Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 218 — page 3: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

| —- Ce a ee ae 5 as if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of iration. We were soon beyond its reach. Five minutes sufficed to carry us out of sigbt of the Swampvil- lians: 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 lances of vulgar observation through which we run the gantlet. Iat least enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide keeping in advance of me. A little further on, the path began to ascend. We had out of the bottom-lands, and were c nga ridge, which forms the divide between Mud Creek and the Obion River. The soil was now a gravel, with less signs of pap 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. actly what I wanted; as I was longing for a conver- sation with my new uaintance. Up to this time, he had observed a profound silence ; but for all that, | fancied he was not disinclined to a little causcrie. His reserve seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy—asif he did not desire to take the initiative. Irelieved him from this embar- rassment, 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?” “Allthat, [reckon. He hain’t got nothin’, as I knows on, ‘ceptin’ his old critter 0’ a hoss, an’ his cl’arin’ 0’ a couple 0’ acres or thereabouts; besides, he only squats upon that.”’ ** He’s only a squatter, then?” “ That's all, stranger; tho’ I reckon he considers the cl’arin’ as much his own as Ido 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 bis head.”’ The speaker accompanied these words with a sig- nificant glance, which seemed to say, ‘‘I wonder if that’s his business here.” “ Has he any family?’’ * Thar’s one—a young critter of a girl."’ “ That all?’ I asked, seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had some 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 whar’ she’s gone, neyther.’ — ae ‘bout here can tell, nor ) : The tone in which the young fellow spoke had sud- altered from gay to grave; and, by a glim of the moonli hk onuid aumchdve thatiake oomiee- wed and somber. I could have but nance was ‘ little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversa- tion—the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of + ming - refrained from oe my inquiries further; 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 hupter 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 ina reverie of thought fs on the chances of an unpleas- _ sant encounter; which, from the hints Dhad just had ‘was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, 1 had before my mind the prospect of a leper war; and, perhaps afterward, 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 to how I should act; butas bad 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 — my ear—this time in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to say that I might shortly expect a better road—we were ap- proaching a glade; ** 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 ex- tent. e 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 lade with the ample effulgence of her light. The ew-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 métal.. Under the clear moonlight, | 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. | A touch of the spur brought my horse alon } his, epg eC meh ete ree ag mr” may mei the glade. I looked in the direction indicated by the attitude of the hunter; nig, 8 geet by some terrible surprise—he nor spoken. A little to the right of the path, I beheld a white paralyzed ad neither pointed object lying along the ground—a dead tree, whose oe —— Was ©X- | barkless trunk and smooth naked branches gleamed under the moonlight with the whiteness of a blanehed skeleton. In front of this, and a pace or two from it, was a dark form, upright and human- like. Favored by the clear light of the moon, I had a woman. CHAPTER VI. SU-WA-NEE. Bryonp doubt, the dark form was that of a woman —a young one tov, as evinced by her erect bearing, Her attire was odd. It con- sisted of a brownish-colored tunic—apparently of doeskin leather—reachivg from the peck to the like materia), ending in moccasins that covered the | feet. The arms, neck, and head were entirely bare; — | —— ee ee ee eee 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 & Moment to | ony its contemplation. The young hunter was still the length of horse in advance of me; and I was about requesting him to pull up; but before I could give utterance to the words, | saw him make halt of himself. ward and hurried a manner, that I at once turned from gazing upon the scene and fixed my eyes upon my companion. had drawn his horse almost u his haunches: and cheeks and eyes sparkling’ in 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 frem the point where [ had halted, if by an involuntary effort, he | pon | the was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with blanched | sockets—as if | ee ee et te aud the color of the skin, as seen in the moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a shade or two darker! fore, was not white, but an Indian; as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and bangles around her neck, ri in her ears, and | metal circlets upon her arms—all reflecting the light | of the moon in cepious coruscations. | a arriving within six horses, the an pa , a8 if hesitating to ad- vance. Up to this time she had not spoken a word. Neither had my companion—beyon two that had involuntarily escaped him, on first dis- cov her presence in the glade. ‘She here? an’ at this time o’ night!’ I had heard him mutter to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had pomees as described. Then, in a low voice, and a slightly trembling accent, he pro- nounced interrogatively, the words: ** Su-wa-nee?’’ It was the name of the Indian maiden; but there was no reply. ** Su-wa-nee!’’ repeated he, in a louder tone, ‘is % you?” The answer was also pea interrogatively: ‘Has the White Eagle lost his eyes, by gazing too long On the efaced fair ones of Swampville? There is light in the sky, and the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it. Let bim look on it; it is not lovely like that of the half-blood, but the White will never see that face again.” This declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter; the shade of sadness dee u his features; and I could hear a sigh, with d — pressed—while, at the same time, he appeared desir- ous of terminating the interview. ** It’s late, girl,’ rejoined he, after a pause; “ what for are ye here?” **Su-wa-nee is here for a pur . For heurs she has been waiting to see the White Eagle. The soft pants of the pale-faced maidens have held him ong.”’ ** Waitin’ to see me! What do you want wi’ me?”’ “*Let the White send the stranger aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to him alone.”’ “Thar'’s no need o’ that; it’s a friend that’s wi’ me.” ** Would the White Eagle have his secrets known? There are some he may not wish even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple.” “*T have no saycrets, girl— none as I’m afraid o’ bein’ heered by Aine ‘* What of the half-blood?’’ ‘**T don’t care to hear o’ her.”’ ‘*The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him.” The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed toward the Indian girl, | saw him bend eagerly forward—as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: “Is the palefaced stranger to know the love- secrets of the White Eagle?”’ I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener, Without waitin my horse's head in the oppos riding away. Inthe turn ng, with him: and by the moonl countenance, I fancied | could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was not. at fault; for, on brushing close past him, he leaned aces of the heads of our a phrase or ide | what followed, I could no difficulty in distinguishing the form to be that of , mere ther that she was no longer in the neighborhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away—spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had con- jectured before; since the young bunter had half re- vealed it to me by his manuer, if not by words. Now, bowever, a point or two was added to my pre- vious information relating to the fair Marian. She was married. Married—and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Incian appeared to speak slight- ingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebens, or something of the sort—not very in- telligible by the Indian’s mode of pronouncing it— and, furthermore, that he had been a sehoolmaster and a light agile movement, made at the moment of | | our first beholding her. knees; underneath which appeared leggings of | The woman, there- | in Swampville. During the progress of the dialogue, [had my eye fixed on the young hunter. T could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him: and its effect was as that of a sudden blew. Of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his con- yectures, “Oh, !’ he exclaimed, ‘I thort so—the aly A man to a-done it. Lord ha’ mercy on her!” Ail this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. ‘Tell me!’ continued he, ‘* whar are they gone: Ye say ye know!” e shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the re’ ply. Vhe more emphatic words only reached me and these appeared to be ** Utah’ and ** Great Saif Lake.”’ They were enough to fix the whereabouts | Of Marian Holt and her husband. | As I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived that | ' the figure was advangcing toward us, and with rapid | |—whether—she went willin'ly, or whether—thar ee —— 2 ee — oo _ man in @ more appealing tone. ; | for his reply, [drew | ite direction, and was | I came face to face | geht shining full over his | over toward me, and, in an earnest Manner, mut- | tered: ‘* Please, stranger! don’t go fur—thar’s danger in this girl. She’s been arter me before.”’ I nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that forme ec embouchure of the path, | pulled up under the shadow of the trees. At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white mag- _nolias prevented me from seeing the girl—at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from | her sight. ‘Che chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but man words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinct- | ness, to give me a clew to the subject of the prom- is, however was done in s0 awk- | i already better than hal ised revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me | to retire a little further off; but the singular cau- | tion I had received from my companion, prevented | me from obeying its impulse. Sage of the conversation; and then move distinc- Af that it was Marian Holt. Just asle ted, aughter of my squatter; that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation was easily, understood; since I prepared for it. easy of comprehension was the fact that arian was the sweetheart of my traveling I could make out that a certain Marian was the ~ ' tive thls ! ‘One qiestion mcre!” said the rejected lover, hesitatingh’, as if afraid to ask it, ‘Can ye tell me wa'n't some force used?—by her father, or some ‘un else? Can ye tell me that, girl?” 1 listened ea,rerly for the response. lis importance can be easily «wnderstood by one who has sued in vain—one who has wooed without wianing. The silence of the cic \da favored me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian. “Answer me, S.'-wa-nee!"’ repeated the young ‘Tell me that, a I promise.” ‘* Will the White Eazle promise to forget his lost love? Will he promis, ?” ‘* No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can niver forget her.” “The heart can hate v ithout forgetting.” ** Hate her? hate Marian? No, no!” ** Not if she be false’ ‘** How do I know that she war false? You haven't ame me whether she went w illin'ly or ag’in’ her con- sent.” “The White Eagle shall kyow then. His gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the wolf—will- ingly, I repeat. Su-wa-nee cai give proof of her words.’’ This was the most terrible st1>ke of all. I could see the hunter shrink in his saddi \, a death-like bal- lor overspreading his cheeks, whih: his eyes presen ed the glassy aspect of despair. ‘* Now,” continued the Indian, as ‘f taking advan- tage of the blow she had struck, ‘‘ will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false mis- woes *—will he promise to love one that can be rue?’ There was an earnestness in the tone in whith these inte les were uttered—ai' appealin earnestness—evidently prompted by a busning head- long passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them to wait with anxiety for a response. It came at le —perhaps to the laceration of that proud heart; for it Was a negative to its dearest desire. ‘‘No—no!"’ exclaimed the hunter conf usedly. Ly) Im possible eyther to hate.or forget her. S\ e may a’ been false, an’ no doubt are so; but it’s to> late for me: I can niver love ag’in.”’ _A half-suppressed scream followed this deo‘ara- tion, succeed ed by some words that appeared t» be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. But the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their import. Almost at the same instant Isaw the young hunt >r hurriedly draw back his horse as if to get out of Up way. I fancied that the crisis had arrived, when m,* presence might be required. Under this belief | touched my steed with tht spur, and trotted out into the +s ground. To my astonishment I perceived that the hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee bad disappeared from the glade. CHAPTER VII. MAKING A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. “‘ WHERE is she—gone?”’ I mechanically asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my surprise. Yes, gone—gone, an’ wi’ a Mormon!”’ ‘‘A Mormon” “ Ay, stranger, a Mormon—a man wi’ twenty — wives! God forgi’ her! Id rather heerd o} her death.”’ ‘Was there a man with hery I saw no one.” _ Oh, stranger, excuse my talk—you're thinkin’ o thie ‘ere Injun girl. "Tain’t her I'm Speakin* about, ‘* Who then?” The young hunter hesitated: He was not aware that I was already in po. session of his secret; but he knew that I had been witness of his emotions, and to declare the name would be to reveal the most sacred thought of his heart. | Only fer a moment did he appear to refect, and then, as if relieved from bis embarressment/by some sudden determination, he replied: Uave “Stranger, [don’t see why I shedn’t tell ye all about this bisness. I don’ know the reezun, but you’ve made me feel a-kind o’ confidence in you. | know it’s a silly sort o’ thing to fall in love wi’ a handsum girl; but if ye’d only seen her!"’ “Thave no doubt, from what you say, she was a | beautiful creature ’—this was oman & iny thougts L at the moment—* and ag for. falling im love with a pretty girl, none of us are exempt from that little weakness. The proud Roman conqueror yielded to the seductions of the brown-skinned “Ezyptian queen; and even Hercules himself was conquered companion—/had been, I should rather say; for, from. ' by @ woman's charms, There is ao particular - JOO S (c (E(©) e€om