The squatter remained silent for some moments—his head hanging forward over his broad breast—his eyes turned inward, as if searching within his bosom for some thought to guide and direct him. In there, no doubt, a terrible struggle was going on—a tumult of mixed emotions. He loved his daughter, and would leave her to her own will; but he feared this saintly suitor, and dared not gainsay him. It must have been some dread secret, or fiendish scheme, that enabled this small insignificant man to sway the will of such a giant!
A considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer. He was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should make.
Twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the latter, a fixed and implacable purpose. There was no mercy there.
All at once, a change came over the colossus. A resolution of resistance had arisen within him—as was evinced by his altered attitude and the darkening shadow upon his countenance. The triumphant glances of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter in dispute. Like the buffalo of the plains stung with Indian arrows, or the great mysticetus of the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the presence of his tormentor. “Damnation!” cried he, striking the floor with his heavy heel, “she won’t do it—she won’t, and she shan’t!”
“Keep cool, Hickman Holt!” rejoined the Mormon, without moving from his seat—“keep cool! I expected this; but it’s all bluster. I tell you she will, and she shall!”
“Hev a care, Josh Stebbins! Hev a care what yur about! Ye don’t know what you may drive me to—”
“But I know what I may lead you to,” interrupted the other with a sneering smile.
“What?” involuntarily inquired Holt.
“The gallows,” laconically answered Stebbins.
“Devils an’ damnation!” This emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling—as if the angry spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace.
“It’s no use swearing about it, Holt,” continued the Mormon, after a certain time had passed in silence. “My mind’s made up—the girl must go with me. Say yes or no. If yes, then all’s well—well for your daughter, and well for you too. I shall be out of your way—Salt Lake’s a long distance off—and it’s not likely you’ll ever set eyes on me again. You understand me?”
The saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and then paused, as if to let them have their full weight. They appeared to produce an effect. On hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter. It appeared the outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view of the Mormon’s proposal. He spoke at length; but no longer in the tone of rage—for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up.
“An’ s’pose I say no?”
“Why, in that case, I shall not start so soon as I had intended. I shall stay in the settlements till I have performed a duty that, for a long time, I have left undone.”
“What duty is’t you mean?”
“One I owe to society; and which I have perhaps sinfully neglected—bring a murderer to justice!”
“Hush! Josh Stebbins—for Heaven’s sake, speak low! You know it isn’t true—but, hush! the gurls are ’thout. Don’t let them hear sech talk!”
“Perhaps,” continued Stebbins, without heeding the interruption, “perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape. He is mistaken if he do. One word from me in Swampville, and the hounds of the law would be upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear of them, he could not escape out of my power. I have told you I am an Apostle of the great Mormon Church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the vengeance of our Destroying Angels. Now, Hickman Holt, which is it to be? yes or no?” The pause was ominous for poor Marian.
The answer decided her doom. It was delivered in a hoarse husky voice: “Yes—yes—she may go!”
Chapter Eight.
A splendid Pension.
The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was followed by an extensive débandement, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into their scabbards—some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of freedom, calumniously called “filibustering;” others perhaps destined never to be drawn again. Using a figurative expression, not a few were converted into spades; and in this pacific fashion, carried to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean—there to delve for Californian gold—while still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idleness. A three years’ campaign under the sultry skies of Mexico—drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms of the American youth—had satisfied the ambition of most. It was only those who arrived late upon the field—too late to pluck a laurel—who would have prolonged the strife.
The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield—ci-devant captain of a corps of “rangers”—was not one of the last mentioned. With myself, as with many others, the great Mexican campaign was but the continuation of the little war—la petite guerre—that had long held an intermittent existence upon the borders of Texas, and in which we had borne part; and the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of Anahuac, constituted a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time. For my part, notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, I was tired of the toils of war, and really desired a “spell” of peace: during which I might indulge in the dolce far niente, and obtain for my wearied spirit a respite of repose. My wishes were in similitude with those of the poet, who longed for “a lodge in some vast wilderness—some boundless contiguity of shade;” or perhaps, more akin to those of that other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the “desert as a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!” In truth, I felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best intentions. A phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance that offered opposition to my will: “want of the wherewith to support a wife.”
I had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a “dwelling in the desert” cannot be maintained without expense; and that however pure the desert air, the fairest “spirit” would require something more substantial to live upon. Under this prudential view of the case, marriage was altogether out of the question. We, the débandes, were dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements being a piece of “land scrip,” good for the number of acres upon the face of it—to be selected from “government land,” wherever the holder might choose to “locate.” The scrip was for greater or less amount, according to the term of the receiver’s service. Mine represented a “section” of six hundred and forty acres—worth in ordinary times, a dollar and quarter per acre; but just then—on account of the market being flooded by similar paper—reduced to less than half its value. With this magnificent “bounty” was I rewarded for services, that perhaps—some day—might be—never mind!—thank heaven for blessing me with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment! This bit of scrip then—a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and through the smoke of more than one red fray—a true