The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

“What!” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation – “you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?”

“I mean, it shall be a fair stan’-up fight atween us.”

“Oh! a duel?”

“Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister.”

“I agree to that. But how about seconds?”

“D’ye think two men can’t fight fair ’ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin’ nigh the bars?”

“Yes – I see it.”

“Wal, mister, thur you’ll take yur stand – ahine or afront o’ it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur’s this other un, clost by the crib – thur’ll be my place. Thur’s twenty yurds atween ’em, I reck’n. Is that yur distance?”

“It will do as well as any other,” I replied mechanically – still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.

“Dismount, then! Take your pouch an’ flask along wi’ ye – ye see I’ve got myen? One shot at ye’s all I’ll want, I reck’n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin’! an’ mind, mister! thur’s one o’ us’ll niver leave this clarin’ alive.”

“About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?”

“I’ve thort o’ that a’ready. It’ll be all right, promise ye.”

“In what way can you arrange it?”

“This way. Thur’s a hunk o’ deer-meat in the house: I mean to fetch that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o’ the clarin’. Ye see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?” I nodded in the affirmative. “Wal – it won’t be long afore one or other o’ them flops down to the meat; an’ the first o’ ’em that touches ground, that’ll be the signal. That’s fair enuf, I reck’n?”

“Perfectly fair,” I replied, still speaking mechanically – for the very justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous.

I was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the man. He was fast disarming me. His unexpected behaviour had subdued my ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, I now felt a complete disinclination for the combat! Was it too late to stay our idle strife? Such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering my pride, I gave words to the thought.

“Yur too late, mister! ’twon’t do now,” was the reply to my pacific speech.

“And why not?” I continued to urge; though to my chagrin, I began to perceive that it was an idle effort.

“Yuv riz my dander; an’, by God! yuv got to fight for it!”

“But surely – ”

“Stop yur palaver! By the tarnal airthquake, I’ll ’gin to think you air a coward! I thort ye’d show, the white feather afore ’twur all over!”

“Enough!” cried I, stung by the taunt; “I am ready for you one way or the other. Go on.”

The squatter once more entered his cabin, and soon came out again, bringing forth the piece of venison. “Now!” cried he, “to yur stand! an’ remember! neyther fires till a bird lights on the grown! Arter that, ye may go it like blazes!”

“Stay!” said I; “there is something yet to be done. You are acting honourably in this affair – which I acknowledge is more than I was led to expect. You deserve one chance for your life; and if I should fall it will be in danger. You would be regarded as a murderer: that must not be.”

“What is’t you mean?” hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently not comprehending my words. Without answering to the interrogatory, I drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it: “I have fallen in fair fight.” I appended the date; signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary. He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant. He soon saw the intention, however, as I could tell by his grim smile.

“You’re right thur!” said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause. “I hedn’t thunk o’ that. I guess this dockyment ’ll be nothin’ the wuss o’ my name too? What’s sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. Yur pencil, ef ye please? I ain’t much o’ a scholart; but I reck’n I kin write my name. Hyur goes!” Spreading out the paper on the top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then, holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature – but without saying a word. This done, he replaced the document on the stump; and drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the weapon quivering in the wood! All these manoeuvres were gone through with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some ordinary purpose!

“I reck’n, strenger,” said he, in the same imperturbable tone, “that’ll keep the wind from blowin’ it away, till we’ve settled who it’s to belong to. Now, to yur place! I’m agwine to throw the deer-meat!”

I had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand. Unresistingly, I obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking around. I had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of treachery. I had not the slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and no more did I hold him to be a coward. That impression was gone long ago.

I confess, that never with more reluctance did I enter upon the field of fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, I should not only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered up my claim to the clearing – though I knew that this could be done, only at the expense of my name and honour. Were I to have done so, I could never have shown my face again – neither in the settlement of Swampville, nor elsewhere. Even among my polished friends of more fashionable circles, I should have been taunted – branded as a coward and poltroon! The rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse especially after the manner in which he was acting. “Backed out” would have been the universal verdict! Moreover, notwithstanding the apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed – courteous I might almost call it – I knew he was implacable in his determination. There was no alternative —I must fight!

I arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him. He was already in his place – with the joint of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in the other. The moment was nigh, when one of us should make an abrupt exit from the world!

Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I saw depicted in the impassible face of my adversary – as plainly as if written upon the sky. I could read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and I resigned myself to meet it.

“Now, mister!” cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, “I’m agwine to chuck the meat. Remember! neyther’s to fire, till a bird lights on the ground! Arter that, ye may go it like hell!”

I saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; I saw it jerked aloft, and then whirling through the air; I saw it falling – falling, till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground. It was a fearful moment!

Chapter Twenty Four

Waiting the Word

In truth was it a fearful moment – one to shake the steadiest nerves, or thrill the stoutest heart. To me, it was an ordeal far more terrible than that of an ordinary duel; for there was, lacking the motive – at least on my side – which usually stimulates to an affair of honour. Sense of wrong I felt, but too slightly for revenge – not enough to steel the heart to the spilling of blood. Anger I had felt but the moment before; and then I could have fought, even to the death! But my blood, that had boiled up for an instant, now ran coldly through my veins. The unexpected behaviour of my adversary had calmed my wrath – acting upon it like oil upon troubled water.

Thus to fight without seconds; to die without friend to speak the last word of worldly adieu; or to take the life of another, without human being to attest the fairness of the act – no earthly eye beholding us – no living creature save the black vultures – appropriate instruments to give the death-signal – ominous witnesses of the dark deed: such were the appalling reflections that came before my mind, as I stood facing my determined antagonist. It would scarcely be true to say, that I felt not fear; and yet it was less cowardice, than a sort of vague vexation at risking my life in so causeless a conflict. There was something absolutely ludicrous in standing up to be shot at, merely to square with the whim of this eccentric squatter; and to shoot at him seemed equally ridiculous. Either alternative, upon reflection, appeared the very essence of absurdity: and, having ample time to reflect, while awaiting the signal, I could not help thinking how farcical was the whole affair.

No doubt, I might have laughed at it, had I been a mere looker on – herald or spectator; but, unfortunately, being a principal in this deadly duello – a real wrestler in the backwoods arena – the provocative to mirth was given in vain; and only served to heighten the solemnity of the situation. The circumstances might have elicited laughter; but the contingency, turn whatever way it might, was too serious to admit of levity on my part. Either horn of the dilemma presented a sharp point. To suffer one’s-self to be killed, in this sans façon, was little else than suicide – while to kill, smacked strongly of murder! And one or the other was the probable issue – nay, more than probable: for, as I bent my eyes on the resolute countenance of my vis-à-vis, I felt certain that there was no chance of escaping from the terrible alternative. He stood perfectly immobile – his long rifle raised to the “ready,” with its muzzle pointing towards me – and in his eye I could not read the slightest sign that he wavered in his determination! That grey-green orb was the only member that moved: his body, limbs, and features were still and rigid, as the stump behind which he stood. The eye alone showed signs of life. I could see its glance directed towards three points – in such rapid succession, that it might be said to look “three ways at once” – to the decoy upon the ground, to the shadowy forms upon the tree, and towards myself – its chief object of surveillance!

“Merciful Heavens! is there no means to avert this doom of dread? Is it an absolute necessity, that I must either kill this colossus, or be myself slain? Is there no alternative? Is there still no chance of an arrangement?”

Hopeless as it appeared, I resolved to make a last effort for peace. Once more I should try the force of an appeal. If he refused to assent to it, my position would be no worse. Better, indeed: since I stood in need of some stimulus to arouse me to an attitude, even of defence. This thought swaying me, I called out:

“Holt! you are a brave man. I know it. Why should this go on? It is not too late – ”

“You air a coward!” cried he, interrupting me, “an’ I know it – a sneakin’ coward, in spite o’ yur soger clothes! Shet up yur durned head, or ye’ll scare away the birds! an’, by the tarnal! ef you do, I’ll fire at ye, the fust that takes wing!”

“Let that be the signal, then!” cried I, roused to an impatient indignation by this new insult: “the first that takes wing!”

“Agreed!” was the quick rejoinder, delivered in a tone that bespoke determination to abide by it.

My irresolution troubled me no longer. Thus driven to bay, I felt that further forbearance would not only be idle, but dangerous. It was playing with my life, to leave it in the hands of this unrelenting enemy. Better make him suffer for his sanguinary folly, than be myself its victim. Stirred by these thoughts, I grasped my rifle – now for the first time with a determination to make use of it. By the same prompting, my eye became active – watching with resolute regard the movements of the birds, and measuring the ground that separated me from my adversary.

Notwithstanding the sting which his words had inflicted, I was yet hampered by some considerations of mercy. I had no desire to kill the man, if I could avoid it. To “cripple” him would be sufficient. I had no fear of his having the shot before me. Long practice had given me such adroitness in the use of my weapon, that I could handle it with the quickness and skill of a juggler. Neither did I fear to miss my aim. I had perfect reliance on the sureness of my sight; and, with such a mark as the huge body of the squatter, it was impossible I could miss. In this respect, the advantage was mine; and, at so short a distance, I could have insured a fatal shot – had such been my intention. But it was not. The very contrary was my wish – to draw blood without inflicting a mortal wound. This would perhaps satisfy the honour of my antagonist, and bring our strife to an end.

Whether any such consideration was in his mind, I could not tell. It was not visible in his eye – nor in his features that, throughout the whole scene, preserved their stern statue-like rigidity. There was no help for it – no alternative but to shoot at him, and shoot him down – if possible, only to wing him; but, of course, a sense of my own danger rendered this last of less than secondary importance. A single exchange of shots would, no doubt decide the affair; and the advantage would fall to him who was “quickest on the trigger.” To obtain this advantage, then, I watched with eager eye the behaviour of the birds. In like manner was my antagonist, occupied.

Chapter Twenty Five

The Duel Delayed

Full five minutes passed, and not one of the vultures showed signs of stirring – five minutes of prolonged and terrible suspense. It was odd that the birds had not at once swooped down upon the piece of venison: since it lay conspicuously upon the ground – almost under the tree where they were perched! A score of them there were – ranged along the dead limbs – each with an eye keen of sight as an eagle’s! Beyond doubt, they observed the object – they would have seen it a mile off, and recognised it too – why, then, were they disregarding it – a circumstance so contradictory of their natural instincts and habits, that, even in that dread hour, I remarked its singularity? The cause might have been simple enough: perhaps the birds had already glutted themselves elsewhere? Some wild beast of the woods – more likely, some straying ox – had fallen a victim to disease and the summer heats; and his carcase had furnished them with their morning’s meal? There was evidence of the truth of this, in their blood-stained beaks and gorged maws, as also the indolent attitudes in which they roosted – many of them apparently asleep! Others at intervals stretched forth their necks, and half spread their wings; but only to yawn and catch the cooling breeze. Not one of all the listless flock, showed the slightest disposition to take wing.