d’ye want wi’ me?”
The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man – evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect – were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless of life as he. I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully – such as I fancied this fellow to be – and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer. I did not give way to idle recrimination. Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it. Before I could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner – with an additional epithet of insult. “Wal, Mister Jaybird,” said he, “be quick ’bout it! What d’ye want wi’ me?”
“In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you; and secondly – ”
I was not permitted to finish my speech. I was interrupted by an exclamation – a horrid oath – that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter.
“Damnation!” cried he; “you be damned! Civil treetmint i’deed! You’re a putty fellur to talk o’ civil treetmint, arter jumpin’ yur hoss over a man’s fence, an’ ridin’ slap-jam inter his door, ’ithout bein’ asked! Let me tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don’t ’low any man – white, black, or Injun – to enter my clarin’ ’ithout fust knowin’ his reezun. Ye hear that, d’ye?”
“Your clearing! Are you sure it is yours?”
The squatter turned red upon the instant. Rage may have been the passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but I could perceive that my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features.
“Not my clarin’!” he thundered, with the embellishment of another imprecation – “not my clarin’! Shew me the man, who says it’s not! – shew’m to me! By the Almighty Etarnal he won’t say’t twice.”
“Have you purchased it?”
“Neer a mind for that, mister; I’ve made it: that’s my style o’ purchase, an’, by God! it’ll stan’ good, I reck’n. Consarn yur skin! what hev you got to do wi’t anyhow?”
“This,” I replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags – “this only, Mr Holt. That your house stands upon Section Number 9; that I have bought that section from the United States government; and must therefore demand of you, either to use your pre-emption, right, or deliver the land over to me. Here is the government grant – you may examine it, if you feel so inclined.”
An