Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 218 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

ak The Wild Huntress. silliness in that. It is but the common destiny of man.” ‘* Well, stranger, it’s been myen; an’ I’ve hed ree- zun to be sorry for it. But it’s no use tryin’ to shet up the stable arter the hoss’s been stole out o’t. She are gone now, an’ that’s the end o’it. I reckon I'll niver set eyes on her ~ oe The sigh that accompanied this last observation, with the melancholy tone in which it was uttered, eae me that I was talking toa man who had truly oved. “But you have not yet told me who this sweet- heart was. You say it is not the Indian damsel you've just parted with?” “No, stranger, nothin’ o’ the kind: though there are some Injun in her too. ‘Twar o’ ber the girl _— when ye heerd her talk o’ a half-blood. She ain’t just that—she’s more white than Injun; her mother only war a half-blood—o’ the Chicasaw na- | tion, that used to belong in these parts.” ‘* Her name?” “Tt war Marian Holt. It are now Stebbins, I s’pose, since I’ve jest heerd she’s married to a fellow o’ that name.”’ “* 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, yh told ye; but she’sa younger’un. Her name’s ian.”’ “A pretty name, The older sister was very beauti- | : his saddle, his head drooping forward over his - breast. ful, you say?’ ‘“T niver set eyes on the like o’ her.” ‘Does the younger one resemble her?” os Ain't a bit like her—different as a squ’l from a ““She’s not beautiful, then?” “Well, that depends upon people’s ways 0’ thinkin’. Most people as know ‘em liked Lilian the best, an’ thort her the handsumest o’ the two. That wa'n’t my notion. Besides, Lilly’s only a young crittur—not out o’ her teens yit.”’ ‘*But you heve not yet told me the full particu- jars of your affair with Marian? You say she has gone away from the neighborhood?” “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, [ll make a clean breast o’ the whole bisness.”’ The hunter proceeded with his revelation, which was as follows: . “-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. Thatgirl ye saw war one o’’em. She a nice bullet-pouch to sell, an’ I bought it. The girl would insist ou puttin’ it on; an’ while she war doin’ so, I war fool enough to gi’e 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 ed to me *bout this very girl, an’ I believe wara leetle bit jealous o’ her—for the Injun ain’t to say ill-lookin’. I wanted to 'pologize to Marian; but she wouldn't listen to a word, an’ went off ina wa I niver see’d her in before. ‘Twar the last time ever set eyes on her.” “es Ind ?”’ “ Ay, stranger, an’ it’s only this minnit, an’ from that same Injun girl, that I’ve heard she’s married, an’ gone off tothe Mormons. The Injuns had it from some o’ her people, that see’d Marian a-crossin’ the = This Indian damsel—Su-wa-nee, I think you named her—what of her?’ “* Ah, stranger, that’s another of the konsequences o’ doin’ what ain’t right. Since the day I gi’n her that kiss, she’d niver let me alone, but used to bother me every time I met herin the woods, an’ would ’a’ come arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn't been for the dogs, that w’u'd t’ar an Injun to pieces. She war afeerd o’ them, but not o’ me, no matter how I thraitened her. 1 war so angry ~~ her for what had happened—though arteral! uwar more my fault than hern—but I war se -xed wi’ her about the ill-luck, that I used to kevop out o’ her way as well asl could, an’ didn’t ©» oak to her for a long time. She got r’iled *bov’ Jaat, an’ thraitened revenge; an’ one ht. a5 [ war comin’ from wampvill ‘bout this tirae—only ’twar as.dark asa pot o’ pitch—I war jest ridin’ out into this very lade, when all o’ a suddint my ole hoss gi’n a jump orrard, an’ J feeled somethin’ prick me from be ; *Twar the stab o’ some sort o’ a knife, that cut mea leetie above the aa an’ made me bleed like a buck. I know’d who did it; tho’ not that night-~-for it war go dark among’ the bushes, I couldn’t see a steim. But I kim back in the mornin’, an’ see’d tracks. They war the tracks 0’ a moccasin. I know’d ‘em to be Su-wa-nee’s tracks. I told her so the next time I see’d her; an’ she fase pleased "bout my not havin’ her ta’en up. She said it war generous of the White Eagle—that’s the name her people gi’es me—for thar’s a gang o' them still livin’ dewn the erik. She gi’n me a sort o’ promise she wouldn’t trouble me ag in ; but I warn’t the reezun I didn’t want ye to go fur away.” “IT think it would be prudent in you to keep well en your ee. _ This red-skin appears to be rather an unrefiecting 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 po ot says, * Hell knows no fury like a woman aco , “That's true, stranger!’ “Her conduct, hewever, has been too violent to admit of justification. You appear to have been unfortunate in your sweethearts—with each in an epposite sense. One loves you too much, and the her apparently not enough! But how is it you did not see her again—Marian I mean?”’ “Well, you understand, I wa’n’t on the best of tarms wi’ old Hick Holt, an’ couldn’t go cl’arin’. Besides after what had haphenedl, I didn’t like to go near while. Ithort it would blow over—’s soon ’s she'd find out that I war a! _— wi’ the Injun. "Twar | Holt’s a rough customer; an’I reckon he'll be an eerd anything o' her; then | ugly one to deal wi’, Nebody could tell | nigh two weeks afore I Varned that she war gone away. why or whar, for nobody knew, ‘ceptin’ Hick Holt | the land? He has it; an’ he ain’t the sort o’ man to tell saycrets. Lord o’ mercy! I know now; an’ it’s worse than! expected. I'd sooner heerd she war dead.”’ sure o’ her. That’s. to his | tude of melancholy—deepened, no doubt, by the | | anyhow—leastways for a | friend on the ticklish point of pre-emption. ished speaking, ‘‘ I had 4 suspeecion that that might A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that the speaker had finished his painful recital. Ihad no desire to ‘prolong the conversation. I saw that silence would be more Dhan pace 9 to my companion; and, as if by a mu and tacit im- pulse, 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 some- thing 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 behavior. “Thar!” said he, pointing to the entrance of the forest-path—" thar’s the place whar I last looked on Marian!”’ a CHAPTER VIII. A PREDICAMENT IN PROSPECT. For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace con- tinued wide enough to admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no word passed between us. My guide had relapsed into his atti- intelligence he had just received—and sat loosely in 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 toward me. In the former movement, I imitated his example. “The road forks bere,” said he. ‘The path on the left goes straight down to Holt’s Cl’arin’—the other’s the way to my bit o'a eee. ‘*T shall have to thank you for the very kind ser- vice — have rendered me, and say ‘Good night.’”’ ‘No, not yet. I ain't a-goin’ to leave ye, tilll’ve put you ‘ithin sight o’ Holt’s cabin, tho’ I can't go wi’ ye to the house.” ‘*T cannot think of your coming out of your way— especially at this late hour. I'm some little ofa —— myself; and, perhaps, I1can make out the ath.”’ : ‘No, stranger! Thar’s places whar the trace is a’most blind, and * ype mout get out o’ it. Thar’ll be no moon onit. It runs through a thick-timbered bottom, an’ thar’s an ugly bito’ 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 eaaie, Twa’n’t to bid you good-night that I stopped ere."’ “What, then?’’ tho an his purpose, w speech. “ Stranger!’’ continued he, in an altered tone, “I aoe you won't take offense if I ask you a ques- on?’ ‘* Not much fear of that, Ifancy. 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. have ge cloak and my saddle; and it wouldn’t ~ tor t time, by hundreds, I’ve slept in the open **My reezuns for askin’ dee air, that if you ain’t gure o’ one, an’ don’t mind stretchin’ yourself on a b'ar-skin, thar’s such a thing in my shanty entirely at your sarvice.”’ “It is very kind of you. nba + I may have oceasion to avail myself of your offer. In truth, I am not Vv confident of meeting with a friendly re- ception at the hands of your neighbor 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.’ Se etasabeiantedtsa in. h, as if medi y companion hesitated in his speech, as if medi- tating some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. “T’m a’most ashamed,” continued he, at length, “to put another question, that war on the top 0’ my ht I, endeavoring to con- ile he was pausing in his tongue.”’ “T ghall take pleasure in answering any question you may think a to ask me.”’ ‘*T shedn't ask it, if it wa’n’t for what you've jest now said; for [heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an’ I heerd your answer toit. But I reckon ‘twar the wayin which it war asked that offended you: an’ on that account your answer war jest as it should ’a’ been.”’ **To what question do you refer?”’ “To your bisness out here wi’ Hick Holt. Idon’t want to know it, out o’ any curiosity o’ my own— that’s sart’in, 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 ob- qc of my visit to Mud k, concealing nothing hat I deemed nec for the elucidation of the subject. Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my story to theend. From the play of his features, as 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 fin- be your bisness? I don’ know why I shed ‘a’ thort so; but maybe ‘twar because thar’s been some others come here to settle o’ late, an’ found squat- ters on thar groun’—jest the same as Holt’s on ourn. That’s why ye heerd me say, a while ago, at I shedn't like to buy over his head.”’ ‘* And why not?” I awaited the answer to this question, not without a certain degree of nervous anxiety. I was begin- ning to comprehend the counsel of my Nashville Hick *% Why, you see, stranger, as I told you, on a bisness o’ that kind.” * Of course, being in R Posey pen he may purchase the ght of pre-emption?” “ain't for that. He ain’t a-goin’ to na nor buy, neyther: an’ for the best o’ reezuns, a hain't got a red cent in the world, an’ couldn’t buy _— ae ee — -_--- ee Cl wr tch —not he. But,’’ continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone of his speech, * surely, stranger, you ain't a-goin’ on your bisness the night? fi I’ve just begun to think that it is rather an odd hour to enter upon anestate. The idea didn’t occur to me before.”’ ‘* Besides,’ added he, ‘‘ thar’s another reezun. If Hick Holt’s what he used to be, he ain’t likely to be very nice about this time o’ night. I hain't seen much o’ him lately; but I reckon he’s as fond o° drink as ever he war; an’ ‘tain’t often he goes to his bed ‘ithouta skinful. Thar’sten chances ag’in’ one, o’ your findin’ him wi’ brick in his hat.”’ “That would be awkward.” “Don’t think o’ goin’ to-night,” continued the young hunter in a persuasive tone. ‘*Come along wi’ me; an’ you can ride down to Holt’s iv the morn- in’. You'll then find him more reezonable to deal wi’. I can’t offer you no great show o’ enter- tainment; but thar’s a piece o’ deer-meat in the house, an’ I reckon I can raise a cup o’ coffee, an’ a pone or two o’ bread. As for your horse, the ole corn-crib ain't quite empty yet.’ ‘‘Thanks—thanks!” said 1, grasping the hunter's hand in the warmth of my gratitude. “I accept your invitation.” “This way, then, stranger)” We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two miles further, arrived at the solitary home ef the hunter. alog-cabin surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant —as he was its owner—some half-dozen large dogs being the only living creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at hand—a loose box, it might be termed, as it was only in- tended to accommodate one—and this was pas at the disposal of my Arab. The “‘critter”’ of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and choose his stall among the trees—but to that sort of treat- ment he had been well inured. A _ close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold ven- ison, corn bread, and coffee for or gee with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty weleome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable clap- board roof of the young backwoodsman—Frank Wingrove, and next morning I took my way to ‘** Holt’s Clearing.”’ CHAPTER IX. A BACKWOODS VENUS. I was prepared for a tortuous path: my hoat had forewarned me of this. A few years before a tornado bad passed through that portion of the forest leveling the trees in a clean track, The old trace, passing down the creek bottom, had run at right angles to the direction of the storm; and of course, the trees had fallen erpendicularly across the path—where they still ay thick as hurdles set for a donkey-race. Some of them could be stepped over by a horse, and a tew might be jumped, but there were others that rose breast high; and a flying-leap over a five-barre:! gate would have been an easy exploit, compared with clearing one of these monstrous barriers. ’ Not being in any particular hurry, I took the mat- ter snap and wound my way through a labyrinth worthy o ae maze of Fair Rosamond. I could not help remarking the singular effect which the herrikin, as the Tenesseeans call it, had produced. To the right and left, as far as my view could range, extended an opening, like some vast avenue that had been cleared for the passage of ayers and by tsmade! On each side 4 pa he unbroken forest—the trunks standing like col- umns, with shadowy aisles between; their outward or edge-row trending in a straight line, as if so peanee These showed not a sign that the flerce rnado had passed so near them; though others whose limbs almost interlocked with theirs, had — mowed down without mercy by the ruthless storm. I had arrived within fifty yards of the opposi‘e ride, and the dark forest was again before my face: but even at that short distance, the eye vainly en- deavored to pierce its somber depths, I was con- ‘rratulating myself, that I had passed the numerous ogs that lay across the path, when yet one more appeared between me and the standing trees. 1! had been one of the tallest victims of the tornado; and now ~~ Cranaveresis to the line of the track, which cut it about midway. On nearing this ob- stacle, I saw that the trace forked into two—one going around the tops of the decaying branches, while the other took the direction of the roots; which, with the soil still adhering to them, formea a rounded buttress: like wall of full ten feet in diom- eter. The trunk itself was not over five—that being about the thickness of the tree. It was a matter of choice which of the two paths should be followed; since both appeared to come together again on the opposite side of the tree; but I had made up my mind to take neither. One of my mo- tives, in seeking this forest home, had been a desire to indulge in the exciting exercise of the chase; and the sooner I should br.n me horse into practice the sooner I might take the fleld with a prospect of SUCCES. aoe leaping was new tomy Arab; and he might stand in need of a little training to it. The log before me had —_ ground on both sides; and afforded a in good opportunity for giving him his first lesson. Thus prompted by St. Hubert, I was about spurring forward to the run; when a hoof- stroke falling upon my ear, summoned me to desist from my intention. The sound, proceeded from the forest kefore my face; and, peering into its darkness, I ¢ould perceive that some one, also on horseback, was coming along the path. This caused me to change my design, or rather to pause until the person should pass. Had I continued in my determination to leap the log, I should, in all likelihood, have dashed my horse at full gallop against that of the approaching traveler; since our conrnes ST directly head to head. While waiting till he should ride out of the way, I became aware that I had committed an error—only in regard to the sex of the penen who was ap- proaching. It was not a he! On the contrary something so very different that, as soon as Ih succeeded in shading the sun-glare out of my eyes; and obtained a fair view of the equestrian tray- as much land as would make him a mellyun a ICO (El) m (E <SiiGO